Kael stood on the threshold, his breath steady. The predatory thrum of the Heart-Stone Parasite filled the small chamber, a silent scream of need that would have driven any other man to his knees. It promised power, and Kael knew, with more certainty than anything, that such promises were always traps. But he wasn't here to accept a gift. He was here to claim a tool.
He walked to the pedestal. The closer he got, the more the feeling intensified, worming its way into his mind. It showed him flashes of what he could have: respect, strength, a world that bent to his will instead of breaking him against it. A cheap temptation.
He reached out his hand, the one he had cut to open the door. The wound was already beginning to seal, a testament to his body's unnatural resilience. He didn't hesitate. His fingers closed around the crystalline lattice.
The moment his skin made contact, the Parasite struck.
It was not a physical attack. It was an invasion. The solid structure dissolved into a flood of liquid silver and crimson light, flowing over his hand and sinking into his flesh. It didn't force its way in; it was absorbed, drawn into his bloodstream with terrifying speed.
The pain was absolute. The tempering in the sludge pools, the pummeling by beasts, the agony of broken bones—they were all love taps compared to this. It was a torrent of molten glass and frozen razors flooding his veins, racing towards the center of his body. Every nerve ending screamed. His Adamantine Body, the pride of his 137th life, was pushed to its breaking point merely to contain the assault, to stop his very veins from bursting under the strain. He collapsed to one knee, a strangled gasp tearing from his lips, his hand clamped over his chest as the alien substance converged on his heart.
And then, the physical pain became secondary.
As the Parasite latched onto his heart, seeking to make the connection permanent, it plunged into his mind. It needed to know its host, to find its weaknesses, to ensure its dominance. A tsunami of memory, sharp and vivid, crashed over him.
He was seventy again, lying in the quarry dust, his lungs seizing, the weight of a useless life crushing him into nothing. He felt the bitter regret, the final, lonely tear.
He was in the jungle, the Sunstone a warm promise in his hand, his heart filled with a foolish, nascent hope. Then came the flash of shadow, the impossible speed, and the ripping, tearing finality of the Canopy Stalker's claws.
He was in the dark, in the cell beneath the arena in Oasis-Khem. The thirst was a living thing, scraping his throat raw. The distant cheers for Joric—the boy he had helped, the boy who had betrayed him—were a torment designed by a cruel god. He felt the slow, maddening fade into oblivion, a forgotten, worthless thing.
He was sixty, standing on the balcony of his mansion in his 99th life, watching forty years of meticulous work, of alliances built, of wealth accumulated, turn to cinders under the casual, indifferent power of a Valerian cultivator. He saw the faces of his loyal servants, his trusted friends, his wife of two decades, consumed by a fire they could not comprehend. The ultimate lesson: nothing he built mattered.
The Parasite pushed, using his own despair as a weapon, trying to shatter his will and leave him a pliant vessel for it to inhabit.
It was a fatal miscalculation.
These memories were not Kael's weakness. They were his armor. He had relived them, analyzed them, and absorbed them a thousand times in the quiet moments of each new life. They were the cornerstones of his rage, the foundation of his resolve.
The Parasite expected a mortal mind to break. It found an eternal will, forged in a crucible it could not imagine.
You think this is my pain? Kael's consciousness roared, not in words, but in a pure, focused wave of intent. You are a parasite. I am a plague. Let me show you what I am.
He didn't just endure the memories. He seized them. He poured the full, undiluted might of his soul—the rage of 138 deaths, the patience of ten thousand years of suffering, the cold, calculating fury of a man who had declared war on reality itself—back down the connection the Parasite had forged.
The psychic assault reversed. The Parasite, for the first time in its ancient existence, felt fear. It had latched onto a meal, only to find itself chained to a god.
The storm in his mind ceased. The searing pain in his veins subsided, replaced by a constant, draining thrum at the center of his chest. A permanent ache. A price. He felt a part of his life force being constantly siphoned away to feed the thing now fused to his heart.
He pushed himself to his feet, his body trembling with exhaustion. He was weaker than he had been moments before. The drain was real. But he was in control.
He opened his eyes.
And the world was reborn in fire.
He no longer saw a dim, stone room. He saw the dormant runes on the walls for what they were: complex circuits of faded magic, still holding a faint, spectral glow. He saw the air itself, no longer empty, but filled with drifting, swirling strands of energy. The thin, sharp Qi of the Blighted Sands seeped through cracks in the ceiling, visible to him as threads of dull red and stark black, coiling like malevolent serpents. He could see the faint, golden aura of his own vitality being consumed by the crimson-silver web wrapped around his heart.
The vessel was no longer empty. The deaf man could now see the music. It was a terrifying, chaotic, beautiful symphony. And for the first time in 138 lives, Kael believed he could finally learn to play.