Cold metal bit into Gwen's palms as he leaned against the master console, his breathing shallow and jagged. Blue neon light from the central terminal washed over his pale face, casting deep, tired shadows under his eyes. Inside his chest, the Primordial Soup churned like a nest of angry vipers, its dark magic pulling at the fragile edges of his consciousness. Ozone and copper tasted thick in his mouth, a metallic warning of the sheer power flowing through his veins. He could hear the distant, heavy thud of security boots marching down the corridor, their metallic vibrations shaking the very floorboards beneath him. They were coming to kill him, or worse, to drag him back to Vaelen's harvesting tables, and he knew he had only seconds to act. Desperate to survive, he forced himself to stand straight, though his knees buckled under the weight of his own exhaustion. Sweat dripped from his chin, sizzling against the hot glass of the interface. His fingers trembled as he hovered them over the primary input node, the glowing blue glyphs mocking his lack of technical training. Normally, a professional decker would need a high-grade neural link to bypass the Golden Temple’s military-grade firewalls. Gwen possessed no such cybernetics, only his fragile flesh and a mind that was slowly unraveling. All he had was the stolen, forbidden black magic rotting his soul from the inside out. If he failed, the slums of Nineteenth North would be liquefied, their lives harvested to feed Vaelen’s digital ascension. He could not let that happen. Desperately, he resolved to fight, even if it meant giving up the last fragments of his identity. Never did he think he would let the dark magic take so much of him, but survival demanded a sacrifice. Black liquid began to seep from the pores of his fingertips, thick and oily. It pooled on the glass, reflective like a mirror of obsidian, before sinking directly into the digital circuitry. A violent flicker shook the console screen as the foreign magic invaded the system. Gwen gasped as a sudden, sharp pain lanced through his temples, a physical agony so intense it forced him to his knees. A memory was being ripped away to fuel the spell. Lost to the dark was the memory of his first warm meal in the slums. He could no longer recall the face of the old woman who had given him a stale piece of bread when he was seven. In their place, he fed the system his raw, unfiltered pain. He channeled the cold terror of being left to die in the toxic gutters of the lower city. Desperately, he pushed the agony of hunger, the burning shame of begging, and the crushing weight of loneliness into the temple's mainframe, rewriting the defense turrets' cybernetic code with his own torment. A high-pitched whine filled the chamber as the power grid groaned under the sudden corruption. Overhead, the heavy defense turrets whirred to life. Their optical lenses, usually glowing a sterile, cold blue, bled into a chaotic, weeping violet. Heavy steel doors at the end of the room suddenly hissed open with a loud burst of pressurized air. High-priests of the Golden Temple poured into the control room, their weapons raised. Their gilded cybernetic armor gleamed under the flickering fluorescent lights, polished to a mirror shine. In their hands, they carried high-frequency plasma rifles, their barrels humming with lethal energy. Lifting his rifle, the lead priest aimed directly at Gwen's chest. His voice was a synthesized, metallic drone, devoid of any human warmth. "Step away from the console, anomaly," he commanded, his mechanical eyes locked onto Gwen's trembling form. Gwen did not move. He kept his palms pressed flat against the glass, letting more of his dark magic flood the power grid. He looked at the priests, his eyes dark and hollow, devoid of the gentle warmth that used to define him. For the first time in his life, he did not feel the urge to run. He did not feel the desperate, pathetic need to beg for their approval or seek their validation. He only felt a cold, hard anger. "You built this city on blood," Gwen whispered, his voice barely a breath, yet it carried clearly over the hum of the generators. His voice was steady, hardened by the agony currently rewriting his brain. Gesturing with his metallic hand, the priest scoffed. "We built this city on order. You are merely a glitch in the design." Before the priest could pull the trigger, the ceiling turrets snapped into position. They aimed not at Gwen, but at the squad of holy soldiers. Instead of firing standard plasma bolts, the turrets shuddered. Their barrels warped, stretching and bending as if made of soft wax. A terrible, guttural wail echoed from the speakers of the weapon systems. Darkness erupted from the muzzle vents. It was not light, but solid, weeping shadow-beasts. These creatures had long, spindly limbs made of hardened black magic. Their faces were hollow masks of pure grief, weeping tears of boiling oil. They tore themselves free from the metal barrels, leaping down onto the high-priests. Screams of absolute terror cut through the sterile room. Firing wildly, the lead priest discharged his rifle, but the plasma beam passed harmlessly through the shadow-beast's chest. Clawed fingers of solidified agony reached out, gripping the priest's gilded helmet and crushing the metal like an empty soda can. Gwen watched, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could feel every strike, every tear, every crushing blow. These shadow-beasts were his own memories of pain given physical form. They were the physical manifestation of every tear he had ever cried alone in the dark. Another priest tried to flee, but a shadow-beast lunged, pinning him to the metal floor. Opening its maw, the beast released a sound that was a mix of a child's sob and a metallic screech. It dissolved the priest’s cybernetic legs into a puddle of corroded slag. Acrid smells of burning flesh and melting plastic filled the air. Gwen felt a wave of nausea, but he did not look away. For years, he had used his illusions to paint pretty pictures. He had created glowing butterflies and warm, fake hearths to make people smile. He had wanted so desperately to be loved, to be accepted. Now, he realized the truth. Gentle illusions could not save a world built on cybernetic cruelty. If he had to become a monster to tear down these gods of steel and copper, then he would be the worst monster they had ever seen. Red emergency lights began to flash across the ceiling, casting a bloody glow over the carnage. Under the strain of the dark magic, the main generator buckled. Sirens wailed, their high-pitched screams bouncing off the metal walls. Sparks rained down from the ceiling like dying stars. Slowly, the shadow-beasts began to dissolve, returning to pools of black, smoking sludge on the floor. Scattered across the chamber, the high-priests lay silent, their broken, cybernetic bodies twitching in the dark. Gwen pulled his hands away from the console. His skin was blistered and stained with black residue. His mind felt lighter, emptier. He tried to remember the name of his first mentor, the old man who had taught him how to throw basic light-tricks. Nothing came. That memory was gone, eaten by the grid. A tear slipped down his cheek, but his expression remained cold. A deep, mechanical groan shuddered through the floorboards. Failing rapidly, the massive power grid shut down non-essential sectors of the inner sanctum. Behind the central terminal, a thick, blast-proof bulkhead door began to lose its magnetic seal. Heavy pneumatic locks hissed, releasing pressurized steam into the room. Slowly, the massive steel slab slid upward, revealing a hidden room beyond. Chilled fog rolled out of the opening, clinging to Gwen's ankles. Gwen stepped forward, his boots splashing through the pools of black oil and melted metal. He expected to find a backup generator, or perhaps Vaelen's private vault. Instead, he saw a long, sterile corridor lined with glowing green canisters. Gwen walked into the freezing room, his breath puffing in white clouds. Inside the canisters, suspended in thick, translucent fluid, were human figures. He approached the nearest pod, wiping the condensation from the glass. His breath caught in his throat. Staring back at him through the glass was his own face. He staggered backward, his heart stopping. He ran to the next pod, wiping the glass frantically. It was another him. As the power grid overloads, a secret laboratory door slides open, revealing a row of cryogenic pods containing identical, inert clones of Gwen.

Chapter 80: Unlocking the Primal Code