The guttural laughter died in Layla's throat, replaced by a sudden, jarring silence. The night air, carriedthe scent of blood and burnt wood, offered no comfort. Her triumph felt… hollow, no one to share it with. But before she could process the carnage she had wrought, her mind ripped backward, unwillingly replaying a scene from her past.
The mountain path was steep, the evening sun, beautiful. Naive Layla, adorned in a simple niqab, had followed Yusuf, her heart fluttering with the forbidden thrill of a shared, secret moment. She imagined whispered words, stolen glances maybe even a delicate touch of hands. But Yusuf had more graphic thoughts in mind. His smirk, always charming, even has he did it. He pushed, and the next moment, he was over her, pinning her to the rough earth, his hands fumbling, then pulling roughly at her niqab.
She gasped, exposed. Her eyes, a startling, vivid blue – a rare, almost unnatural color for an African girl in their village – snapped open, wide with confusion and terror.
'how could he's
Yusuf froze, momentarily surprised by their beauty, by the face he hadn't fully seen before. Then the predatory gleam returned to his eyes. Layla fought back, her struggles desperate, fueled by a primal fear. She scratched, she kicked, she screamed, but the sounds were swallowed by the vastness of the mountain.
Yet, even then, something was familiar. A burning feeling, deep in her chest, a spark of pure, unadulterated fury. It was there, struggling against the years of indoctrination, the suffocating weight of "always be modest" and "always obey" that had bound it, smothered it, not allowing it to grow. She wanted to hurt him then to make him stop then to make him bleed. But the thought was a fleeting, forbidden ember, quickly stamped out by fear and ingrained subservience.
The feeling had always been there. Every time she disobeyed, it would light up, a flame struggling against the confines of her spirit. Every time she did something she wasn't supposed to, it would spark, only to be drowned by harsh words and judgmental gazes. Every lash of her father's whip, the searing pain across her back and legs – it was there, at the dark corners of her mind, begging to live, begging for release, only to be murdered, pushed back down into the crushing darkness.
But the feeling had grown now. It had been birthed anew by her act of pushing her father to the ground, a single, defiant spark. It had been fed by the pain she felt in this Isekai world, by the constant terror, the forced struggles for survival. Slowly, insidiously, her very memories began to twist. In her mind's eye, in all the fights she had fought and lost, the timid girl in the dirty niqab was replaced with another person, with a sick, eerie smile. Every whip from her father, every moment of submission – she wouldn't lay down and take it anymore. She would fight back. She would enjoy the pain. She would revel in the kill.
[Ping: Irregularity detected in Host Mentality: Abnormal growth detected. Warning: Unstable Psychological State.]
[Ping: Abnormality growing. Warning: Host Mentality Deviation accelerating.]
[Ping: Interference detected. External force influencing Host's psychological parameters.]
Then, a new message. No familiar ping, no system prompt, but a voice, a thought, a chilling edict that seemed to manifest directly in her mind, not projected by the system. It was discordant, contradictory, yet resonating with an unholy truth.
'If a soul has been oppressed for too long, then the seed may grow. If they wish to fight, they give the seed life. If they fought against all odds, it blooms. If it enjoys the pain, it grows. If it loves the kill, it bears fruit. A fruit called... [Madness.]
[Ping: : Core psychological parameters breached, Host's mental state has aligned with specific universal constants.]
[Ping: Conditions met for Soul Mark acquisition]
[Ping: Congratulations, Vanguard! You are the first Vanguard to acquire a Soul Mark. Reward: Chance to increase Elemental Affinity.]
A searing pain suddenly struck Layla, radiating from deep within her mind. It wasn't the dull ache of a bruise or the sharpness of a cut; it was an internal, burning agony, as if something was violently growing, clawing its way into existence, probably the Soul Mark. She gasped, doubling over, clutching her head as the world spun, the echoes of her hysterical laughter from moments before now mingling with the system's frantic warnings and the chilling, new voice in her mind.