You Already Won

The names spiraled around him like painted stars.

Myrkhaon, The Blind King

A giant of rusted iron and broken time. Slain in the Sunken Cathedral by bleeding out his memory. Jafar whispered his name backward until his soul unraveled.

Tescaria the Howler

A storm-wolf fused with lightning and ice. Killed mid-hunt atop the Kinaran Peaks by setting a false moon trap. Solo kill. Took three days.

Te'Xuomira, Queen of Chains

A sentient prison with a thousand linked arms. Defeated alongside Rhan and Vari in a coordinated raid. Jafar turned her own pain against her using a reality mirror technique.

Hollow Synapse Overlord

An algorithmic construct made of failed prophecies. Battled in a digital ruin. Jafar hacked the metaphysical core with Yamdamorti running counter-rhythms to overload its belief system.

Vraxus of the Verdant Maw of Sorrow

A forest guardian made of roots and wrath. Burned from within by swallowing a cursed gem Jafar let him steal. The team was unconscious for this one. Jafar watched it die alone.

Glaynothene the Timeless Nest

A celestial serpent that hatched across four moments at once. Killed only by trapping all timelines in a death loop and baiting it with his own heartbeat.

Vyr'khella, The Bride of Echoes

A ghostly warrior who copied every move her opponent made. Jafar beat her by splitting himself into five imperfect clones—each deliberately flawed, so she couldn't mirror him completely.

The list went on.

Dozens of names carved into his soul like scars.

Jonathan felt them all.

And he understood something horrible:

He hadn't just seen Jafar's memories.

He was becoming them.

"I'm not Jafar—I'm not Jafar—I'm not Jafar—I'm not Jafar—I'm not Jafar!"

Jonathan clutched his chest as the memories pressed tighter, twisting around his ribs like ancient hands.

The names. The gods. The blood.

They weren't his. They couldn't be.

His voice cracked. His knees buckled.

He remembered his mother's words:

"I've always been proud of you. No matter what path you take. But I do think the best paths are the ones where you're honest with yourself."

But that self was splintering.

Voices swirled around him—some familiar, like Caroline's distant laugh, or Tinsurnae's calm muttering—others alien and terrifying, rasping tongues that whispered secrets he wasn't meant to understand.

The pressure behind his eyes turned wet. He tasted iron.

His head snapped upward and he screamed.

"I'M JONATHAN NORTH—JONATHAN NORTH—JONATHAN NORTH—JONATHAN NORTH—JONATHAN NORTH—JONATHAN NORTH—JONATHAN NORTH!"

"I'M NOT JAFAR!"

His final scream echoed—cracked—shattered—

—and the world listened.

The ground beneath him warped.

The air stilled.

And then—ripped open.

A circle formed beneath his feet, jagged and trembling. Not a perfect ring—no, this was something alive, something sick.

A rotting spiral of black sludge and twitching veins pulsed in the void, flexing like a heartbeat that didn't belong to him.

Then

The black hole opened.

It didn't roar. It groaned.

Like the throat of a buried god clearing itself.

Its edges bled shadow, thick as tar, and from its center came a pull.

Not like gravity.

Worse.

More personal.

It wanted him.

It knew his name.

And it didn't want Jonathan North.

It wanted the void in him.

The hunger.

It dragged him inch by inch, fingernails scratching the broken stone, breath catching as his vision dimmed and the stars began to flicker out.

He screamed

But the scream was pulled from his lungs and devoured.

The spiral swallowed him.

And the hole closed

Smiling.

He tumbled…

Not down, not forward….

Inward.

And then he ruptured.

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Not like flesh.

Like a story being rewritten in reverse.

Like someone reached inside his existence with stained hands and began unscripting him.

First, his skin peeled away—not from the outside in, but from the timeline outward. Moments of laughter, pain, embarrassment, joy—each flayed like pages from a burning diary.

Endure.

Then, his mind was spooled out like thread.

Thoughts tangled, snagged, and yanked—memories reduced to gibbering static. The sound of his mother's voice now gnashed like broken glass in a blender. The scent of warm food curdled into the reek of rot. His sister's name twisted in his throat until it gagged him.

Endure.

His soul fractured into shards of emotion, each locked in a different sensation of pain. One version of him screamed forever in fire. Another drowned in silence. Another wept without eyes. Another curled into a ball, trying to count to ten—but kept forgetting how to count.

And somewhere deep inside, something else watched.

Something hungry.

It didn't scream. It didn't cry.

It waited.

Endure.

And then the worst part came—being put back together.

But wrong.

They didn't stitch him—they stapled.

Old feelings jammed into new places. Love next to rage. Fear stuffed inside laughter. Guilt polished into pride. His name carved into a box he couldn't open.

A thousand different selves reached out from inside the frame of one broken man.

And none of them were him.

Jonathan choked on the silence.

His heart beat out of order.

His bones pulsed with borrowed memories.

And still

Endure.

He opened his eyes.

Silence greeted him

No breath, no heartbeat, just the soft thrum of thick fluid.

Not water.

Blood.

He floated in a vast pool of it, suspended like a corpse. The warmth clung to him, viscous and sluggish, soaking into his skin like guilt.

Then he saw it

Above him.

It wasn't a dream.

It wasn't a hallucination.

His aura was watching him.

It had taken form.

A monstrous silhouette writhed in the crimson haze, just beyond the edge of clarity. It wasn't human. It wasn't even alive in the usual sense. Its shape was ever-shifting—flickering between horns, tendrils, wings, and something worse. And its eyes…

Oh its eyes.

Two glowing voids, each a pulsing sigil, spiraling symbols that danced like chains caught in a storm.

They looked at him.

Not his face.

His soul.

And they were studying him with something between curiosity and hunger.

It leaned forward—slowly, gently, like it didn't want to break the moment.

Jonathan didn't move.

Couldn't.

Because something in him knew:

If he moved wrong,

If he thought the wrong thought,

It might step in.

Might take over.

Great.

Just great.

Drowning in blood with a demon that wears your name like a skin-suit staring you down.

He lifted his head as much as the blood would let him—just enough to see the thing clearly.

The monster.

The mirror.

His aura.

It loomed above him in the red, limbs coiling through the pool like smoke given weight. Its sigil-eyes spun faster now, almost amused.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Jonathan muttered, "You know, for the whole demon thing, you're really selling it. Even Sukuna talked."

The aura moved—but only slightly. A shift in posture. A tilt of its formless head.

Then—

In a voice deeper than his own, it repeated him:

"You know, for the whole demon thing, you're really selling it. Even Sukuna talked."

Jonathan blinked. "…Really?"

"Really?"

"Okay. Let's try this. I'm not scared of you."

"Okay. Let's try this. I'm not scared of you."

He groaned, trying not to choke on the scent of copper. "So we're just doing the echo game now?"

"So we're just doing the echo game now?"

He sighed, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back into the blood. "Great. I'm haunted by a Ryun-powered parrot."

"Great. I'm haunted by a Ryun-powered parrot."

He opened his eyes.

A breeze brushed past him.

Leaves rustled, kids laughed in the distance, and the smell of grills and fresh grass danced in the air.

He was in a park.

Not just any park.

The park he used to hang out at all time.

He blinked. Turned.

There, sitting casually on their usual bench, was Marcus. His best friend. The Homie. The one he purposely didn't think about after appearing in Requiem.

Why was his best friend here?

Tall, brown-skinned, with that clean low cut and a neatly trimmed Muslim-style beard. Button-up shirt half-untucked over ripped designer jeans. Fresh white sneakers, of course. He always had to be fly.

Marcus looked over at him and raised a brow.

"What?"

Jonathan just stared.

Was this real? A memory? A hallucination?

But when he tried to speak—his voice came out just fine.

Jonathan didn't think.

The second he realized he was in control—the second the calm, grounded presence of Marcus really registered—he moved.

He lunged forward and wrapped his arms around him like a lifeline.

"Yo—what the—" Marcus stiffened. "J?! What's wrong with you, bro?"

Jonathan didn't answer at first. Just held on tighter.

He was shaking.

"I—fuck—I don't even know where to start, man."

Marcus gently pried him off. Held him by the shoulders.

"Start somewhere. You scarin' me, dawg."

Jonathan's eyes were wild, almost glassy. "I was in a realm—another world—fighting monsters and outlanders and guardians and I—I got pulled into Jafar's memories, Marcus. Jafar. You remember the old game we use to play online? "War Conquest Ascension"?"

"Bro… what? Oh… you're fried…."

"I'm not high! I'm not making this up, I swear!" he said quickly, voice cracking. "I was there. And then I fell into some soul-blood dimension thing with a demon version of my aura staring down at me, and I—I don't know what's happening, but it felt real. I could feel my body being torn apart like—like I was being turned into something else!"

He gasped for air.

"I felt it. Not like a dream. Like I was in it. It was me. I was Jafar—but not. I saw his memories, I saw the others—Vari, Rhan, Yamdamorti—these people from that world and—and now I'm here. With you. How?!"

Marcus stared at him, frown slowly settling on his face.

"…You done?" he asked quietly.

Jonathan nodded, barely. Breath still shaking.

Marcus snorted. Reached into his pocket. Pulled out a neatly rolled joint. Lit it with a flick of his lighter. He took a slow pull with his eyes still on him.

Then exhaled a long cloud.

"…Okay," he said. "First off, I don't know if you're high… or if I'm high… or if God is high. But that's some crazy shit."

Jonathan let out a weak, dry laugh. "I know, man."

"But you're serious," Marcus said, tapping ash onto the grass. "You really believe it."

"I don't just believe it. I lived it."

Marcus nodded. Didn't say anything for a beat. Then, with a sigh, he patted the seat next to him on the bench.

"Alright. Start from the top."

Jonathan blinked. "You believe me?"

"No. But I believe you." Marcus smirked a little. "And you look like you're carrying a whole world on your back."

Jonathan sat down slowly, heart still pounding. He looked out at the park. At the sun filtering through the trees. He started from the beginning and caught up Marcus to the best of his ability.

And then, quieter, more broken:

"I'm tired, man," he admitted, voice low. "So much crazy shit's been happening. I don't even know who I am anymore."

Marcus snorted. "Damn," he said, exhaling. "You always get like this when you're not being real with yourself. Like during the homecoming dance with Cindy. Remember that? You were a wreck."

He passed it over without looking.

Jonathan took it, blinked, and took a hit. Smooth. Way too smooth.

He coughed, half-laughed. "Since when you a therapist?"

Marcus smirked. "I'm not. Just your boy. Who's watched you burn yourself up trying to be everything except what you already are."

Jonathan looked down.

"You scared," Marcus said simply. "You scared that if you really go all in, if you let yourself grow into what you could be… that it might not be you anymore."

Jonathan stayed quiet.

"But listen," Marcus went on, leaning forward, voice grounded. "Growth don't erase you, bro. It adds to you. And if you don't like what you become? You change. But on your terms. Not 'cause of fear. Not 'cause of Jafar. Not 'cause of fate or whatever wild anime-ass world you went too."

Jonathan laughed quietly and nodded. "This gas is strong as hell."

"I only smoke the best," Marcus said, grinning.

"…Thanks. I needed this."

Marcus gave a little salute. "Anytime, man. So wanna grab something to eat. Might calm ya —"

Jonathan blinked.

And when his eyes opened again—he was sinking.

Back into the blood.

But now… the fear was gone.

Above him, the aura was descending—no longer a thing of terror, but of truth.

Its light passed through the crimson, like sunlight through deep water.

And Jonathan didn't resist.

He reached for it.

He didn't just let the aura into him.

He devoured it.

Like a prince reclaiming a stolen birthright.

The blood churned. Boiled. Collapsed inward.

Flowed into his lungs, his veins, his bones.

Was it stupid?

Yes.

Was it dangerous?

Absolutely.

Was it the kind of reckless, unfiltered idea that both he and Jafar would've had?

Obviously.

But it didn't matter anymore.

Because he wasn't pretending.

He wasn't apologizing.

He was Jonathan North.

And if survival meant tearing himself apart and rebuilding from the marrow up? So be it.

He would trudge forward.

He would destroy anything that stood between him and the future.

Even if that meant facing himself.

He wasn't king. Not yet.

But every monarch starts somewhere.

He rose from the blood.

Not as a pawn. Not as a god.

But as a Prince.