The air churned, twisting the surroundings into a grotesque, pulsing landscape of flesh and ruin. June followed closely behind Jenna and Rayla, their steps confident, his more cautious.
He didn't walk in fear—his eyes were sharp, focused—but the nightmarish terrain gnawed at the edges of his nerves. Twenty minutes into the patrol, the tension was wearing on him.
"I don't see any signs of souls or whatever... You sure they haven't just run off or something?" he asked, eyes scanning the corrupted ruins.
"No," Rayla replied calmly. "You don't make a forbidden area and leave it alone. It collapses quickly—depends on how much essence is poured into it—but it crumbles regardless."
"What even are Lingering Souls, anyway?" June asked, scratching the back of his head.
"Spirits who refuse to pass into 'the other side'—the realm of souls, spirits, and supernatural beings. Lingering Souls have no purpose except to harm the living. They take hosts. And they use them to do awful things."
"Well... that doesn't sound completely nuts," June muttered. "But then again, all this is real. Kinda hard to believe."
A sudden, earsplitting screech sliced through the air.
June's hand shot to the dagger strapped at his side. Rayla flashed through a hand sign. Jenna raised her spear, the tip humming with tension.
"It's coming from that way," Rayla pointed to the left, but June cut her off, jerking his hand in the opposite direction.
"No—it's from this side!" he snapped, though his voice trembled.
Jenna narrowed her eyes, then pointed her spear toward the tunnel entrance they came through, gesturing silently.
"What the hell is going on?" June whispered. "I can sense... like, three different spiritual pulses."
"We should go that wa—"
But before he could finish, June caught it in his peripheral vision—
A figure.
Standing dead center of the tracks.
White skin, devoid of any warmth or tone. Markings covered his body, sigils seared into his flesh. His limbs were pitch black. Long hair framed a face with hollow sockets where eyes should be.
June's instincts screamed.
Rayla leapt back for space, Jenna rolled away, staff gripped tight. June flipped back and landed hard.
"Visitors already...?" the figure murmured. His gaze fixed on Rayla's Neavu Ritual tag. "Oh... that kind of visitor."
"Jenna!!" Rayla yelled, voice sharp.
In an instant, Jenna appeared behind the figure, spear drawn back like a spring.
Before she could strike, the wall itself morphed—flesh bursting out to slam her against the tracks.
"You're bold," the Host grinned. "Most Neavu Ritualists avoid close combat. Not you, though. Must be your technique."
"MIRROR ART: REFLECTIVE—!"
Rayla's chant stopped cold. The air froze, a deathly chill sweeping through the ground, turning it pitch black.
Her eyes widened. Her breath caught.
In reality—she collapsed, squirming in silent agony.
"Pitiful. I was exp—"
BOOM!
A shockwave burst through the air—June's dagger struck the Host's back. His face twisted into a snarl.
But the blade barely grazed him.
The Host turned, smiling like a madman.
"A brawler? Interesting."
He waved his hand—June was swatted away like an insect, slammed into a wall of pulsing meat.
FLESH ART: MUSCLE-RIDDEN TENSION.
With a sharp nail, the Host slit his own palm. Blood oozed forth.
June groaned, rising to his feet. Pain coursed through him.
Run. Run away, dammit! You're not surviving this.
But he didn't.
He took his stance, dagger held firm.
As he stepped forward—his muscles froze.
The Host grinned.
"MUSCLE-RIDDEN TENSION—throws off electrolyte balance, locks up the body. And you're still new to Essence? You're easy prey."
The Host's fingers twisted, stretching into long, jagged blades.
June could only watch.
The Host raised his hand, preparing to split him clean in two.
BANG!
The staff's butt crashed into the Host's face with brutal force.
He staggered—nose bleeding, cheek swelling.
Jenna stood firm. Alive. Unyielding.
Rayla joined her, breathing heavy, eyes locked on the enemy.
"Well now," the Host muttered. "No Essence buildup... pure strength. That's rare."
Rayla said nothing. She adjusted her stance, calculating.
The Host's tongue slid across his teeth.
"No matter. I'll just turn your corpses into sacrifices."
THUD!
A high kick cracked into his chin—June had regained control.
"You don't emit any Essence..." June said, narrowing his eyes.
He dashed in. Jenna followed close behind.
June feinted—a quick jab.
Jenna struck with her spear.
But the Host moved like liquid.
He twisted, grabbing June by the wrist and shielding himself from Jenna's strike.
Jenna spun in reverse, redirecting her momentum—her spear collided with a wall of living flesh. A trap.
June bit down on the Host's arm, drawing blood.
The Host growled and flung him away—
—and in that split second, Jenna struck.
Her blade cleaved through his neck.
The Host's head hit the ground with a dull thud.
Rayla pressed a palm to the corpse, chanting:
MIRROR ART: REFLECTION OF A THOUSAND DAMAGE.
The corpse contorted—its body ruptured with the reflection of every hit Rayla had suffered.
Jenna kicked the head aside, face blank. She turned to June, who trembled—his breath ragged, hands shaking.
Jenna placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
Reassurance.
Rayla's voice snapped the moment.
"The forbidden area isn't crumbling."
"What?" Jenna blinked. "But we just cut off its—"
"That was just a clone."
All three snapped their heads.
The Host stood again—another version of him—dropping down from above. His boots cracked the floor beneath.
He held bones and sinew in his hand, all covered in sigils.
"These," he said, raising them, "are fragments of myself. I can grow a full clone—same mind, same abilities—just by altering the growth rate."
"Essence," he chuckled. "It's an exaggeration of what is... and what could be."
"You struggled against a clone. How pitiful."
Rayla's confidence broke for the first time.
June staggered back, his eyes wide. Jenna stepped away, lowering her center of gravity.
But the Host's range was everywhere—the forbidden zone bent to his will.
"We can take him—" June began.
GUSH. GUSH. GUSH.
Blood trickled from Rayla's neck. She fell, clutching it.
"Heheheh... hahahah!!"
June's world narrowed. He launched forward, but the Host didn't get any closer. The faster he ran, the further the distance grew.
Jenna stood frozen. Something had locked her mind and body in place.
"Don't worry," the Host grinned. "I won't kill you yet. I'll save you for later. After all, I've finally grasped my abilities thanks to the recent ritual."
He clasped his hands, preparing to chant—
But the air shifted.
Crushed inward.
BOOM!!!
The Host's body caved in—face shattered, body flung from the zone.
The forbidden area crumbled.
"W–What...? What jus—"
"You there."
A voice.
The Host turned—blood dripping down his face.
A hooded figure stood before him, hands in his coat pockets.
"You were behind the ritual killings," the figure said calmly. "I had some things to deal with, so I sent my students instead. But clearly... you're troublesome."
"Who are you?! What are you?!"
The figure tilted his head, then pointed at himself.
"Me? I'm Jean Vandetta."
____
It wasn't magic. It wasn't even life, not really.
He didn't control people—he controlled what they were made of.
Muscle, skin, sinew. The raw material of man. That was his domain.
He grew clones, not illusions—each a grotesque bloom of meat molded into himself. Not puppets. Not tricks. Extensions. Each limb he left behind, each smear of blood, each cracked tooth—was a seed. Given time and Essence, he could grow a new self from it.
The battlefield wasn't stone anymore. It pulsed. It breathed.
Even his absence was deliberate. No Essence trail. No spiritual weight. You didn't feel him until his hand was inside your chest.
That was his truth:
"He wasn't a man. He was a host—and we were the feast."