The commander's stare pinned Mateusz across the polished obsidian table, reflecting the glass vial and its solitary red droplet. Behind his ribs, cold iron seemed to take root. Every prior subject in the ledger had vanished into the same machinery, and his name was already set beside the pen.
“Begin, Chef,” the man ordered, devoid of warmth. “Let us test the boundary of your craft.”
Mateusz touched the vial. A sharp tang of copper rose from the unstoppered rim, heavy as grease against his teeth. He leaned inward, inviting the low vibration within his marrow. He sampled the vapor, yet it held far more than mere fluid.
Impressions broke over him in a deluge—not lived events, but an ancient scale of hunger. The sky had not fractured during the Intrusion; a crystalline maw had descended. A vast emptiness craved essence rather than flesh, stripping identity down to dry bone.
Vast leviathans drifted through an unseen void, grazing on reality. Earth had simply been cataloged as fresh provisions. The entity tethered to his soul was no poetic metaphor; it was a cosmic mouth filtering creation through Awakened vessels.
The interface served as a digestive tract, grinding every fragment of spirit into digestible grist. And the commander had never intended to dissolve Mateusz's bond; he wanted to harness the conduit, turning the horror's jaws toward his own designs.
Mateusz dug his thumbnail into his palm. He refused to serve as livestock for an alien mouth or an instrument for an ambitious officer.
He lacked the strength to shatter the entity, but he could spoil the dish. He could poison the well.
The vibration grew piercing. The commander remained rigid, watching. Mateusz turned his attention inward, enduring the slow erosion that accompanied every transmutation. Yet he refused the blood, reaching instead toward the void beneath it.
He recalled an accident from weeks ago in the lower alleys. Attempting a ration paste from sterile water and inert powder, he had brewed a dense grey sludge. Swallowing a drop had wiped out his recall of the surrounding streets, leaving him temporarily disoriented. He had discarded the batch then. Now, it offered an exploit.
`[New Recipe Unlocked: Null Broth]`
`[Null Broth. Ingredients: Purified Water (50ml), Inert Dust (10g), Memory of a Nameless Fear (1)]`
The text glowed against his sight. He possessed endless terrors. He could spend one—surrendering his dread of obliteration to forge a weapon against the harvesting itself.
Mateusz triggered the synthesis. Something snapped in his thoughts—a brittle thread of panic burned away, dissolving into cold grease. A small ceramic bowl formed on his palm, holding a dull grey fluid that refused the room's lantern glow.
The officer tilted his head, irritation tightening his brow. “What is that, Chef? That is not my offering.”
Mateusz tipped the bowl back. The broth carried no seasoning, coating his palate like cold wet soot. The vibration in his marrow died. The prompts went dark, the cosmic pressure lifted, and absolute silence filled his skull.
Across the obsidian, the seated figure registered only as an assembly of sharp cheekbones and wool uniform. Mateusz reached toward his interior recollections. Kamil remained intact—his crooked smile, his easy stance. But Neta was gone. Where her angular jaw and sharp gaze belonged, only empty grey silence lingered.
Then the tether rebounded with a shrieking resonance. The unseen maw tore back into alignment, demanding its due.
`[Pact Violation Detected. Soul Integrity at 41%. Emergency Purge Protocol Initiated.]`