It is what it is. Such a useful phrase. Really helps one to better understand that what one has is what one has.
What is left of Zhoulong does not have much, but… it is what it is. And it is not nothing.
In the end, it’s time that is his greatest enemy in his new state. Just as he pursued immortality with science, cutting, and cultivation, seeking to outpace a biological clock, his new existence, too, is defined by an avoidance of death, and the limited time he has to achieve it.
He is not always conscious. Not really. What is left of him is a painful, starving thing, cut from its whole. A lesser cultivation, a little less knowledge of his self, a little less willpower, and he would not even be. Had he been something weaker, less refined, the digestion of the thing that ate him would have consumed him outright, but for all its abnormal development and unique biological metaphysics, it is… young. Weak, still. Powerful enough to host Truths, which remains impressive, and shockingly unique in its self-evolution, but there is simply a distance that power stretches across that uniqueness often does not. Zhoulong stood near the height of the Nascent Soul realm, perhaps only a century or two away from catalyzing his Soul and entering the Paths of highest cultivation. The subject, even in her altered metric of growth, has yet to truly eclipse the depth of a Core Formation cultivator, relying on its aforementioned uniqueness and strengths to be so effective a threat.
And, of course, before it became a subject, before it was interesting, it was only in the Core Formation realm anyways, not quite to the point of beginning to form her Soul. Woefully untrained in the more metaphysical and esoteric of the arts of cultivation. A simpleton, in many ways, a brute who gave less thought to comprehension and enlightenment than growth and power.
In this, perhaps the subject is very much still what it was before. A funny thing, that.
Still, even with such a distinct system of organs, with such a powerful ace in the form of enchanted steel (blacksteel, as some might call it, but so unscientific), it was not enough, and the dead scrap of a greater whole cannot help but be proud of its own survival.
It was bad at first, of course. The chaos of a whole new existence, without senses, without a body, trapped and barely conscious… but he persevered. He took centuries of cultivation and struggle and skill and dragged himself back together, taking the disparate pieces adrift in a strange stomach and making of himself a sort of shell. It was eating him still, but concentrated to a single point of self-identity, he could delay his own digestion. Even with this victory, still, it would take days or weeks between when he could manifest, pushing his mind and what little Qi is left to him up towards the surface…
He tried to do what he could in the background. Exerting pressure where he could, first social, then mental. As the subject dreamed, he squirmed and tried all he could to push out and find some weakness, some way to divide or break open the cage he was trapped in.
But then the bull slipped up.
The obscene thing that calls itself a Researcher, which was never his equal and could never be, did… something. Some trick of the mind, some triggered series of words, and then it clicked. The subject… obeyed. Parts of it went silent, as if only what was needed to tell the truth was kept. It was like a lightshow in the dark, the aurora of a foreign mind above him flickering and showing him its contours and soft underbelly at last.
And, in whatever pieces he may be, there is very little of Zhoulong that doesn’t know how to cut something open.
The first few cuts barely even mattered. Barely any effect. Without meridians, without hands, manipulating Qi and, even moreso, shaping it into techniques, was a series of trials and challenges. He persevered, of course. He succeeded, of course. Within the realm of the soul of a fascinating little subject, he re-learned how to Cut, and once again, he began to Sever, as he once did upon the operating table.
Little things, even still. A sense of dissonance. A few thoughts or memories, Cut slice by slice away from the core. A bit of disconnect between when the subject puppetered itself and its true feelings.
And it worked well. Oh, there was so much to work with, but it was barely an effort to leave more space for the self-loathing to grow, to cut defenses and trust away from the thoughts of violence and shame the subject so lovingly cultivated for itself. It almost healed itself, more than once. The Naga subject was a surprising source of camaraderie, and the ghost that is Zhoulong is more than certain it will have to kill the felinid beastblood when it emerges if the subject is to be shaped properly, never mind that peach-scented seed of discord… but it still went oh so well.
And then, when he appeared to it, easier and easier as he evolved, the subject listened.
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It helped that it really doesn’t know more than the basics of biology, honestly. The concept of cellular mutation and improvement- so simple, yet so fundamental it can’t not be helpful. And with that one little acquiescence, that little slip, that little moment of permission, it got so much easier.
And then the subject took a bite of the flesh-crafting country bumpkin, and before it could be lost to digestion, he took it into himself.
And now, he finds himself… almost indulging.
It’s not even difficult, really. He took his name first, cutting it from the subject’s mind wholesale in his largest and most experimental Cut yet, and now it cannot even really recognize him. The more the subject used it’s “mask”, the easier it became to cut it free of the right pieces, keeping it connected by only the slimmest of threads and letting things like proper emotion, connections, social norms and behaviors drift off with it. The flesh was more difficult, especially with how tightly it was wound into and through the subject’s Truths, but perseverance always wins out in the end. Semi-invisible to his host, and freshly fed by the blood that said host consumed, he had the time to dedicate to the minutiae of finding the right place to Cut.
The Truth is still there, shockingly enough. He didn’t mean to shatter it outright, intending to leave pieces to sculpt into something new or perhaps even try to find a way to take it for himself, but the fact it’s still functional is, frankly, a marvel. What a unique specimen. So fun to toy with. So strangely durable despite all the gaping flaws and cancerous traumas it holds.
And then… then it almost got away.
It’s not much, maybe not even all that major a threat… but victory is victory. In a mind clouded by doubt and dissonance, left adrift from those it is close to and from its own power, Zhoulong felt the moment that something new entered its soul. For just a moment, the subject felt confident, felt a sense of progress, and while on its own it’s barely anything, it worked to regrow some of the connections between a few of the thoughts he’d been having trouble plucking free.
Can’t have that.
The tuning fork, of all things, was one of the hardest parts to cut out. Sure, he’d been snipping away, pulling it further and further out, properly stretching the few tendons of thought and habit until the subject barely thought of it anymore, but then… ah. That moment of clarity. The instant of victory, which the instrument was once so entirely quintessential to. It couldn’t be helped; he had to amputate. He had to do so almost as thoroughly as he cut out his own name, ripping it free not just from her memory but from her mind, unmooring that piece of her to float free in… wherever he is. Her soul? Ah, a fascinating subject of study in a fascinating subject to study. A gift in all regards.
And, it did kill him. So really, it’s only fair he get to play the part of a poor houseguest.
The subject is still mobile. It is escorted back where it came from, and doesn’t even try to emote as it once did, the Mask now nearly separate from the core. He wonders if he can infest Project 13’s soul as he does this subject’s. What a beauty it would be, to see how he has warped and twisted and grown that once-useless thing into a piece of art. He ensured they were taking care of it, and he ensured again that the current subject didn’t recall, that Project 13’s state and name slipped from the subject’s grasp as soon as they arose.
It doesn’t do to improperly mix your experimental materials. Not until you are fairly sure what will happen, at least. No reason to give any hints about his talents at shaping a mind to the mind he’s shaping.
He looks on his work and smiles. It might well be time to introduce them soon. When he can find the time. There’s an advantage there, most likely, some hint as to what next steps he can take; in the meantime, he is as safe as he can be inside the subject’s stomach, its own mind unaware of the intruder. Whatever plan it may have had to deal with him (and it did have one, he’s pretty sure of that) is left to rot in the pit of overconfidence. The subject’s durability is phenomenal even still. It doesn’t even smoke, and there is very little left within its mind that would keep it from doing so.
It is ever so refreshing when he finds something that doesn’t break when parts of it are Cut.
There’s so much to do. Find a way to guide the subject more directly, perhaps. Find out what the stench of tangerines in this place really means, considering he can’t cut away the boy’s death without cutting away much of the guilt he’s using to currently guide the subject. Figure out if he can start to eat back, even from within the… maybe metaphysical stomach what’s left of him is trapped in.
But for at least a little while… at least for a little bit, there is just the joy of victory.
The Bull will get his due. Scheming thing that he is, filth that he may be, it is not beneath Zhoulong to respect his strength. He was defeated, fair and square. Had the subject not emerged and bit his throat out, he is certain he would have won the war, his own status and allies more than enough to deal with whatever simplistic machinations the Bull could think up… but such was not to be.
And yet, here he stands. Within one of his enemies’ most valuable wild cards, hidden to any and all, and more than likely to yet grow. A lesser cultivator might think themselves still trapped, barely able to see the world and yet being digested- but Zhoulong is not a lesser cultivator. He is noble-born, birthed in a manor that was planted upon the very cliffsides of the first ring, trained since childhood in ways martial and academic. The fact that he chose the academic path is the only reason why he lost their battle, which the Bull childishly initiated on a simple excuse. It’s almost enough to make him laugh.
But for now… for now, there are too many allies still surrounding the subject, too many loyal to the Bull, and it is difficult to know who among them might find something out. The Garden-seed especially is a risk, considering their proximity to the Bull and whatever he might find.
But.
It is what it is.
And it is well in hand. Alive, and still squirming, and ready to be put under the knife for the next round of alterations.