In the beginning, Ryo resisted. He held on to thoughts of vengeance, his identity, and the hope of escape. But as the days—or was it centuries?—passed, the oppressive nothingness began to gnaw at him. Without any external stimuli or anyone to talk to, his mind became his only companion—and his worst enemy.
To survive the endless torment, Ryo's mind did something extraordinary. It splintered. A new personality emerged from the depths of his subconscious, born from his suppressed rage, sorrow, and desperation for retribution.
This personality—his psyche—was everything Ryo couldn't allow himself to be: vengeful, cruel, and delighting in the chaos that revenge could bring. It whispered to him in the darkness, a voice that was equal parts tormentor and savior.
Psyche (mocking): Oh, poor Ryo. All alone. Betrayed by those "noble" gods you once admired. But don't worry—I'm here. We'll make them pay. But first, you need me. You can't do this without me.
At first, Ryo resisted the psyche's influence, trying to hold on to his sense of morality and wit to shield himself. He joked with the voice, tried to argue, even attempted to silence it. But the more he fought, the stronger the psyche became, feeding on the void and Ryo's growing hatred.
Psyche: Why fight me? I'm just you. The better you. The you that will survive.
As time dragged on, Ryo realized the truth: if he didn't embrace the psyche, he would lose himself entirely. So, he allowed it to stay, engaging with it like a twisted companion. It helped him keep his sanity by giving him a focus—his revenge against the gods.
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The psyche taught him to use the Abyss itself, learning its secrets, its weaknesses. Ryo began to study the cracks in his prison, using his wit and the psyche's cunning to prepare for the perfect moment to escape. The two personalities worked together, a reluctant partnership forged in torment.
But the psyche came at a cost.
The constant influence of the psyche left permanent marks on Ryo. While he retained his comedic charm and wit, there was now an edge to him—a lingering instability, a darkness in his eyes that hinted at the depths he'd endured. His humor often veered into the macabre, and his strategies, while brilliant, were tinged with ruthlessness.
Though Ryo escaped the Abyss when the conditions aligned perfectly—perhaps an alignment of the gods' attention elsewhere or a disturbance in the fabric of his prison—the psyche didn't fade. It stayed with him, whispering its venomous ideas, reminding him of their shared purpose.
Psyche: Remember, Ryo. I'm not the one who betrayed you. They did. I'm the one who kept you alive. Without me, you'd still be in that void, screaming. Never forget that.
Ryo didn't argue. He couldn't. After all, the psyche wasn't wrong.
Kael called, his tone as intense as ever, "we've arrived." With a jump, he perched him self on a rock overseeing the village, his usual witty comeback dying in his throat as his eyes landed on the village ahead. It was a picturesque sight—quaint cottages with mossy roofs nestled together around a bustling town square, where children's laughter mingled with the rhythmic clanging of a blacksmith's hammer.
Fields of wildflowers stretched out like a vibrant quilt, and the soft murmur of a nearby river filled the air. Ryo's playful grin slipped away as he took in the familiar scene. This place.