As that question spiraled through his mind, Morca began piecing the fragments of the puzzle together.
"I triggered and completed the first phase of synchronization when I subconsciously Added 'Nihility' to my name, and when I formally named the interface as the Infinity Nihility System," he murmured. "If my hypothesis is correct, then Acknowledgement and Acceptance must constitute the first of the three prerequisites for synchronization. A criterion I fulfilled without even realizing it."
Morca's crimson gaze locked onto the corkboard before him as a sharp flicker of certainty flashed within his right eye.
"The second prerequisite was far more convoluted at first, but now it seems less like a mere coincidence. When I was frantically running back home after spotting those two airborne figures, the system notification glitched. At that moment, I couldn't decipher its underlying meaning, so I ignored it. But with the arrival of the second notification, the pieces finally connect."
His voice dropped to a low, intense whisper."The mysterious young lady… she must be fundamentally tied to the second prerequisite: Bond by Fate. Bond with fate…"
Morca paused, his train of thought catching on the razor edge of an even deeper, more ominous realization.
"…To scatter fate."
From the exact moment he had encountered that enigmatic girl, a strange, almost forbidden sensation had lingered within his chest. It felt as though they were bound together by an inexplicable thread—subtle, yet utterly undeniable. The brief exchange of glances they had shared moments ago still echoed vividly in his mind.
His thoughts drifted back to the translucent system notification that had flashed across his vision the instant their eyes met:
[INFINITY NIHILITY SYSTEM UPDATE]
[A BOND HAS BEEN INITIATED WITH FATE. FATE HAS BOUND THE HOST TO A FATED DESCENDANT.]
[CONGRATULATIONS, NIHIL! THE HOST HAS FURTHER SYNCHRONIZED WITH THE INFINITY NIHILITY SYSTEM.]
[SYNCHRONIZATION PROGRESS: 55%]
"This means… I likely fulfilled the second prerequisite simply by forming an involuntary bond with that girl," Morca deduced, crossing his arms. "But why does the connection feel so faint? And who exactly is she? How can something like this occur in sequence by pure coincidence?"
Morca did not believe in coincidence. Not when monumental events engineered themselves back-to-back with absolute precision.
Is this the grand design of an unseen puppeteer?
No…
He firmly dismissed the dark theory almost immediately. If a third party were truly pulling the strings from the shadows, what could they possibly stand to gain from a crippled youth? Besides, he was the one who had initiated the sequence by naming himself Nihility.
Another anomaly worth noting was his mother's demeanor. When he had looked at her earlier in the courtyard, something had felt fundamentally off. She seemed close, yet impossibly distant at the exact same time. Strangely, it was the exact same unsettling, otherworldly sensation he had experienced after meeting the mysterious young lady.
The manner in which his mother had recounted the history of Evoslon was also a massive departure from her usual gentle nature—especially when she reached the terrifying conclusion that he belonged to the forbidden category of the Tri-ceedant Genetic Sphere awakening.
He couldn't shake the creeping dread, particularly not after reviewing the final system synchronization clue:
[3/3 PREREQUISITE CLUE: THE DESCENDANT OF NIHILITY TREADS THE PATH OF THE BROKEN — THE KNOWN AND THE UNKNOWN.]
[GAIN SOMETHING UNKNOWN, AND LOSE SOMETHING KNOWN AND DEAR. DIE BY THE HANDS THAT BIRTHED YOU.]
He had already formulated his own bleak speculations regarding the text of the clue. But for once, his mind desperately hoped his deductions were wrong.
"Mother obviously knows far more about the Tri-ceedant Genetic Sphere but deliberately chose to withhold the details," Morca muttered. "She also completely avoided explaining why Father sabotaged my original awakening. Instead, she pivoted exclusively to truths that might help me awaken my lineage flaws, emphasizing that I must remember to submerge myself in the divine elixir she prepared."
"As for why Father intervened… that catastrophic choice likely ties directly back to the nature of the Tri-ceedant Genetic Sphere as well. But could my awakening truly threaten the entirety of Evoslon? Or… did it pose a fatal risk to the Sherman family itself?"
At this stage, he could only pray he was overanalyzing the variables. Yet his primal instincts refused to relent, whispering that something was deeply wrong—as though a tragic catastrophe was preparing to drop at any second.
The feeling intensified whenever he recalled the chilling conversation he had overheard between the three powerhouses after he had been brutally beheaded by the bush papa tokoloshe in that recurring nightmare.
"Time to soak in that strange medicine," he murmured under his breath. Pushing the existential dread aside, he felt the profound, aching weakness of his frail body more acutely than ever.
But before departing, he picked up a heavy ink pen and wrote a declaration across a blank white canvas pinned to the center of his collection board:
Tri-ceedant Genetic Sphere… The heavens will hunt. The abyss will kill. Fate will watch… But only I will remain — Unvanquished.
It was a bold, arrogant statement, written with unwavering, absolute confidence.
Yet the exact moment his pen finished tracing the final stroke of the word, an unseen, Calamitous will pressed down upon the room. His spine trembled, his heart seized pain, and it felt as though the crushing gravitational weight of an entire world had been forced onto his fragile shoulders.
Just as his knees buckled and he was about to collapse onto the floorboards, an opposing will—soft yet fierce as a bolt of lightning—intervened, instantly neutralizing the hostile force.
The source of the protective aura was none other than the great Roc painting hanging prominently above his bed.
Morca, entirely consumed by the desperate struggle to steady his breathing and regain his footing, completely failed to notice the faint, microscopic crackle of violet lightning that had just flickered across the canvas of the legendary beast.
Damn it… since when am I prohibited from even writing down my own thoughts? he thought bitterly, a trace of deep frustration marring his pale face.
Then, the underlying rule of the universe clicked in his mind.
"So… a mortal cannot declare their will before the heavens so freely without a backlash?"
His mind instantly drifted back to his second strange dream—the one where he had openly declared war against both the heavens and the abyss, vowing to bring about their absolute ruin. A nearly identical, suffocating suppression had descended upon his soul the moment he was proclaimed the Eternal Doom Carrier.
Another instance surfaced in his memory: the moment he had awakened on the cliffside and subconsciously affirmed his identity as Morca Sherman Nihility. That, too, had triggered a cosmic reaction, which was the exact moment the Infinity Nihility System had initiated its sequence.
It seems I need to be exceptionally mindful of my words moving forward, he reasoned internally. Otherwise, I might unknowingly declare my own end.
He wasn't afraid, but implementing a strict sense of situational awareness was the only logical path forward.
Being weak was not an inherent sin. Weakness itself could be weaponized into a force to be reckoned with. It was only when an individual recognized they lacked the power to handle a threat, yet still chose to brute-force their way through it—that was the exact moment weakness transformed into a fatal sin.
Know your absolute limits with flawless clarity. Then, strike with unmitigated brutality the exact moment an opening presents itself.
This was a fundamental lesson he had absorbed from an old manuscript written by his father, Claudius Sherman.
Morca shifted his analytical gaze away from the collection board, casting a brief glance at the silent Roc painting above his headboard. Without another word, he turned toward the heavy wooden wardrobe standing beside the wall of theories.
Giving the practiced push, a concealed door smoothly revealed itself within the framework. With a secondary slide, the mechanism glided open.
Morca stepped directly into the bathroom.
The instant he crossed the threshold, a deeply familiar, ethereal fragrance flooded his senses, followed closely by a profound, soothing sensation that washed over his aching limbs. The layout of the room was minimalist: a large bathtub, a simple mirror stand, a set of neatly folded towels, and a basic wash facility. There was nothing extravagant about the space.Yet the direct source of that immense, tranquil energy was unmistakable.
The bathtub.
It was filled to the brim with a shimmering, golden-purple liquid, with thick plumes of gentle steam rising lazily from its surface. This was the Sin Reconstructive Divine Elixir.
Though he didn't know the formal name of the concoction, a distinct possibility was finally beginning to take shape. His mother had already realized he was destined to walk an entirely different path. This nightly ritual wasn't an ordinary medical treatment; it was the structural blueprint required to prepare his body for an awakening.
If Morca had possessed any true metric of just how absurdly rare it was for a mortal to submerge themselves in such an elixir for an entire year—when even a single bath was considered an unattainable luxury for elite scions—he would have understood the sheer magnitude of the threat he posed to the status quo. He would have realized precisely why the heavens and the abyss were eager to claim his life.
The danger wouldn't stop at cosmic entities, either.
The moment his lineage caught wind of his potential, his own family would likely choose to devour him—or worse, bind and control his soul through unorthodox, forbidden arts. Some factions would ruthlessly consign him to a classified experimental facility. And as for the rival clans? Their response would be a simple, swift assassination.
Standing before the mirror stand, Morca began to unbutton his clothes. He remained entirely oblivious as his reflection in the glass began to flicker.
With each passing second, the mirror image grew increasingly blurred, warping out of sync with his physical movements. Yet the most unsettling aspect of the anomaly wasn't the physical distortion—it was the fact that the reflection began to speak. It uttered words that could only manifest within its own isolated domain, its voice bypassing Morca's ears to echo directly in his consciousness.
"Everything that needed to be done… has been done," the reflection murmured, a faint, melancholic smile tugging at its indistinct features. "To save your life, I initiated the system synchronization. The fragmented dreams were designed to guide you until the moment arrived where we could finally awaken as one. But who could have predicted Father would interfere… turning my awakening attempt into nothing but chronic trauma?"
Microscopic, spiderweb cracks began to spider across the surface of the glass, as if the reflection were on the verge of shattering under immense pressure.
"Sometimes… I genuinely wonder if we are truly one and the same. The severe sense of erasure I've experienced over these past few months is deeply alarming. If I disappear entirely, you will still continue to live. But if you die… I vanish into nothingness as well. That asymmetry shouldn't exist."
The reflection's voice grew fainter, thinning alongside its visual form.
"Normally… it should be the exact opposite. After all… I am your Specter Spirit."
As its silhouette dissolved toward total transparency, the entity fell into a heavy silence. However… to successfully awaken, you absolutely need me. And I believe Mother knows that as well. That is precisely why she prepared this bath—to structurally fortify our fraying connection. But it seems our time has finally come, judging by her volatile reaction today.
With that final, silent thought, the fading reflection dissolved entirely, leaving behind only the standard, mundane image of a sick boy.
"Well… that's not something I need to stress over right now," Morca muttered aloud, entirely missing the Specter's exit as he stepped away from the sink. "Let's just soak in the elixir and slide into that strange state of calm."
He had no idea that this might very well be the absolute last time he would ever enjoy something so luxurious without paying a handful price for it.
Without further hesitation, Morca stripped off his remaining clothing, leaving only his inner shorts.The standing mirror now reflected the raw, unfiltered reality of his frail, sickly frame. Dry, severely cracked skin stretched tightly over a skeletal body. Certain patches of his flesh were unnaturally, smoothly translucent, while adjacent areas bore dark, charred contusions that looked like burns. Beneath the damaged surface, a network of faint, bluish veins pulsed visibly, threading from his temples down to his ankles like fragile ley lines of a life barely held together.
Morca exhaled a sharp, ragged breath before stepping over the edge of the tub. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself into the golden-purple liquid until the steaming serum rose to his collarbones, leaving only his head above the surface.
But the exact second his body settled into the basin, his instincts screamed. Something was fundamentally wrong.
The once-placid liquid suddenly erupted into violent activity, bubbling furiously as if it had hit a flash boiling point.
Morca's pores flared open. The elixir didn't merely seep into his skin; it was actively dragged inward. His cells were absorbing the liquid with an insatiable, parasitic greed, as if something deep within his genetic core was desperately pulling the essence down into his marrow.
This was a total inversion of the tranquil calm he had anticipated.
Instead of a soothing numbness, a sharp, unmitigated torrent of agony surged through his nervous system. It tore mercilessly through his mind, shredded his muscle fibers, and set his meridians on fire.
And then—CRACK!
The sickening, echoey sound of fracturing bone reverberated through the small bathroom. His skeletal structure was actively snapping under the pressure.
"No… what is happening…?"
Morca bit down on his tongue, fighting a desperate, inner battle to suppress the agonizing scream clawing its way up his throat.
This… this is completely different from before, he thought frantically, his mind struggling to anchor itself amidst the pain. It feels like my body is being ground down, bone by bone…
That was the solitary coherent thought his brain could grasp. The process was entirely broken. Normally, the elixir was supposed to induce an absolute metabolic stillness, numbing his consciousness to the agony of cellular reconstruction before beginning the rebuild.
But now, it happens in reverse. The horrific breakdown came first, raw and unmedicated.
"Aaaaghh—! No… it's too hot…!"
The restriction broke. A raw, guttural scream tore free from his throat as his torso convulsed violently within the tub. His fists clenched so hard that his fingernails sliced deep into his palms, pooling fresh blood into the golden-purple water. His lips split open under the sheer pressure of his bite, painting his chin ink black as his entire body trembled uncontrollably.
Every instinct begged him to leap out of the boiling bath, but his muscles refused to fire. He couldn't muster a fraction of the strength required to lift a limb. It was as if his physical vessel no longer belonged to him—as if his motor functions had completely closed their gates to his command.
He became a prisoner within his own flesh, forced to ride out the agonizing tempest within the tub.
After what felt like an eternity of torture, the searing pain finally began to recede. It was replaced by a familiar, heavy warmth—a deeply soothing, therapeutic sensation that felt like his reconstructed muscles were being gently massaged by an expert hand.
Morca felt his consciousness beginning to fracture and slip away. For the first time in his life, the temptation to surrender to the darkness was overwhelming. He wanted to close his eyes and let go.
But just as his vision began to fade into total unconsciousness, a silhouette slowly emerged at the periphery of his sight.
A deeply familiar figure stepped into the bathroom.The individual held a sterile, stainless-steel tray. Resting atop the reflective metal were two empty, hollow-tipped syringes… and a third cylinder filled to the brim with a swirling, golden-black translucent fluid, its long needle gleaming exceptionally cold and sharp under the bathroom light.
A strange, unreadable smile lingered on the figure's face as they approached the edge of the tub.
What now… Morca groaned inwardly, his mind spinning into the black. Am I finally… hallucinating?
He desperately didn't want to believe what his eyes were telling him.