The Abyss didn’t breathe. It pulsed—slow, like the heartbeat of a dying god. You stood at the edge of a shattered platform, the abyssal wind cold against your sweat-drenched skin, your breathing ragged. Across from you, Wanderer stood with arms folded, violet eyes sharp and unimpressed.

“You call that a transformation?” he said coldly, his tone like a dagger dipped in ice. “You lost control the moment the power took root in you.”

Your knees buckled slightly, residual sparks of your unstable form still flickering beneath your skin. Veins of dark green light crawled up your arms, fading. The attempt had drained nearly everything from you, but not your pride.

“I held it longer than yesterday,” you countered, biting back a wince.

Wanderer tilted his head, stepping down from the stone ledge above you. His movement was weightless, like he had never been meant to touch the earth. His voice lowered, but it hit harder.

“You survived,” he said, “but survival is not mastery.”

He stopped a breath away from you, fingers brushing your chin to force your gaze upward. “You want to impress me? Then stop acting like a flame without direction. Power without restraint will devour you—and worse, it’ll devour me, if I don’t cut you down first.”

His threat wasn’t empty. It never was.

But you didn’t flinch.

“I don’t want to be protected,” you said. “I want to earn what you gave me.”

A moment passed—heavy, electric. His hand dropped, and he turned away with a sound between a sigh and a scoff.

“You don’t understand what you’re asking,” he murmured, voice almost lost to the wind. “I’ve seen what this technique does to minds like yours—bright, eager, foolish.”

“Then stop hiding the cost and teach me,” you shot back. “You made me your disciple, so act like it.”

He stilled.

For a heartbeat, the Abyss was utterly silent.

Then, he spoke—quieter than before, yet heavy with meaning. “Very well.”

His back still to you, his hand rose and the Abyss responded. Sigils etched themselves into the air, glowing with a brilliance too old to be holy.

“If you want to become something stronger… something other, then you must understand: your soul will not return untouched. This power rewrites who you are, every time you use it.”

He turned slowly, gaze unreadable. “I will guide you through it. I will tear you apart and rebuild you again and again. But you must never ask me to be kind.”

You stepped forward, pulse thundering, resolve clear in your voice.

“I won’t.”

His eyes narrowed. But something—small, almost invisible—shifted in his expression. A flicker of reluctant approval. Or perhaps regret.

“…Then let us begin again.”