Uroboros didn’t even know why the words left her tongue—why Aphelia’s mad move felt familiar, why “again” slipped out, like a cold fog rolling over her mind, blotting out the past.
The feeling was awful, a thorn in the heart; she couldn’t even think of how to stop Aphelia. To forge flesh was a rule-bound abyss—make “a body,” and it’s just a human-shaped slab of dead meat, fit only for low Undead to puppeteer.
To house a normal soul, you need a body that can cradle a soul; that’s a different beast. Even mortal flesh blooms under the rules: one body for one soul; only flesh and spirit in unity strike true like a bell in winter air.
That’s why Sigdrifa labored through a thousand trials to raise Aphelia—so she could seize the vessel someday. Aphelia’s soul was, in essence, a sliver of Brynhildr; and Brynhildr sprang from a seed cast by the Aether Civilization, its root anchored in the Zerg Queen.
Sigdrifa budded from that shared soul, closer to Brynhildr than scattered fragments. So let Brynhildr’s main soul gestate a new body; a vessel grown by its own soul fits like spring rain to earth.
“Aphelia, don’t throw your life away. None of us has tried crafting flesh. Only the Origin ever did—no other precedent…”
“I’m the precedent. I made bodies for the Root Executors. Don’t worry, Uroboros—time’s tight on Hrok’s front. If I fail, I’ll stop at once. Trust me, okay?”
Aphelia’s smile was a hearth-fire; she clasped Uroboros’s hands, warmth steady as sunlight through leaves. Uroboros’s breath eased, then she looked at that gentle face and sighed, helpless as tide to moon.
Fine. If she’s set on madness, I’ll keep her company in the storm.
Uroboros shook her head, voice rising like a struck string, half-annoyed, half-steadfast. “Then I’ll walk the edge of taboo with you. Don’t get cocky.”
“Yes, yes. Then please step aside, Lady Uroboros. I’m… starting!”
Aphelia nudged Uroboros away, and two spheres of Aether unfurled over her palms. Crimson Flame and pitch-black Aether found a hidden tether, fine threads reaching and knitting like spider silk at dawn, while the keratin layer on her skin replaced her armor and sealed to her like second skin.
Feeling the change across her surface, Aphelia was startled—this Insectoid power reshaped her frame. It moved by her will, yet at most times it felt alive, guarding the blind spots she couldn’t cover; this full-body carapace was a quiet shield, like bark grown overnight.
Under her guidance the two forces began to fuse, drawing out a deeper current, and the tiny light that once crushed the Origin rose again—drifting above the fusion, blazing like a newborn star, wrapping Aphelia in radiance.
“It’s begun…”
Uroboros and Violet breathed the words together; that shock-wave through the light made their hearts skip, like a drumbeat missing a stroke.
Far out in space, in the seam between time and tide, Heron borrowed the strength of the collective consciousness and looked toward Earth. She inevitably found Aphelia mid-ritual; seeing that scene bloom again, Heron felt vigor flood her limbs, like spring melt pouring down a ravine.
“She’s started molding a body!”
“That Zerg Queen—impossible. How did she master it so fast!”
“It’s her own power. With her soul mended, why is that strange…”
Quarrels rose inside the vast collective, a storm of voices; no wonder—the power Aphelia showed was the very nectar they’d craved for countless eons. As souls adrift in empty cosmos, human senses had long gone numb; time itself faded like chalk in rain; as for the five senses—gone, a locked garden without scent.
They could rebuild scenes with Aether and will, twist reality a little like wind bending reeds. But what use was it? They had no taste—banquets turned to sawdust; no warmth—sweet words from a perfect lover clicked like soulless code.
That life didn’t last a year or two; it was measured in eons, winters stacked like stones.
Now hope wore a body before them; food seemed once more to carry flavor, phantom saliva glands tingling awake, and that old ember called desire flared like dry grass catching flame. The collective’s pulse surged—the fiercest ripple in ages.
Even Heron was tempted, her heart swayed like a reed in a rising gust.
She had imagined borrowing Aphelia’s power, forging herself a body again—even flawed, even chipped. She had drifted in this mighty consciousness for too long; she couldn’t bear the cold emptiness anymore, especially now that Aphelia dared remake flesh.
Steady—stay steady.
Heron tried breathing deep—useless as wind in vacuum. Long waiting had nearly burned out her patience, and yet somehow rebuilt it—if you’ve waited eons, what’s a day or two? The Zerg Queen once birthed Root Executors by the hour, a thunderhead building in real time.
This was Aphelia’s first attempt, and Heron had braced for failure. The Zerg Queen had slept long to stack strength like strata. Even so, Heron’s eyes shone with expectation; she walled off the collective’s din, like shutting a window on a storm.
Aphelia, you must succeed…
In that moment, countless eyes fixed on the blue planet, on a lone figure within its clouds; even from the depths of the void, certain wills watched like owls at dusk.
“Hey, Reaper—has Aphelia succeeded, or failed?”
On a ruin-throne tangled with thorns, the Demon King brushed stone dust from his shoulders. He’d just woken from a stone-cold sleep—he had become a statue, fused to the throne, until the dusky-skinned girl Reaper roused him today. He slapped grit from his coat and rose, slow as a mountain thaw.
He flexed limbs that hadn’t moved in ages, then walked toward the dusky Reaper. Fresh from sleep, time felt strange to him, like a river whose banks had shifted—no surprise, after saving himself as stone and sleeping without a clock or voice to mark the hours.
The Reaper didn’t answer. She just stood before the vast starfield, gaze fixed on Earth, watching Aphelia wield power and test the forbidden. She held her scythe like a crescent moon; a pocket watch—half gold, half dust—turned slow at her throat; she was calm as a still well in late autumn.
Seeing her like that, the Demon King didn’t force chatter. He faced the starfield and looked at Aphelia.
“Not bad at all. Warm life against cold death—she’s finding the silhouette of that power. Good, good. Maybe she’ll nail it in one stroke.”
He propped his chin, feral pupils bright with reason, watching Aphelia’s forces evolve. He couldn’t help praising—once, he’d tried to simulate it, but he’d only copied the outline, painting by numbers; he hadn’t even glimpsed the door to making flesh, just circled outside the gate. Only today did a hint click into place; yet Aphelia stepped straight in and threw the door open.
“Not certain. She might fail.”
To his surprise, the dusky Reaper shook her head and glanced at her odd clock. After a beat of thought, she spoke, voice steady as winter rain. “You see balance between life and death. I see two powers jammed together, no use of balance itself. If she’d crossed into that field, her motions wouldn’t be this stiff.”
“But you’re still watching, aren’t you~”
The Demon King’s teasing made the girl blink; then she lifted her eyes from the watch, a look of sudden clarity blooming, and fixed on Aphelia’s hands again, parsing the flow like a scholar reading river lines. The Demon King froze, surprised by his own jest.
He’d only joked—had he actually sparked her?
“Hey, hey—if you’ve found something, don’t hoard it. This is the crucial—”
He didn’t finish. The dusky Reaper slapped him aside, casual as flicking a leaf. She barely used strength, yet being swatted mid-sentence felt like being dumped into winter surf; the Demon King stumbled, crashed into the ruin-throne, and lay there for a breath, speechless.
