The grace kept pushing, elevating Rattan until he reached the peak of the fifth stage, with even more power left to bestow. However, seeing that this was the limit Rattan could currently withstand, the Abyss’s will shifted its attention to Rattan’s cube. It blessed the remaining grace upon the artifact.
The cube began to swell, rapidly increasing in size until it was the size of a boulder. Its material purified, its internal functions strengthened far beyond anything Rattan could have accomplished in his current state. The cube was soon upgraded, transforming from a re tool into a genuine artifact.
The Abyss humd with a weird satisfaction. Even as parts of its very nature had been irrevocably altered, rendered into vast, shimring icescapes by Lyra’s relentless assault, it found a strange delight in the unfolding drama.
It was a satisfaction born not of harmony, but of transformation and the brutal, intricate dance of power. The freezing touch of Lyra’s law was an intrusion, certainly, a force antithetical to this Abyss layer inherent heat and chaos. Yet, it was also a catalyst.
This inherent capacity for transformation is precisely why the Abyss, despite the imnse destruction, doesn’t mind sixth-tier beings battling on its different layers. To a lesser entity, such conflicts would represent catastrophic devastation, an existential threat to their very being. But to the Abyss, it’s sothing akin to a vigorous pruning or a forced evolution.
Each clash of these cosmic powers doesn’t rely level mountains or freeze lakes; it fundantally alters the very essence of the layer upon which they fight. The raw energy, the clashing laws, the very reality-bending power unleashed, all seep into the Abyss’s fabric. The result is always a new outlook and nature of its own for that specific layer. A fiery layer might beco a tempestuous maelstrom of raw lightning after an elentalist’s battle. A desolate plain could burst forth with pulsating, sentient flora following a clash between nature deities.
The Abyss views these battles not as invasions, but as grand, albeit chaotic, acts of genesis. The casual indifference of sixth-tier beings in their struggles is mirrored by the Abyss’s own detached satisfaction. It’s a forge, a crucible where its own limitless, monstrous potential is constantly reshaped and expanded. Every scar on its surface, every frozen waste or charred crater, is simply a new canvas for the birth of sothing novel, sothing uniquely terrifying, ensuring the Abyss remains an ever-changing, endlessly resourceful realm of dark wonder.
Rattan reeled, utterly taken aback by the newfound power surging through him, but even more so by the dramatic transformation of his cube. He watched, srized, as the now boulder-sized cube moved with a will of its own, rging seamlessly with the Abyss Armor Kaelen had worn. The armor’s inherent chaotic will was swiftly and decisively overridden by the cube’s new artifact soul. Its formidable functions were entirely taken over and then fully handed to Rattan, its rightful owner.
A joyous, uncontrollable laughter bubbled up from Rattan’s stomach and heart. He hadn’t even begun to truly leverage Kaelen’s skin, yet it was already bringing him such imnse benefits.
Driven by an eagerness to experience the raw power of a fifth-stage being, Rattan didn’t bother with a spell. With a re flex of his will, his feet left the ground. There was a silent burst of displaced air, and Rattan shot into the sky.
He floated there, arms spread wide, feeling an exhilarating mix of power and freedom. He couldn’t hold back any longer. Laughter erupted from him, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Soon, he vowed, he would bring this feeling to his people. They would look upon him as a savior, a king. He would rebuild the greatness his people once knew in this world. For whatever subconscious reason, Rattan prevented himself from asking the inevitable question: what was the price for gaining all of this?
Rattan’s euphoria was absolute, blinding him to the complexities of his situation. Even his guardian’s strange alliance with demons, and the possibility that their world was Phantom’s ultimate goal, faded from his awareness. Instead, he was fixated solely on what more he could gain.
anwhile, within Rattan’s consciousness, Phantom was diligently working to fulfill Ikenga’s request. Just as all of Nixbolt’s knowledge was absorbed when his identity was taken over by Rattan, the sa applied to Kaelen. Now, deep within Rattan’s mind, lay a mory crucial to Ikenga. Phantom carefully extracted this mory, which solidified into a luminous crystal. An arm briefly materialized in Rattan’s consciousness, gently taking the crystal before vanishing.
It was at this precise mont, while Rattan revelled in his newfound power high in the sky, that the situation drastically changed. He blinked, and suddenly, directly in front of him, hovered a demon far larger and more imposing than even Kaelen.
Rattan’s body stiffened with pure terror. The power radiating from the large figure scread sixth stage. "A gargoyle," was Rattan’s last conscious thought before his eyes rolled back and Phantom seamlessly took over.
Malzor, the newly ascended sixth-tier gargoyle, hung suspended in the frozen sky, his colossal form dwarfing the ogre body Phantom now inhabited. His gaze, sharp and piercing, bore into Rattan’s borrowed features, seeking the presence he knew lay beneath. There was no imdiate greeting, only the heavy silence of two figurres one familiar, one now equal sizing each other up.
"I received your... gift," Malzor finally rumbled, his voice a grinding stone, devoid of warmth. His massive, clawed hands, each digit thick as a tree trunk, flexed slowly, and the frozen air around them visibly warped.
Phantom, speaking through Rattan’s mouth, offered a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "You’ve done the impossible, Malzor. Reached a stage that was once a dream, in a re matter of decades." His voice, usually detached, held a hint of sothing that could be pride, or perhaps satisfaction.
Malzor’s gaze drifted to his own powerful limbs, then back to Phantom. "It would have been better," he growled, his voice dropping, "if I’d received this gift personally. From you. Not as a distant, unsolicited blessing." A tremor ran through the colossal gargoyle, a subtle ripple of long-held resentnt. "How long have you been in contact with Zarvok? Was I always just a part of his plan to control the Abyss, and you, Phantom, rely his agent for the change?" The accusation hung heavy, sharper than the frigid air.
Phantom’s borrowed face settled into a slight frown. "I do not serve Zarvok." His voice hardened, a faint, ethereal echo accompanying the words. "I serve my creator. And he was the one who deed you necessary... until you weren’t."
Malzor’s expression remained impassive, though the tension in his massive shoulders lessened ever so slightly. "Gods, then." His gaze swept across the newly frozen, glittering landscape of the Abyss layer. "I recall whispers of gods appearing here. So, your creator is one of them, and conveniently in league with Zarvok?"
"It wasn’t so long ago that my creator began to give his full support to Zarvok," Phantom admitted, the statent a subtle shift. "He previously had plans to make you a third challenger for the throne. A perfect wedge."
Malzor’s hands clenched once more, the sound of popping air around his fists louder this ti. A flicker of raw, frustrated fury crossed his features. "Then why? Why abandon after pushing so far? What changed, Phantom?"
Phantom didn’t hesitate. His gaze flickered upwards, as if piercing through the very fabric of the Abyss to sothing far grander and more ancient. "The Abyss."
Malzor paused, his anger visibly deflating, replaced by a slow dawning of understanding. He unclenched his fists, the sound of his breathing a deep, rasping hiss in the frigid air. "The Abyss..."
"My creator realized it was not his place, currently, to tangle with a being as old and profound as the Abyss itself," Phantom explained, his voice returning to its cool, asured tone. "He realized early on that in his attempt to match with it, he might end up being nothing more than a pawn, just like those he sought to move."
A look of reluctant recognition, almost respect, solidified on Malzor’s face. "Then why am I suddenly back in your line of sight?" he asked, the question less of an accusation and more of a complex curiosity. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the endless expanse of frozen demons.
Phantom, through Rattan’s form, spread his arms wide, a gesture that seed to encompass the entire transford layer. A note of profound satisfaction, almost theatrical pride, resonated in his voice. "Because, Malzor, you are needed now. You are needed for the stage I am preparing for my new host."
Malzor stood silent, the question hanging heavy in the air between them. His vast, stone-like features, usually a mask of fierce determination, now held a complex mix of contemplation and a subtle, almost imperceptible weariness. He looked down at his powerful, newly acquired sixth-tier form, then back at the smaller figure of Rattan, inhabited by Phantom.
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