Chapter 30 – Fragments of Chaos
The void was white.
There was no ground. No sky. Just an infinite expanse of whiteness that seemed to pulse like a living thing.
Steve was standing — or thought he was. It was hard to tell when there were no references, when his own body felt more like a concept than reality.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Many of them.
He turned slowly.
And saw.
**Seven versions of himself.**
All standing in a semicircle, watching him with completely different expressions.
---
The first one was curled up, arms wrapped around her knees. Eyes wide, wet, visibly trembling.
“I just wanted to go home,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Why did I come? Why did I accept? I could have stayed… I could have…”
**FEAR.**
---
The second one was smiling. Too wide. Wrong.
“This is incredible!” she said, almost laughing. “Real power! Finally I can do something! Finally I matter!”
She took a step forward, eyes shining.
“Imagine what we can do! Imagine!”
**EXCITEMENT.**
---
The third one stared at the ground, shoulders slumped.
“It doesn’t matter,” she murmured. “It never mattered. I was always useless. Always will be.”
Her voice came out dead, empty.
“Dagon saves me. Keara heals me. Jelím protects me. I just… exist. Without purpose.”
**DESPAIR.**
---
The fourth had her eyes closed, hands clasped as if in prayer.
“Mother, forgive me,” she whispered. “I tried. I swear I tried. But I’m not strong enough…”
Silent tears streamed down.
“I never was.”
**GUILT.**
---
The fifth looked straight at Steve, confusion written across her face.
“What’s happening to me?” she asked, voice shaking. “Why do I have this power? Why did Nessira choose me?”
She touched her own chest.
“Who am I really?”
**CONFUSION.**
---
The sixth smiled softly, eyes distant.
“Maybe…” she said, voice dreamy “…maybe this is what I always wanted. Adventure. Purpose. Something beyond that miserable life.”
Pause.
“Maybe I should be grateful.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
**ACCEPTANCE.**
---
And the seventh…
The seventh stood completely still.
Her eyes were different. Not ordinary brown. But **dark** — not just the iris, but something deeper. As if there was a void behind them, devouring light.
Her face showed no expression. No visible anger. No hatred.
Just the **absence** of everything that makes someone human.
When she spoke, her voice came out low. Controlled. Dangerous.
“You are all **weak**.”
The other versions turned, looking at her.
The seventh took a step forward.
“Fear?” She glanced at the first. “Fear of what? Of dying? We were already dead in that house. Drunk father. Director stepping on our face. Mother in a coma.”
Another step.
“Excitement?” She turned to the second. “For power that isn’t even ours? Power that’s **consuming** us?”
Closer.
“Despair? Guilt? Confusion?” Her voice hardened. “All of that is **weakness**. All of it keeps us trapped.”
She stopped right in front of Steve.
The empty eyes locked onto his.
“And acceptance?” She almost spat the word. “Accepting that we’ve been fucked our whole life? Accepting that we’re still being fucked here?”
Absolute silence.
“No.”
The word fell like a verdict.
“I choose **rage**.”
She slowly raised her hand.
“Rage against the father. Against the director. Against Nesin who brought us here. Against Zeylor who trapped us. Against Nessira who is **stealing** us.”
Her fingers curled.
“Rage against **everything** that hurt us. Against **everyone** who used us.”
The other six versions began to tremble. Not from fear. But as if they were losing solidity, dissolving.
The seventh looked at them.
“You are just **noise**. Distractions. Weaknesses that stop me from doing what needs to be done.”
She snapped her fingers.
The sound echoed like thunder.
The six versions **exploded** into white particles, dissolving instantly, scattering through the void until they vanished completely.
Only two remained.
Steve. And **Rage**.
The seventh version approached until she was mere centimeters away.
“You approved the chaos,” she whispered, voice vibrating with something ancient and terrible. “When you used the Percentage System. When you let Nessira in. When you killed those cultists.”
The empty eyes glowed faintly.
**Now become the chaos.**
Her hand touched Steve’s chest.
And the world **broke**.
---
**[REAL WORLD — THORNVALE]**
Steve opened his eyes.
But they were no longer brown.
They were **absolute purplish-black**. No pupils. No irises. Just a pulsing void that seemed to suck in the light around it.
Any stepped back, hand covering her mouth.
“Steve…?”
He didn’t answer.
Because he was no longer Steve.
The scythe materialized in his right hand. Not gradually. Instantly. As if it had always been there, just waiting.
Black handle. Curved blade that distorted perception. Pulsing purple runes.
The guards charged, spears raised.
Steve — **the thing wearing Steve’s body** — moved.
---
There was no technique.
No elegance.
Just **pure destruction**.
The scythe spun in an impossible arc. It passed through three spears as if they were mist. Continued through armor. Through bodies.
Six guards fell simultaneously, split at grotesque angles.
Dagon reacted instantly.
“Jelím! Containment!”
The masked woman raised her hands, fingers curling, trying to enter his mind—
And was **violently rejected**. As if she had touched living fire.
She staggered back, her mask cracking further.
“I can’t! There’s **nothing** there! Just… just…”
She didn’t finish.
Steve advanced.
He didn’t walk. He **crossed** space. As if distance were a suggestion.
He appeared in front of a group of five guards. The scythe came down.
The impact didn’t produce ordinary sound.
It produced **silence**. A pocket of absolute void where sound should have been.
Then the shockwave exploded outward. It hurled the five guards backward with brutal force. They slammed into walls. Bones snapped. Two didn’t get up.
“STEVE!” Keara shouted, running forward. “Stop! Please!”
He turned his head.
The empty eyes found her.
For a second, she saw something there. Deep. Ancient. **Hungry**.
She froze.
Steve raised his free hand. Fingers pointing at her.
Purplish-black energy began to gather.
**NO!** — Dagon exploded into motion.
He crossed the distance in less than a second. His sword intercepted the scythe at the very last possible moment.
The clash produced a wave that cracked the ground beneath them. Windows of nearby houses shattered simultaneously. The air **screamed**.
Dagon held on. But he felt it.
The force was absurd. Not human. Not even high-level player.
It was something **beyond**.
“Steve, listen to my voice!” he shouted, pushing back. “I know you’re in there! **Fight**!”
The empty eyes blinked.
For a fraction of a second, they turned brown.
“D-Dagon…” the voice came out strangled. “I can’t… she’s…”
Then purplish-black again.
The scythe pushed with renewed force.
Dagon was thrown backward, crashing through a cart, splintering wood.
Steve turned to the remaining guards.
Perhaps fifteen still stood. All retreating, fear visible even through their helmets.
He advanced.
The scythe cut. Cut. **Cut**.
It didn’t need to aim. Every swing hit. Every movement was perfect, executed by something that had practiced for **millennia**.
Bodies fell. Blood painted the streets. Screams echoed.
Any watched in horror.
*This isn’t him. This isn’t the shy boy who averted his eyes. Who smiled nervously. Who held my hand like it was the most precious thing in the world.*
*This is… a nightmare wearing his skin.*
That was when she saw it.
Steve hesitated.
Just a second. The scythe froze mid-swing. His body trembled.
The eyes flickered. Purple. Brown. Purple. Brown.
**Internal struggle.**
Keara saw it too.
She didn’t think. She just reacted.
She ran straight to him. No weapon. No defense.
“KEARA, NO!” Dagon shouted.
Too late.
She reached him. Hugged him.
Hard. Tight. Like a mother hugging a son she almost lost.
“Steve,” she whispered against his shoulder. “I know you’re in there. I know you’re fighting.”
The scythe trembled.
“I won’t let you go,” she continued, voice breaking. “I won’t lose you. **Come back**.”
The eyes flickered faster. Purple. Brown. Purple—
Brown.
And stayed.
The scythe fell from his hands. It dissolved before it touched the ground.
Steve collapsed.
Keara caught him, gently lowering him.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “It’s over. You came back.”
He shook violently. Tears streaming.
“I… I killed… how many did I…”
He looked around.
Bodies. So much blood. Destruction.
All caused by him.
“No,” his voice broke. “No, no, **no**…”
Keara held him tighter.
“Shh. It wasn’t you. It wasn’t—”
**IT WAS!** he screamed, pushing away. “I felt it! Every death! Every cut! I was there! I…”
He vomited violently.
Dagon approached slowly. Kneeled.
“Kid.”
Steve didn’t look.
“Look at me.”
He forced himself. His eyes met Dagon’s.
“I’m not gonna lie. It was bad. Really bad.”
Pause.
“But you **fought**. And you came back. That matters.”
“They’re dead!”
“Yes. They are. And you’ll carry that.”
His voice was hard but honest.
“But if you hadn’t come back? It would’ve been so much worse. So accept that you fought. And that you won. Today.”
Steve just shook his head, tears still falling.
Dagon stood up. Looked around.
Dead guards. Others wounded and fleeing. The street destroyed. Broken windows. Thornvale in chaos.
He turned to Any.
“Your uncle won’t stop. You know that, right?”
She nodded, removing her veil. Revealing determination.
“I know.”
“Then let’s finish what we started.”
Dagon looked at each of them.
“Let’s complete this mission first. Resolve Any’s situation and her parents. Make sure Matthias can’t threaten anyone anymore.”
Then he turned to Steve.
**After that** we go after answers about Nessira. Before it’s too late.”
Steve lifted his face.
“Do you think… that I can control her?”
Dagon didn’t answer immediately.
Then:
“I don’t know. But we’ll find out. Together.”
He extended his hand.
Steve looked at it. Hesitated.
Then took it.
Dagon pulled him up.
“Now let’s go. Before reinforcements arrive.”
The group moved quickly. Any leading through side streets. Jelím covering the rear. Keara healing minor wounds.
Steve walked in silence.
He stared at his own hands. Still trembling.
*I can still feel her. Inside. Waiting.*
*And next time… will I be able to come back?*
He had no answer.
Only fear.
And the terrible certainty that the chaos inside him was only **beginning**.
