115. Anatomy of Discord
The Anatomy of Discord
Deep within a concealed research facility, a hum of contained power vibrated through the air, a stark contrast to the distant, muffled echoes of a world in turmoil. For Nephra, the recent upheavals were not just political chess; they were a macabre biological puzzle laid bare before him. Stretched across a reinforced dissection table, bathed in the cool glow of arcane instruments, lay the lifeless form of a Menis. It was the first intact specimen they had managed to retrieve, a grim trophy from the growing skirmishes. Beside it, meticulously cataloged, were several samples of the infamous Seed of Discord, each pulsating with a faint, unsettling energy.
With a new, intense focus, Nephra leaned in. The long, slender fingers that were usually poised for strategic command now moved with the delicate precision of a master surgeon. The very air around him crackled with suppressed anticipation, as if he were on the verge of finding answers.
He had known the Menis were everywhere, insidious agents, spreading their chaotic blight. The Abyssals knew them by another name, one whispered in ancient tongues: the "Seed of Discord." But the true mechanics, their very essence, had remained shrouded in mystery, until now.
His gaze swept over the dead Menis, a being that looked unsettlingly human, yet entirely alien. Initial scans had confirmed a human host, but one imbued with a strange, foreign divinity, unlike any of the traditional Elemental, Warrior, or Shadow divinities. Its power signature was unique, raw, and utterly unnatural.
Nephra's instruments hummed as he delved deeper, carefully peeling back layers of mutated flesh and arcane energy. What he found made his breath catch, a rare occurrence for an Abyssal of his experience. At the creature's core, where a heart or a traditional divine core should have been, pulsed something entirely alien: a parasite. This wasn't just a symbiotic organism; it was the divine core, a grotesque, living engine he immediately dubbed a "Paracore."
"A synthetic divine core," he murmured, the revelation both horrifying and exhilarating. This explained the unnatural power, the fragmented divinity. But its mechanics were even more chilling. The Paracore was not self-sustaining. It had to feed. It hungered, voraciously, for other divine cores.
The pieces began to click into place, forming a monstrous mosaic of intent. "This explains the Malus," Nephra breathed, his voice barely audible. The Malus, a particular strain of lesser Chaos Beings, had been relentlessly hunted by these Menis for months. It wasn't about extermination; it was about consumption. The Menis were predators, harvesting the divine essence from other chaos beings to sustain their own synthetic cores. This was not random aggression; this was a highly organized, directed vampirism.
He turned his attention to the origin of this Paracore. His abyssal senses, honed over millennia to discern the very fabric of existence, recoiled and then surged with a dizzying contradiction. The origin of this parasite was profoundly mysterious. It felt… ancient. Distantly, terrifyingly familiar. "It's like... God's Flesh," he whispered, a concept so audacious, so blasphemous, that it felt impossible. His very essence seemed to recoil from the notion. It resonated with a primordial power, something vast and cosmic, yet twisted, altered in ways that defied natural evolution. It had been tampered with, reshaped, forced to evolve into a unique divinity that mimicked the traditional ones, yet surpassed them in its artificiality. A deep, unsettling chill settled in his bones, colder than any abyssal void, at the sheer scale of the manipulation.
And then, the most unsettling realization of all: The Paracore seemed intrinsically related to the Abyssals themselves. It carried a familiar chaotic signature, a distorted echo of their own fundamental existence. "Is this why it requires to consume the cores of chaos beings?" he mused aloud, a new, chilling hypothesis forming. Was this synthetic divinity designed to specifically prey on them, to cannibalize their essence? The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine.
Next, the Seed of Discord. Nephra picked up one of the samples. It pulsed, sluggishly, unlike the vibrant, dangerous energy of the Menis's Paracore. He concluded it was merely a by-product, a failed product, a flawed derivative of the Paracore. "A discarded husk," he muttered, turning it over in his palm. Once planted, it spread a potent chaos corruption, rapidly affecting the surrounding environment. It aggressively targeted non-intelligent life forms, which explained why it so greatly affected animals, turning them into mindless, aggressive beasts, distorting their forms, driving them into frenzies of violence. For now, there were no verified reports of humans being corrupted by the Seed of Discord itself, a conclusion he noted down, but acknowledged needed further study. The distinction was critical.
The reason for the Menis's existence, for the widespread dissemination of the Seed of Discord, suddenly became chillingly, terrifyingly obvious. "It's all to spread fear," Nephra articulated, his voice flat with dawning comprehension. "To put the blame squarely on all chaos beings. To rally the world against us."
This was a meticulously crafted two-pronged assault. The Seeds of Discord sowed indiscriminate, tangible chaos, turning innocent creatures into monsters, solidifying humanity's worst fears about chaotic influence. The Menis, meanwhile, hunted down other chaos beings, not only weakening them but further cementing the narrative: look, these "evil" beings are even fighting amongst themselves, proving their inherent depravity.
"Who benefits the most out of this?" Nephra's question hung in the air, rhetorical and grim. The answer was already clear. This elaborate deception, this engineered terror, was a masterstroke designed by their unseen enemy. "This is like a Plan A," he concluded, his gaze sweeping over the dissected Menis and the pulsating seeds. "And Thyranthe killing the Sword King... that was their Plan B." Everything was working in their favor, a terrifyingly efficient grand design unfolding.
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Just then, the door to his lab hissed open, and Luci entered, her expression grave, her gaze already fixed on the gruesome tableau before him. The hum of the Luminary's broadcasts, even at this isolated location, seemed louder, more insistent.
"It's already out of hand, Nephra," Luci said, her voice laced with grim urgency. "There are more sightings of these Menis everywhere. Not just isolated incidents. The Luminary has already begun the purge. They're calling it the 'Great Cleansing' now, mobilizing entire divisions." She paced, her movements agitated. "Different territories have already declared continental emergency decrees, implementing martial law and rationing, ostensibly for protection. But it's a clampdown. The Shadowblades have already begun their hunt for Abyssals. It has begun."
Nephra looked up from his work, his face grim. The dissection, the intellectual triumph of discovery, now felt small against the crushing weight of the unfolding reality. The gears of war, fueled by engineered fear and calculated power grabs, were turning. It had begun.
A Shopping Spree Interrupted
As the grim realities settled in Nephra's hidden lab, elsewhere across the continent, other pieces of the grand, terrible design were already in motion, drawing the unwitting and the vigilant alike into the unfolding conflict.
Miles away, in the sprawling, vibrant trading town of Laros, the air vibrated with the usual cacophony of commerce. The sharp cries of street hawkers, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the murmur of a hundred conversations, all mingled with the scent of exotic spices, freshly baked bread, and the unique, earthy smell of the bustling livestock market. Laros was a nexus of trade, a bustling hub where goods from across the continent exchanged hands, and the one dominating its intricate business networks was the merchant known as Seron.
"It's here," a voice rasping from a small, dark device held by Arkan, who stood grim-faced beside Phantomblade in a shadowed alleyway overlooking the main square of Laros. "The Abyssal Seron. He's easier to track now that we've compiled more details about his business network. This entire town is practically his domain."
Seron, an Abyssal of cunning pragmatism and boundless resourcefulness, had spent centuries building this empire. His ventures were meticulously designed not for personal gain, but to discreetly support the Abyssals, collecting rare artifacts and invaluable treasures for their hidden purposes. To the casual eye, he looked like any successful man in his forties, impeccably dressed in a tailored, modern salaryman's suit, his sharp eyes often peering through a pair of wire-rimmed lenses.
He strolled casually through a busy market street, a faint, almost imperceptible aura of serene contentment about him. At his side floated Lyra, a newborn Abyssal, utterly obsessed with beauty. She radiated an ethereal grace, a stunning woman in her early thirties whose every gesture captivated those around her, effortlessly charming and manipulating humans into adoring and protecting what she deemed beautiful. She pointed, her delicate finger adorned with shimmering rings, at a display of exquisite silks.
"Ah, dear sister," Seron said, his voice smooth and indulgent, "just tell me whatever you need, and I shall provide."
Lyra giggled, a sound like wind chimes. "Oh, Seron, you are too kind!" Her eyes sparkling as she admired a particularly vibrant tapestry.
"You are spoiling her too much, Seron," a deeper, slightly gravelly voice cut in. Malgrin joined them, his sinister-looking face, that of a perpetual nineteen-year-old, twisting into a perverse smile that rarely reached his cold eyes. He strode with a predatory grace, dressed in an unnecessarily elaborate, dark leather ensemble that was clearly custom-made.
"Ah, brother, you know I was so excited having a new sister," Seron chuckled, unfazed by Malgrin's usual intensity. "Spoiling her a little won't do any harm. Please, don't hesitate to shop for anything that catches your eye, Malgrin. Something that makes you look even cooler, perhaps?"
Malgrin's perverse smile widened at the mention of fashion, a peculiar passion for the Abyssal considered the strongest among them. He possessed a soft spot for his siblings and genuinely enjoyed different clothing styles, which was a primary reason he stuck around Seron. "Hmm, don't mind if I do," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over a nearby boutique with genuine interest. His mind, usually contemplating things he could crush, now briefly entertained the idea of a new jacket.
Then, the smile vanished. Malgrin's eyes snapped wide, his features hardening instantly, the sinister youth replaced by ancient, cold resolve. He felt it—a familiar, oppressive coldness, a distortion in the very fabric of the world around them. Eclipseborne.
"Hmm, they're here again," he muttered, a low growl escaping his throat.
From the shadowed mouth of an alley directly ahead, Phantomblade stepped out, his form appearing less like a man and more like a tear in reality itself. His aura was dead serious, a suffocating weight of unyielding purpose. Ripclaw and Darktide emerged behind him, their newly awakened Eclipseborne power thrumming palpably, causing the air to grow heavy and still. The familiar hum of their Eclipseborne power was now overlaid with a discordant, alien resonance, not merely stronger, but honed, sharper, as if their very essence had been rewritten by something unholy.
"We come to purge," Phantomblade declared, his voice a dry, rasping whisper that seemed to echo from beyond the grave.
Malgrin's lips peeled back into a creepy grin, a flash of savage amusement in his eyes. "You haven't learned your lesson yet, Phantomblade," he sneered, a chilling confidence in his tone. "You should have savored your life when I allowed you to live."
But then, the grin faltered. Malgrin's brows furrowed, his head tilting slightly. A ripple of confusion crossed his face, quickly replaced by a profound unease. "What's this?" he whispered, not to Phantomblade, but to himself. He felt a different quality to their auras now, a new, unsettling depth to their familiar power. They've... changed.
His eyes snapped to Seron, his voice suddenly sharp, devoid of all humor. "Seron, take Lyra and leave. Now!"
"No, brother, if it's too dangerous, let me fight!" Seron protested, already stepping forward, a flicker of his own formidable power rising.
"No," Malgrin's voice thundered, a raw, protective force that brooked no argument. He instinctively moved, placing himself squarely between Seron and the approaching Shadowblades. They will not touch my family. His pride wasn't just about his own strength; it was about ensuring his loved ones never had to face a threat he could neutralize himself. "Brother, leave this place. It seems it is dangerous this time."
Seron knew the temperament of his brother. He understood the unspoken intensity behind Malgrin's command. He dared not object anymore. "Very well, brother. Please, take care."
Malgrin nodded, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips as he met his dear brother's eyes. It was a fleeting moment of warmth amidst the brewing storm, a moment Seron would carry with him. Little did either of them know, it might truly be their last farewell.