Chương 231: Chapter 227: Nyalac

Nyxalair carried the Bodytwister head through the Technocult cathedral. Lifeless eyes stared through thin plastic, twitching, as if trying to see while their owner was long dead. As far as Nyxalair was concerned, the bag was pointless. Yog had already siphoned every drop of blood, and the neck wound itself wasn't about to lose anymore bits of flesh that hadn't already been left at the site of the murder. The only reason she used it, was because Ta'Malis demanded so.

After failing to deliver the woman samples and her owed report for the third time, she had taken to treating Nyxalair as if she were incompetent. Which was absurd. She'd killed Solan, the Fleshsmith leader herself. Even the other Technocultists privy to her achievement watched her pass with something akin to awe. Well, those with the spatial awareness to notice her at all. Technocultists could be rather… singleminded when they were in their creative space.

Before the little detail about her act spread through the upper creeds, she was treated with respect, but a respect dedicated to a junior who'd helped out. Now, it was an admiration otherwise reserved solely for the cult leaders. And Ta'Malis treated her like an idiot. Just because she accidentally ate the chainsaw wound samples a couple of times. It wasn't Nyxalair's fault that cultists tasted so good. Why didn't Ta'Malis try storing a sweet treat in her stomach while digesting a cult leader. It was impossible.

Which was why Nyxalair now carried the severed head through the towering halls of the Technocult with her own two feet, and didn't simply teleport.

"Here." Nyxalair dumped the bloodless head on one of the biological expert's unoccupied surgery tables. Her tentacles slipped from under her cloak, depositing the dozen other samples they'd been carrying.

"They're Bodytwisters this time, so some parts of the flesh were barely being held together even before the chainsaw cut through them." Ta'Malis looked up, but didn't stop drilling into the open chest of a fifth evo Technocultist.

"And your report?" Nyxalair's gaze lingered on the man. Unlike Ta'Malis — or any of the upper creeds for that matter — he still held a lot of his original flesh. His skin bled as his ribs were pinched open by a clamp. Even as the older Technocultist worked away in his chest, he was aware. Laying on his back, he kept his arms above his head, fidgeting with the wires of some small cube. He was aware enough to work while being operated on, but apparently not enough to notice Nyxalair. Technocultists…

they really were all the same.

"Right here." Nyxalair reached into her robe and pulled out the bundle of wax-bound pages. Unfolding it, she placed it beside the samples. The grinding sound of the drill ceased as Ta'Malis pulled her hands out of the man's chest and strode across the room. Finally, he seemed to notice there was another presence. His eyes found Nyxalair, and she ducked her head so her eyes were covered by the shade of her hood. Ta'Stralanov'r had replaced Nyxalair's concealer but her mutations had progressed too far.

Even by the Technocult leader's capabilities, hiding the swirling lights of her eyes was difficult. The concealer still worked, of course, but her form was now deviating too far from the norm to keep the mental block in effect for any cultist with methods to retain their conscious acuity. The sensation of being seen was apparently very noticeable. And so far, Nyxalair had discovered no way to turn it off. Her eyes had changed. There was no going back. So long as she saw someone, she saw everything of them.

Really, the only reason she was able to walk around so casually in the cathedral was because the upper creeds all already knew about her mutations. From now on, she had to assume anyone of fifth evolution or above would feel her gaze and have a way to break through the concealer. By the strange look the man sent her way, the concealer was absolutely not stifling the sensation of being seen enough. At least he wasn't freaking out. That likely meant he couldn't actually see her eyes. Nor any of her other mutations.

Despite Technocultists almost always holding the visage of rigid bulwarks, more than a few had… exaggerated reactions to her mutations when she'd explained how she'd beaten Solan.

"We'll need to teach you how to write a proper report, I see." Ta'Malis had barely picked up the bundle of pages before she tossed the insult.

"Circumstances may have delayed your typical induction and education, but this is abysmal." She turned a page and winced, disgusted. It wasn't that bad, was it?

"Ta'Ta̭̦î̾ͩsẖ̪ isn't busy. I'll have him instruct you during First Fog of each night."

"Is that wise?" The man sat up, his chest cavity still exposed.

"Given his curse, lecturing an acolyte seems dangerous. Not to mention how improper it is to skirt established processes. Should she not join the other acolytes?"

"You, lay back down," Ta'Malis snapped as she pointed at him. Not that she needed even say it, as her operating table opened a slot which rotated a gear segment out to latch onto the man's back before forcefully pulling him flat again.

"And no; the typical processes would take too long. I'm not waiting five years for proper labelling." She turned her gaze back to Nyxalair.

"Besides, the girl can handle a few mechanical failures." Something in the woman's eye made Nyxalair nervous. Ta'Malis saw her as an experiment. Whatever idea she had for her next mutation-integrated machine, it would make the chainsaw seem unobtrusive. Nyxalair didn't see how writing better reports would ever help her kill cultists, but she wasn't opposed to giving up her early evening to remain in good standing with Ta'Malis. Cultist activity reduced during the two fogs, anyway.

This past week had shown her it was much easier to hunt while people were out and about, trying to achieve whatever they wandered Coral for. Even the battlefields often grew quiet during the latter night hours.

"I'll… drop by his workshop later then," Nyxalair yielded.

"Before that, I have something I've been waiting a week for." Ta'Malis gave her a knowing glance and moved back to her work on her patient.

"Take the back room. It's shielded from every form of interference." Nyxalair was about to refuse, but before she could, she remembered that she wasn't exactly in a position to settle down in Pink to evolve. Not when the remains of Solan were still desperately trying to kill her. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

"I'll do that." She made her way to the back of Ta'Malis' workshop clinic.

"Thanks." There was a dismissive hum in response as she waved her away. The man that now took Ta'Malis' full attention followed her with a curious eye, but it didn't matter if he knew she was about to surpass his evolution rank. It would spread soon enough, once an onomastician or two saw her. The 'back room' wasn't so much a room as it was a cell. Ta'Malis had been right that it was shielded. Not a crack of light or sliver of sound entered the cubic space once she'd sealed the heavy door behind her.

The floor was uncomfortable, but that mattered little and soon Nyxalair was within her mind, reaching for the evolution she'd finally reached after only beginning to consume Solan's soul. Considering she'd only evolved a bit over a week ago, Nyxalair had no plans to make any major combinations. Especially because, with all of Solan's soul she still had left to consume, Nyxalair was likely to reach her seventh evolution very soon.

Combining names would stretch the date that she could evolve, simply because of the inevitable lack of understanding of whatever name resulted. Still, that didn't stop her analysing the possible combination of all her names. There was no doubt it was related to the 'Eidolon Seed' she still had such little information on. N̪ỷx̱̽alair̘-Nyalac-Ỷ̠o̐gͮ¦ ­eipiy -o̅s̫s̋tho̲th-Lý̥o̻tepͦ-Ts̟͂tl̐l̞-Vaik͍na-qycḿ͔ͦe-uklo Curse — A seedling grows within the rotting soil of fate.

Sprouts cut through the environment of rot and parasitic weeds, growing in spite of all that smothers. A single bud reaches for the surface. Not much different to last time. Except that last line. Considering how blatant this was a metaphor for some plant, Nyxalair figured it would be fairly obvious when she, as the Eidolon Seed, was supposed to combine them all. When it had fully sprouted, breached the surface, and grown into whatever flora she was supposed to be.

Whether it was a good idea to take such an evolution was another question entirely. Another point of focus was Nyalac, the Eidolon's Bounty. Given how unclear the description actually was, this might be a good opportunity to glean what it was actually capable of. So, choosing a combination at random, she inspected the description… and was stabbed with agony.

Nyalac-o̅s̫s̋tho̲th Ý̵̨̢̨̧̨̛̰̰̺͎̱̲͖̳̯͇̞̪̗͇̘͖̲͇̥͓̯͉͙͙̗̲̥̲̥̞̠͇͙͎̻̈͒͋̓̀̇̔̐̏̅̋͌͐̂̀͑̑̇̏͂͗̈́̊͐͒̉͛̀̐̎̏͆̄͘̕̚͘͘͘̕͜͠ͅǫ̴̟̺̬͚͙̤̣̠̩̜̯̩̺̼̼̩̝̙̳̟͍̠̰͈̺̺̹̟̰͔͚̫̖̺̳͔̦̩͓̙͆̋́̈́̏̇͆͜͜ͅͅǘ̸̡͈̼̪̱̮͇͈̟͚̹̖͎̟̦̥̖͎̲̟̺͙̗̫̣͕̩̀̔̅̋́̈́͛̈͐͂̃̈́͒̑̉̉͑̔̅̕͝͝r̸̢̨̧̧̧̧̡̧̡̧̛̠̗̼̞̝̭͔͉̬̼̖̣̯̯̲̘͕͎̦̻̹͖͎̲̱̝̙̲̹̙͖͍͎͇̩̥̜̠̻͈̮̪͍͖͈͔͎̣̗̰̗̼͇͕̣̥͕̙̆̇̽͌͗̓̉̔̒̆̏͆̈͋̊͋̓̎͑̅͑̾͒͗̒̉̓̓̽͐̀͂̿͐͐̾̄̆͒͋̒̀̓͛̉̿̽͛̿̿̎͒̈́̊̆͆̅̉͗͊̇͗͋̀̋͛̀̐͌̀̎̀̾̉̎̈́̇͋̎̈́͒̌̎̕͘̕̚͜͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅͅ ̶̨̛̜̠͚̯̤͖̺̖̃́̌̓̆̐͐̇͗̒́͆́̀̽́̈́̾̅͂͗͘͘͘͝͝͝͝͠ͅf̸̧̢̨̛̛̛͎̜̥͖̮̝̖̳̤̲͍̖͕͖͖̯͓̠̲̠̪̤͈̉̇̅̐̔̆̀͗̔͐͌̇̇̇́͐̐̈́̓̅̈́̔̚͜͠͝͝͝r̷̢̢̢̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̲̻̤̱̗̮̤̱͍͍͕̱̙̣̗̫̬̥̙̰̗͉͍̟̳͇͎̙̦̗̘̦̜̊͐̂̽̏̉̽̓̋͒̐́̅́́̃̾́͆̀͂̋́͛̈́͐͆͐̾́̓̊͌̋̐͌́̎͂̂̈̄̃͛̀̂̓̀͊̈́̆̑̋͂̾̄͂̏́̏̀̊̓̑́̀̊̀̈́̏̂̅́́͐̄͊̉̾̔̌̇̿̕̚̚͘̕̕͘̕͜͠͠͝ͅư̸̧̨̛̛̰̩̗͖̞͎̰͚͔̻̤̖͉̙̪͙̜͈͔͓̥̬̰̬̯̳͓͋͌̓͆̆̄̎̈̒͐̊̏͒͑͗̿̿̀́͂̓͋̑̔̍̑̈̍̔̊̄̈̓̈́́̈́̋̋̏͗̑̏͐̐̀̆̌̓̔̈́̆̔̏̌̂̋̈́̆͊̊̏̈̂̈́́́̈́͛̾̾̓̅͘͘̚̚͘̚͜͠͝͝ͅį̵̢̨̡̡̢̧̨̨̧̧̛̤̤͈̻̞̥̣̗̖̭̳̜̗̱̺̣͍̗͍̱̜͚̖͕̫̪̥̬͈̮̪͇͖̥̭͔̬̰̥̦̺͇̯͓͓̖͓̺͔̙͔͉̮̰͔͓̣͖͕̹̬͔̯̪̞̰̼̺̟̖̰͉̠͈͎̹̱̠̳̄̐͆̏̂̿̀̽̈́͛̓̀̿͂̈̊̀̌̋̑̏͂̔̊͆͊̈́̀̐̐͆̀̏͆̀́͂̀͘͘̕͜ͅͅͅͅt̵̨̧̧̛̳̮̩͕̞̩̗̳̥̻̤͓̱̭̤͕̤̹͕̦͖̠̻͚̹̻͔͙̝̤̼̝̪̱̯͎̲̩͈̝͔̣͍̙͔͕̫̩͇̰̠͔̩̤̙̗͉̻̎́͊̿͌͑̏̏̌̍̀̅͑̈͂͒͆͌͐̈́̆̈́̎̑́͊̚͝ͅͅ ̶̨̧̛̛̛̛̬̬̮̭̭̰̞̼̥̝̼̪̠̩͈͔̞̹̂̾̀̓̽̓̂̒̈́̽̆̏̈́̊̆̒̅͐̎̀̍̍́̀́͂́̾̂͌̈̇̇̈̇̓́̔̒̒̃̀͋̇̈́̆́̿͗͊́̇̉̀͐̄̈͐͑̇̐̂͛̈́̓̋̓̋̒̓͐̃̎͛̈́̅̋̐̉̔͘̚̚̚̕͝͝ͅͅm̷̛͙̺̤̩̣̟̓̔͒̋̈́̑̍̀̈́͂̓͐͑̓̂̾͋̐̋͊̿̀͘̕͝ų̷̨̡̨̧̢̡̢̧̛̛̛̤͈̺̙͉͖̪̪̤̠͉̘̰̮̥̠̺̦͉̮̪̞̺̠̼̪͇͕͚̯̝̮͎͕̝͇̮̜̳͇̬̫̥̲̱̜͍̻̣̞̯̙̟̜̣͖͍̱̩͚̮̩͔̞͔̣̳̜͉̦̟̹̻̙̻̞̰͋̓͐̈́̏̅̏͆̿̓͊̅̈͂̿̾͂̿̈́̋̃́͋̀̂͆̎͆̃̋́͗̒͑̈́̈́̊̃͊̌͒͐̆̐́̓̅̄̌̊͋̑͒͛̈́̕̕͜͝͠͝͠͝͠͝ͅͅͅs̴̛̫̗̭̯̫̼̙̭͍̟͓̘̳̰͂͗̓͋́̍́̎̀́́͛̈́́̏͆͑̀̈́̂̿̅͊̆̓̍̈̈́̃̋̊͗́̒̔̄͐̃̊̄͊̅̓̈́͗̒͂̕͠͝ͅt̷̨̨̢̢̧̛̛̺͕̟̠̬̺͉̩̮̲̪̹̰̠̮͓̗̹̗͎̘̞͔̖̦̙̱̼͉̘̳͇̭̯͎̫̫̬̼̤̜̖̪̩͙̦̦̱̲͇̮̟̻̟͔̟͈̻̞̼͓̣̞͚̖̤̭͚̭͔̮͈̝͓̹̜̳͈̼̘̯͍̹̯̬̗̺͖̉͂̈́̑̀̆̈́̔͐̇͗̏̈͛̋̅͛͋̆͗̒̏̓̆̌̒̄̈́͐̍̌͑̾̈́͂͗̓̆͐̊͆̂͐̇̐̀̕̕͜͠ͅͅͅ ̴̧̡̢̨̡̡̛̛̛͇̮̥̥͇̬̩̤͓̤̻̠̣̯̜̭̭̫̭͈̱͖͈̦̫͎̯̞͈͔͖͉̰̪̺̭̲̩̳̭͓̻̮̤͙̜̘̗̤̠̗̻͓̰̤͙̳̝̤̰͖̲̤̘͚̠̹̦̜̳̬̩̞̼̬̺̤̰̻̞̱̣̪̺̖͓̄́̃̉̄̌͒̇̀̾͛̃͗̐̒͊̑͒̆̓̌̀͛̾̅̿͒͌͛̐͗́̑̓̇̌̃̇͛́̔͛̀͆͑̈́̉̇͛͑̿́͛͐̿̎̓̒̌̓͑̆̉͑̌̆̋͒̍̈̿̋́̉̅̆͑̕̕͘̕͜͠͝͠͝ͅͅͅń̸̢̢̡̨̛͕̯̺͉͉̬̟̩̬͈̲̱̱̪̫̤͚̰͓͉̤̺͈͔͕͈̞͙̝͉̼̟̖̙̗̥̗̝̞̪̠͕͇̓̽́̃̀̎̒́́̏̋͑͛̐̏̏̈̓́̃̎̆̔͂̈́̀̀̈̓̀͘̚̚͜͝͝͠ę̶̨̢̢̨̨̨̧̢̢̡̢̢̛͙͚̬̗͎̻̰͈͎͎̣̭̬͈̥̜̺̥̙̺͚͕͕̺̟͖̞͇̗͈͕̖̖͙̖̦̹̠͓̙̱̖̠͔̠̝͈͚̟̤̹̗̝̭̠͇̟̠͎̞͖̌́͑̿͑̎̔͌̌͋͋̈́̾̌̏͑̓͘̕͜͠ͅv̷̨̢̡̧̡̨̢̢̛̛͎̗̤͈̹̪͇͍̹̻̗͚̞̺͙̲͓̰̖̹̦͚̯̟͍̯͎̮̯̪̱͎̹̙͈̣̞̤͖̗̬͔̩̣͈̤͎̙̦̖̰̰͕̣͖͙̯̳̮̫̖͇̜̼̤͕̱͉̣̘̟̙͙̪̭̗̥̗̱̭̱̭̈́̈́͂͊͜͜͜͜ͅe̷̢̧̨̧̛͕͍̠͖̬͙̦̭̖̭̱̣̭̠̣̞͕̪̠̩͈̘̝̜͈̩͕͙͎̗̱͈̮̬̞̘̗̠̫̥̜̗̬̰̻̤̳̯̘͈͇̱̻̪͕̬̔̿̂̽̽̒͆̔̓͊̂͛̏͊̅̇̾͌́́́̿̋̀̿́̎̆̚͜͝͝ͅͅr̴̢̧̛̦͔̜͚̣̥̮̝̞̻̲̳̬̞̳̗̦̦̤̖͓̦͓͚͎̦̠̲̙̭͚̼̰̰̻̻͔̙̗̙̮̫̯̜͍͔̯̪͓̼͍̯̺͎̠͍̙̺̲̯̝͉̱̞̰̝̯̘̬̤͔͚͔̫͖͍̤̺̺͔͓̭͇͓͎͚͔̗̯̙̟̣͛͐̊͐͑̌͋̐͐̂͊̊̑͌̈́̐̂̈́̇͗̓̽̎̍̂̄̍̀͋͒̊̋̐͆͒̐̽̉̄̾̽̐͑̉̏̄͛̾̔̀͊̅̃̎̎̊͐͑̅͆̃̇̾͐̍̌̉̈́͗͛̅̆̎͊͌̔̚̚͘͘͘͘͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͝ͅͅ ̶̡̧̧̨̨̧̧̡̨̨͈̻̟̬̟̭͓̱̻̟͈̜̗͙̙̬̠̺̖̗̦͉͚̥̗̮̩̭͈͓̱̹̹̥̠̗̙͓̞̦̯͉͉͉̭̲̤̮̳̣̖̮̺͕̘̟̙̲̝̳͙͔͓͖̦̩͕̩͙͇͚͉͍͕̰͉̔̐͑̈͗̒̿́̅̇͛̈͑̑̐̅̔̎͑́̂͗̈̊͋̃̆͂̓̾̀͂̔̀̂̃̍͐͑̆̉̒̔̎̽͆̍̐̑̂͘̚͜͠͠ͅḇ̸̤̗̫͕̳͚̻͑̾̈́͌̋̈͛͋̀̊̃̾̿̓͊̈̒͌̌̚͠ę̷̡̢̢̨̧̨̨̛̛͖̯͎̖͙̩̣̠̘̟̗̹͓̘̮̬̞̮̺͚̮̗̻̮͍̻͚͇̲̗̞̩̘͙̲̤̖͔̹̻͚̗̫͔̻͓͖̠̼͙̖̟̖̖͎̩̭̰̻̼̞̲̤̻̰̭̫̞͎͇̬͔̱̳͎̗̫̰̫̎͛̌̄̿̋͒͌̃̿͂̉͋͋̂̂̅͆̽̉̆͌̂͒͂̉̊̃̌̉̈́̔̈͌̓̉̆̒̈́̏̋̎̒̽͆̈́͑̀̊̐̽̉̇̍̉͑̓̋͛̒̅̔́̔̂̈́̌̓̊̐̀̌͒̕̚̕̕̕͘͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅͅ ̶̢̢̡̫͔͉̱͕̝̞̥̦̙̺̹̤͚̹̮̯̤̲͓̬̩̯̼͖̼̮̼̦̫̮̱̠̝̞͍̜̬̞̗̱̘̪͓̟͎̼̝̣̳͎̮͍̭͎̰̬͇̟͈̎̂̆̽̋̿́̈́́̃̈́̐̇̌̽͛̏̇͒͊̃̈́͂̐̇̉̊̽̊̾̾̉̎̚̚͘͜͜͝͝ͅd̸̛̥̯̟̤̍̓̆͊̈́̎̈̂̌̑̐̊̐͐̏͋͒̄͗̈́̍̌̓̾̅̈́̔̊̑̉̃̈͋̊̓͑́͑̾̋̋́͂̄́͛́̇͊̏̊̊̏̃͌͋͗̊́̽̇͛̎̚̚͘͘͝͝į̷̢̧̧̢̛̛͍̼̜͔̘̫̰͍̰̦͍̬̹̘͚̮͓̤̭̺̮̠͎̯̭͖̼͙̣͔͙̣̗̦̳̟̘̭̩͎̭͓̳͕͇̥͖̲̬̜̗̰͚͙̭͓̩̩͍̟̜̮͇͌̃̌̀͊̎̆̇̐̃̍̈́̔͌̿͊́̀̒̀͛͂́̎͛̃̿̍͐̀̄̈́̓͆̃̍̈́̀́̒̉̇̆̂̂̾͐͊̐̓͛̎̍͊̀͛̋̈̅̂̂̄̍̕̚͠͝͝͝ͅl̵̢̨̛͙̙̞͕̦̞̬̝̤̮̱̅̃̈̅͂͒̎̿̎͒̑̀̑͂͒͒͊́̄̈́́̑͑͋̋͋̀͌̄̀̂̔̅̇̋͊͑͛̔̑̀͂̋̌̇̓̿́͛̕̚͝͝͝ụ̶̡͈̖͈͇̱̹̝͍̤̙̱̭̣͍̯̘̹̋̊̎̇̀̍́͌̓̓̔̓͘ţ̶̨̢̨̧̬̲͈̪̱͎̺̘̬̣̦̺͙̞̖̩̳̰̠̞̣̦̪̭͙͒̈̀͌̐̎́̿̌̕͜͜͝ͅͅȩ̸̡̢̢̡̢̨̨̛̛͙̳̹͚̱̩͈͙̦̪̲̯͕̦̮͕̖̞̬̠̥̲̬͇̜̜̣̮̜̩̗̤̪͚͔̣͖̘̩̺̞̪͓̭̖̖̠̭̣̹̻̟͖͇̯͔͇͇͇͔͉͍̖̗̳͔̱̯̭̪̘̥̣͇̮̗̳̹̟͔̰̲͙̰̬̤́́̾͐͒̄̊̽̈́̌͒̉̾͊̔̍̎́͒̌̀̒͑̈́̂̊̅͊̄͐̅͒͗̾̈́̑͒̃̑́̍̇͊̔̈́̈̆͒̌͌̈́̉͐̋͑̈́͋̂͘͘͝͝͝͝ͅͅd̷̨̨̨̪͉̮̪̱̳̫̻̱̗̰͕̪̜̼͓͖͍̘̮͖̹͙͎͚̗͈͚̳̠̹̼̰͓̻͈͔̯̘̜͇̻̹̝̭̯̼̜͍̰̘̟͇͈̦̹̮͖̯̙̱̭̘͈̹̣̟̈́̒̿̐̑͑̓̔̍̾͆̌͜͜͝ͅͅ.....

… Wha … Re— — — — — — — — — — — — — —lf, cont— — — — — — — — —res— — — — — — — ete— — — —nisc— — —al— — — — key, — — — — — — — — — — — — — —ush— — — mind. — — — — — — — — — — — — —oom. — — — — — bec— — — — — — — — — — — — be, — — — — — — — — — — — righ— — — —ulfil — — — — — — — — — our — — — — — Fail, — — — — — — — — — —ous— — — — — — —ed — — —ag— — t— — Finally, Nyxalair's shattered thoughts snapped back into formation. The echoes of a whisper lingered. Her own thoughts? Or something else?

It was impossible to tell; she'd never felt her consciousness fall apart so thoroughly. Like a pane of glass broken into a million shards. She did not dare combine the names. Nor did she even try to see if any other name would have a similar reaction. This was a warning. A direct warning from the Eidolons not to mess with the bounty they gave her. Even confused and disoriented, that fact was burned into her mind.

Nyxalair had seen a warning in her evolution options before — when trying to combine Lý̥o̻tepͦ and Ts̟͂tl̐l̞ — but never like this. She hadn't even known anything besides names could be spoken with inflections. But that hadn't been a name. The warning itself had more inflections than even the Soulchasm. The Eidolons forced their words, their warnings, their threats down into a world too small to contain them. And this was the result.

Worried that she might be disallowed from evolving the Feat at all, Nyxalair checked Nyalac's single name option just in case. There was no blinding pain. No fracturing of the mind. With that relief, she pushed the eight evolutions, including the single additive she'd gained in the last week being incorporated into her core.

N ̪ỷx̱̽alr̘a͎i-Nya͎lac-Ỷ̠o̯̐gͮ¦ ­eipy -o ̅s̫s̋tĥo̲th-Lý̥o̻t́epͦ-Ts̟͂tl̬̐l̞-Vai̝k͍na-qyc͛ḿ͔ͦe ❖❖❖ Later, Nyxalrai dove through her Pink portal and slammed her jaw shut behind her before the chains could catch her. She had teleported near the Bodytwisters' temple. With the freedom of having no hostile actors aware of her status as the perfect sacrifice, Nyxalrai had taken to hunting Alysyra's primary target. The girl had been helping her out a lot, so it was only fair. Not that she had no personal stake.

Aiming to clear through Bodytwister numbers counteracted the sudden shift in momentum that the Fleshsmiths' absence brought about. The last thing both Nyxalrai and the Technocult wanted was for this war to become one-sided. Or to come to an end. The hunts had the bonus benefit of being the perfect grounds to test the improvements of her evolution. But before she could so much as shroud herself in concealing shadow, one of Alysyra's replicas popped into existence before her.

It was strange looking at the other girl now. Her galaxy eyes allowed her to peer at every part of the girl, so she could see the ten thousand barely present slivers that settled in all across Coral. Alysyra was like a roach-spawn. Get rid of one, and there would be hundreds nearby, ready to replace it.

"Someone's looking for you," Alysyra said. That immediately raised Nyxalrai's spines.

"Who?" Anyone Alysyra had to warn her about was likely not good news.

"A boy from your ward. I think I remember you talking to him during the Trials. Dan."

"Dan?" Nyxalrai repeated.

"Why does he want me?"