Screams tore through the toxic smog of Nineteenth North, rising from the thousands of throats huddled in the lower slums. Massive support beams groaned under the sudden, catastrophic shift in weight, sending showers of blue sparks raining down into the dark abyss below. Overhead, the entire golden district—a playground of cybernetic high-priests, glittering corporate spires, and immense marble temples—fractured away from its magnetic anchors with a deafening, metallic snap. Millions of tons of steel, reinforced concrete, and luxury estates began an agonizingly slow tilt toward the dark, overcrowded slums directly beneath. Thick smoke billowed from the severed power conduits, choking the flickering neon lights in a heavy, grey fog that smelled of burning oil and ozone. Down in the muddy gutters, people looked up in sheer horror, their cybernetic implants flickering with chaotic warning alerts. Terror froze them in place, their faces illuminated by the frantic red warning lights of a dying city sector that was about to crush them into dust. Gwen stood on the precipice of a shattered balcony, his boots slick with oil, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. Dark, viscous fluid pulsed violently beneath the skin of his forearms, a sickening reminder of the Primordial Soup he had accidentally absorbed. It burned like liquid fire inside his chest, a primal, forbidden force demanding to be unleashed to reshape the chaotic world around him. "Get out of there!" a frantic voice yelled from the broken comm-link in his ear, but the screeching of tearing metal quickly drowned it out. Run, his survival instincts screamed, urging him to leap across the rooftops and escape the impending impact. Save yourself, the quiet voice of his painful past whispered, reminding him of all the times he had been left behind to die in these very gutters. But he looked down at the thousands of families huddled in the lower streets, trapped like helpless rats in a sinking iron cage. Those people below were the ones who called him a monster, whispers of fear following him through every dark alleyway. They were the ones who threw stones at his illusions, terrified of the dark power they couldn't understand. Yet, he could not let them die. --- Closing his eyes, Gwen reached deep into the black reservoir of magic swirling in his chest, ignoring the cold dread that pooled in his stomach. He did not want to hurt anyone anymore, nor did he want to see another innocent life snuffed out by the cruelty of the high-priests. His heart wanted to save them, even if it meant tearing his own mind apart to do so. Cold, ancient power answered his desperate call, flooding his veins with an agonizing surge of absolute, tangible darkness. He thrust his hands forward, fingers splayed, grasping at the empty air as if he could physically seize the falling heavens. "Hold," he whispered, his voice cracking under the sudden, immense pressure of the magic manifesting in his blood. Thick, liquid shadows erupted from his palms, shooting into the sky like black lightning bolts that defied gravity. Solidifying instantly under the influence of the forbidden magic, they did not dissipate like the harmless trickery of his past illusions. Hardened strands of dark, obsidian-like glass shot across the chasm, anchoring themselves to the reinforced steel pillars of the lower city with deafening impacts. Woven in a dizzying array, they formed a colossal, dark net directly beneath the tilting district, a physical manifestation of his deepest will. Each strand was as thick as a tree trunk, humming with a terrifying, physical density that vibrated through the air. Sweat poured down Gwen’s face, mixing with the soot on his cheeks as he strained to hold the massive structure together. His muscles trembled violently, veins turning a deep, unnatural violet as the Primordial Soup demanded more and more fuel to maintain the physicalized illusion. Seconds later, the falling district hit the web. A sound like a dying god echoed through the metropolis, a brutal shockwave that rattled the very foundations of Nineteenth North. Shockwaves shattered every glass window for three miles, raining glittering shards onto the empty, oil-slicked streets below. Gwen’s knees buckled under the sudden, staggering weight of the impact, his bones groaning in protest. He fell to one knee, his hands still raised toward the sky, his joints popping under the simulated weight of an entire city sector. "Ah!" he screamed, his voice raw and filled with an agony that transcended mere physical pain. Pain, sharp and blinding, pierced his temples like a silver needle driven deep into his skull. It felt as though a hot iron was being branded directly onto his brain, searing away the thoughts he held dear. Inside his mind, something tore. A memory began to unravel, dissolving into grey static. He saw a little girl with bright, green eyes and a dirt-smudged nose, her laughter echoing in his mind. She was crying, huddled in a rusted dumpster in the lowest ring of the slums, shivering from the toxic rain. Years ago, he had found her there, when he was just a desperate street performer trying to survive on scraps. Using a harmless illusion of a glowing butterfly, he had stopped her tears and pulled her out of the freezing cold. She was the first person he had ever saved, the anchor that kept him from succumbing to despair. Now, her face began to fade, her features blurring like wet ink on paper. Her green eyes lost their color, turning a dull, empty grey before vanishing entirely. "No," Gwen sobbed, trying to clutch the fading memory closer, but it slipped through his mental grasp. "Please, not her." Forbidden magic didn't care about his tears, nor did it pity his desperate pleas. It consumed the memory greedily, converting his precious past into the physical force required to hold the falling monument of stone and metal. Her laughter became silent, a distant echo that finally ceased to exist. A name vanished from his thoughts, leaving only a hollow, aching void where a precious piece of his life had just been. He could no longer remember the color of her hair, or why he had cared for her so much in those dark years. Only a hole remained, ripped raw in his chest, a vacuum of identity that threatened to swallow him whole. Still, the falling district continued to push down, gravity demanding its toll. Gravity fought against his obsidian web, the heavy concrete grinding against the solid shadows with a terrifying, screeching roar. Sparks flew where the two forces collided, lighting up the dark sky with brilliant flashes of orange and blue. Gwen’s nose began to bleed, a thick, dark red drop falling onto his collarbone, followed by another. His vision blurred, edges fraying into a static haze that threatened to pull him into unconsciousness. Another memory dissolved, fading into nothingness. This time, it was the taste of warm bread from a bakery he used to steal from when he was a starving child. Next went the sound of his mother's voice—or was it a nurse who had held him when he was sick? He couldn't remember the warmth of her touch, or the soft words she had whispered to quiet his nightmares. Every detail evaporated like mist over a toxic canal, gone forever into the dark soup. "Monster!" someone screamed from below, their voice filled with awe and terror. "He's holding it up!" Gwen laughed, a wet, choking sound that rattled his lungs. They still called him a monster, even as his bones threatened to splinter to save their lives. He didn't care about their praise or their forgiveness anymore. His only desire was for them to live, to have the future that was being stolen from him second by agonizing second. This impact sent a jolt of pure agony straight down his spine as a secondary support beam collapsed from the floating district above. He vomited blood, the dark fluid splattering against the cracked concrete of the balcony. His arms shook violently, muscles tearing under the impossible strain of holding up a world. More memories fell into the black abyss of the Primordial Soup, consumed by the voracious magic. He forgot the feeling of cold rain on his skin during the long, lonely nights. Forgotten too was the name of the alleyway where he had slept for three winters, huddled under thin blankets of plastic. Its foundation crumbled to dust in his mind, leaving only a blank, terrifying space. Terrified citizens scrambled to escape the danger zone, running beneath the massive shadow web toward the outer districts. They ran, terrified of the black glass dome hanging over their heads like the jaws of a giant beast. No one saw the young man bleeding to death on the balcony above them, sacrificing his very soul for their safety. "Just a little longer," Gwen muttered, his teeth grinding together so hard they cracked under the pressure. His eyes burned, tears of blood mixing with the sweat on his face. A frantic heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, desperate to escape the cage of his chest. Every nerve ending screamed for him to let go, to save himself and run before the magic consumed what was left of him. He refused. If he let go, thousands of innocent lives would be snuffed out in an instant, crushed beneath the weight of the high-priests' arrogance. Becoming an empty shell was better than living as a coward who let children die. Forbidden magic surged again, black veins spreading up his neck and across his pale cheeks. Who was he? Why was he standing here? Every reason was starting to slip away, leaving only a desperate, instinctual need to protect. He forgot his favorite color, the simple joy of looking at a blue sky. Forgotten too was the face of the high-priest he had just fought, the very man who had triggered this catastrophe. His mind was becoming a blank slate, washed clean by the tide of forbidden magic. Shadows groaned. Obsidian cables began to vibrate, emitting a high-pitched, crystal-like hum that signaled their imminent failure. They were reaching their absolute breaking point, micro-fractures spreading through the dark glass. Gwen squeezed his eyes shut, trying to find anything left of himself to anchor his fading consciousness. Only a single, core memory remained in the center of his mind. A name. His own name. "I am..." he whispered, but the words caught in his dry throat, refusing to form. Coldness washed over his mind, a thick, suffocating wave of black ink that swallowed the last remnants of light. Suddenly, a sharp snap echoed through the air. The shadow web begins to crack under the immense weight, and Gwen's vision goes completely dark as his mind deletes the memory of his own name.

Chapter 83: To Catch a Falling Star