My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind

Before Noirette decided to fight this troll, there were many factors that she had taken into account.

First, there was its uncanny perception.

The Fallacy Cover around Noirette's neck should have rendered her a ghost—existence reduced to a whisper, senses sliding off her like water on oil.

Yet the troll had locked onto her the instant they passed the checkpoint.

That implied high detection capabilities, perhaps honed attributes in perception or intuition far beyond the average brute.

In Fathomi's terms, if it had a Well of the Soul—and it likely did, given its sapient menace—those stats must skew toward on the higher end, maybe even a skill amplifying awareness against stealth.

Second, the lack of visible gear spoke volumes.

Despite demanding Curio Items as toll, the troll itself wore nothing of note—no gleaming artifacts, no rune-etched armor, not even a trinket dangling from its bark-like skin.

Its weapons were crude, with the possibility of a high tier Curio Item being extremely low.

This could mean the toll business was recent, an opportunistic scheme born of boredom or necessity, with collected items stashed elsewhere.

Or, more intriguingly, it had other uses for them—perhaps consuming them for raw power, trading in some shadowy network, or even destroying them to deny others.

Either way, it suggested confidence in innate strength, enough for Noirette to deem this troll a higher threat than the snake Voidling she had defeated back then.

All variables considered, they fell within her domain of adaptation. The troll was strong—undeniably—but not insurmountable.

Its movement was heavy when it appeared, so did its currently revealed size telegraphed swings.

And this was prime ground to test Noirette theories regarding Blanchette's yapping back then,

Of the existence that had internally dubbed the 'Phantasmal Absence.'

In the empty spiritual spot where her Well of the Soul once resided relative to the vessel, something had stirred—a non-geometrical organ, manifesting from that very absence, striving to fulfill the role of progress and power.

It wasn't a physical thing, but a conceptual void-filler, responsive to her will.

If Blanchette was right, this was the Shallow One's edge: an adaptable essence, molded by belief, desire, and emotion.

"Got you~!"

Noirette's vertical slash connected—not a glancing blow, but a deep gash across the troll's face, carving from brow to jaw in a spray of thick, sap-like blood.

The beast roared, staggering back, but Noirette didn't press.

Instead, she willed it—tapped into that Phantasmal Absence—and vanished.

Not invisibility in the literal sense, but a total erasure of presence, amplifying the Fallacy Cover that matched with the mean of her intent until she slipped from perception entirely.

Aside from the finding of the organ, Noirette also considered that the Phantasmal Absence existed because she'd willed it into comprehension—simply by pondering its possibility, by desiring a replacement for her lost Well.

That act alone validated Blanchette's core idea: will and desire as the foundation of power for Shallow Ones.

Without the Well's potential stats, the void invited invention; belief bridged the impossible.

"Show yourself!" The troll roared as it thrashed the surrounding area.

Invisible slashes erupted across the troll's form—gouges appearing on its arms, chest, thighs—as Noirette darted in phantom strikes.

The crimson sword bit deep each time, her movements blurring with the wind.

"Looks like small slashes are not enough for the sword to take effect, huh," Noirette pondered.

The troll swung wildly, its massive sword cratering the earth, the knife thrusting at empty air.

It countered futilely, roars echoing with frustration, but Noirette was a specter, untouchable.

Noirette had considered further that the Phantasmal Absence might not even be innate, but something she'd willed into being through imaginary logic—a personal construct, inclusive to her alone.

Not only that, its nature was rather similar to that of divine miracles, acts of creation from nothing, bending reality via faith in one's intent.

Like her old miracles sealing leaks or reshaping realms, this was power born of absence, limitless in theory, bound only by conviction.

"Enough of this!!"

The troll's confusion boiled into fury.

It unleashed a booming rage, body shuddering as unknown skills activated—veins glowing with primal energy, muscles swelling, the air around it thickening with a palpable aura of menace.

It went berserk, weapons smashing the ground in seismic waves, arc slashing in frenzied arcs that uprooted trees and scarred the earth. Shockwaves rippled outward, the very soil trembling under its onslaught, as if drawing from some deep, feral reservoir.

But instead of escalating, the troll's frenzy ebbed.

Its swings slowed, the glow dimming, energy draining like sand from a sieve.

It staggered, roars weakening to guttural wheezes, before collapsing unconscious to the ground with a thunderous thud, dust billowing in a cloud.

Like a star piercing the curtain of clouds, Noirette uncloaked, materializing atop the troll's head.

She stood poised, the crimson sword embedded deep in its skull, hilt quivering slightly.

Blood thne trickled from the wound, but the troll breathed—shallow, defeated.

Blanchette approached, her grin widening as she eyed the scene. "Looks like you've tapped into the Malleable Essence already. Impressive for someone who had only been a Shallow One for a day."

Noirette yanked the sword free with a wet schlick, the blade dissolving into wisps as she leaped down lightly. "Malleable Essence? What's that mean?"

Blanchette tilted her head, her voice casual but informative. "Simply put, it's things that can be molded through the pure absence of one's designation of progress, one where those without Well of the Soul can attempt in altering—"

Before she could elaborate further, Noirette tossed the crimson blade aside—it vanished mid-air—and clutched her side.

"Prepare yourself," Noirette muttered, voice strained.

Then, without warning, she slumped forward, body giving way as exhaustion crashed over her like a wave.

Blanchette blinked, not quite connecting the warning, and stood motionless.

Thus, Noirette collided into her, the taller woman's weight sending them both tumbling to the ground in a heap of limbs and fabric.

Dust settled around them, the troll's massive form looming nearby like a fallen colossus.

Noirette lay atop her sister, catching her breath with a wry smile despite the ache. "How can you barely catch your feeble, exhausted sister?"

Blanchette huffed from beneath, shoving lightly but not enough to dislodge her. "You should've been clearer next time. 'Prepare yourself' could mean anything—attack incoming, joke incoming, or apparently, 'catch my dramatic faint.'"

Noirette chuckled weakly, rolling off to the side as the troll's body began to dissipate.

The crimson sword's injection worked its corruption, essence bubbling and evaporating like mist under the rippling sun, leaving only faint scorch marks on the earth.

The air cleared, the metallic tang fading.

With the threat gone, they set up camp nearby—a simple affair in a sheltered clearing.

Blanchette gathered dry branches for a fire, while Noirette slumped onto a makeshift bed of piled cloaks and leaves, her body wracked by an intense fever.

Sweat beaded on her brow, skin flushed and clammy, the aftermath of overtaxing her vessel without the Well's buffer.

"Urgh…"

Every muscle screamed, veins still faintly visible like angry rivers under her skin. And it was to the point that it was hard to ignore them.

Blanchette soon returned from a quick hunt, arms laden with vibrant fruits—plump, glowing edibles that hummed faintly with latent energy—and strips of edible Voidling meat, tough but nutritious, harvested from a lesser beast she'd dispatched en route.

She knelt by the fire, fashioning a crude pot from woven leaves and a scavenged shell, tossing in the ingredients with water conjured from a snapped-finger rune.

The soup bubbled soon after, a savory aroma cutting through the feverish haze.

Waiting for it to cook, Blanchette looked over to the defenseless Noirette and teased, "Such a baby, needing babysitting after one little fight. Who knew the great Noirette would turn into a damsel over a troll tussle?"

Noirette gasped as another wave of heat surged through her, sweat trickling down her temples, but she managed a smile. "I'll repay you for this, you know. Somewhere in the future. Can't let a good deed go unanswered."

Blanchette's eyes sparkled mischievously as she stirred the soup. "Oh? Paying with your body, perhaps? I hear that's your go-to currency these days~"

Noirette's response was immediate—she fumbled at her dress's ties, attempting to strip despite the fever's delirium.

Fabric slipped, revealing a shoulder before Blanchette shouted, "Whoa, not now! I didn't ask for it right away!" She lunged, yanking the cloth back into place, cheeks tinged with rare embarrassment. "And you're way too excited about that repayment method!"

Noirette ignored the remark and kept smiling, before sinking back onto the bed with a sigh. "I don't like letting good deeds done to me go unrepaid. It's a principle~"

Blanchette settled beside her, bowl in hand. "Is that why, as Kivas back in Vaingall, you always tried to personally reward each contributor to your projects according to their efforts? Made sure no one felt overlooked?"

Noirette chuckled, the sound raspy from her parched throat. "Something like that. And you know, this reminded me that my Soulmates most often asked for spicy private time in bed as their rewards. Easy to fulfill, honestly." She paused, a sly glint in her eyes despite the fever. "Surprised you're into that now, though."

Blanchette stirred the soup nonchalantly. "I'm surprised Fymnhendyr got into it too back then."

Noirette sighed, shifting under the makeshift blanket. "Oizys became quite the bad influence on her. But Fymnhendyr's surprisingly really good in bed…"

Blanchette leaned in, her grin turning wicked. "And yet, as Kivas, you always ended up being the receiving one instead of the giving one in those activities."

Noirette pouted, cheeks flushing deeper—not just from fever. "Can't be helped. All my Soulmates lean on the sadistic spectrum."

Blanchette arched a brow, still maintaining her wide and annoying smile. "So, does that make you the masochistic one?"

Noirette considered, her voice thoughtful amid the haze. "Lately, I barely feel mental hesitation to harm myself. Like now, or back with the five-headed snake—pushing through the pain without a second thought. Maybe I have become masochistic in a way."

Blanchette's smile faltered, concern etching her features. "Being masochistic isn't something to be proud of. It's dangerous—could lead to recklessness." She scooped up a spoonful of soup, blowing on it gently. "Here, sit up and open your mouth."

Noirette propped herself on an elbow, protesting weakly. "I'm not a kid. I can eat by myself."

Blanchette's grin returned, insistent. "Be grateful I'm in the mood for this. Just enjoy it."

She hushed closer, spoon hovering. Noirette relented, parting her lips, and the warm broth soothed her throat, easing the fever's grip slightly.

"Mmm, surprisingly have a nice taste."

"Are you expecting garbage taste out of it?"

"I'm expecting garbage taste out of it."

"I'm not even surprise in the slightest."

"I should be the one who's surprised, after all."

The night passed safely under the rippling stars, Blanchette tending the fire and Noirette's needs with a surprisingly caring efficiency.

The fever ebbed in waves, conversation drifting to lighter murmurs until dream claimed them both.