Erik was shoved into a corner, the cuffs on his wrists biting into his skin as he was forced to sit. His back rested against the cold, damp wood of the ship’s hull, the steady creaking of the timbers a constant reminder of the vast, dark ocean that surrounded them. He could feel the ship’s gentle sway, the way it dipped and rolled with each wave, and with it, the sickening realization that he was trapped, bound for an unknown fate.
The days blurred together in the suffocating darkness, marked only by the occasional appearance of a slaver, who would toss them scraps of food—hard, stale bread and brackish water that did little to sustain them. Erik’s body ached, his muscles stiff and sore, his throat dry and parched. But more than the physical discomfort, it was the constant pressure of the cuffs, the way they throbbed with a faint, malevolent energy, that gnawed at his mind.
As he lay in the darkness, his wrists throbbing from the constant pressure of the cuffs, Erik began to piece together a plan. It was tenuous, based more on instinct than any solid knowledge, but it was something to hold onto. He had to survive this, had to find a way to turn the knowledge he had spent years acquiring into a means of escape. He refused to let his father’s betrayal, or whatever dark forces had twisted him, be the end of his story.
He watched the slavers closely, memorizing their routines, their habits. It was during one of these tense, silent observations that Erik noticed something—a small, faintly glowing stone hanging from the belt of one of the slavers. The man, a grizzled brute with a sneer permanently etched on his face, seemed to carry it with a casual arrogance, fully aware of its power. This wasn’t just any trinket—it was the Focus Stone, a potent magical device used to control the slaves' cuffs, ensuring their compliance. The slaver knew that no captive could dare touch it; the cuffs would prevent any such defiance, locking their bodies in place with a jolt of searing pain.
Erik’s mind raced. The stone was the key to their control, the source of the slavers' dominance over their captives. If he could get his hands on it, there was a chance he could disrupt the magic of the cuffs, break the chain that bound him. But the real challenge was getting close enough without raising suspicion, especially when the slaver believed it was impossible for any slave to even attempt to take it.
His opportunity came sooner than expected, when the slaver with the stone, annoyed by the groans of a sickened captive, wandered close to where Erik sat hunched in the corner. The man was distracted, kicking at the captive with a sneer, his attention elsewhere.
Erik's heart pounded as he reached out with calculated slowness. The cuffs, which monitored magic within the body’s meridians, would normally have reacted to any attempt to manipulate magic, sending a jolt of searing pain through the wearer. But Erik had no magic in his meridians, nothing for the cuffs to detect. It was this loophole—this blind spot in the design—that Erik was betting on.
His fingers brushed the cool surface of the Focus Stone, and for a split second, the slaver seemed to notice. Erik froze, every muscle in his body tense, his mind racing through possible excuses, feigning a pitiful look of compliance. But the slaver’s gaze slid off him, dismissing him as no more than a beaten dog. The man’s focus returned to his tormenting, allowing Erik to curl his fingers around the stone and slip it into his hand.
The moment Erik felt the pulse of energy from the Focus Stone, a long-forgotten lesson from his studies flickered in his mind. He had read about the dangerous interplay between meridians, magic, and external forces in one of the ancient texts buried deep in the governor's archives. The concept had fascinated him then, though he never imagined it would become so terrifyingly relevant now.
Meridians were the channels through which magic flowed within a person’s body, much like veins carried blood. The texts spoke of the delicate balance required to channel magic effectively—too much power through too small a conduit, and the result was catastrophic. The body’s meridians, unable to contain the raw energy, could rupture, releasing a deadly blast of magic that would obliterate the caster from the inside out. But Erik’s case was different; his meridians had never carried magic. They were, for lack of a better term, dormant.
The Focus Stone wasn’t supposed to work like this. It was designed to amplify and direct magic, requiring the user’s meridians to create a circuit between the stone and whatever object was being controlled. Normally, the cuffs would have detected any such connection instantly, shutting down the flow of power and sending a jolt of pain to remind the wearer of their place. But Erik’s meridians were like empty channels, silent and unassuming, leaving the cuffs blind to what was happening.
As the Focus Stone pulsed in his hand, Erik felt the connection being forged—a circuit that should never have existed. The stone’s energy latched onto the cuffs, amplifying its power, trying to channel it through Erik’s meridians as if they were a natural conduit. The realization of what was happening hit him like a thunderbolt. This wasn’t about willpower; it was about raw, uncontrollable magic surging through channels that had never known power.
Pain exploded in his arms, ripping through his body as the cuffs, unable to control the stone’s amplified magic, tried to force the energy into Erik’s meridians. It was like trying to pour a river through a straw—the sheer pressure was unbearable. Erik’s vision blurred, his body trembling as the stone and the cuffs wrestled for control, using him as the battlefield.
In his pain-addled mind, Erik recalled another passage from the ancient texts, words that seemed to sear themselves into his consciousness as his body was torn apart by the overwhelming force. It spoke of how unused meridians could be forced open, expanded to accommodate magic, but the process was excruciating and usually fatal. The body wasn’t meant to handle such rapid change; the meridians would stretch and tear, and without the proper control, the magic would explode outward in a lethal blast.
But Erik had no magic to explode—only a body hardened by years of physical training, a frame built to endure punishment. He had been the black sheep, the magicless noble who had been forced to rely on muscle and grit where others relied on spells and enchantments. He had endured years of relentless training, the grueling drills of the knights who had taken pity on him, and the constant bullying from magic users who saw him as nothing more than a convenient target. Pain was nothing new to Erik; it was an old companion, a shadow that had walked with him through every beating, every mockery, every failed attempt to fit into a world that had no place for him.
Now, that same pain erupted into something far beyond anything he had ever experienced. His meridians, once dormant, were being forcibly expanded by the foreign energy, their capacity growing far beyond what was natural. It felt as though his veins were being ripped apart and stitched back together with molten steel, the searing agony radiating through every fiber of his being.
Erik's scream tore through the hold of the ship, raw and primal, a sound that spoke of a lifetime of suffering condensed into a single, excruciating moment. The other slaves, who had been too broken and downtrodden to care about anything beyond their own misery, now recoiled in horror, pressing themselves against the damp wooden walls as if trying to melt into the ship itself. They had seen suffering before—starvation, beatings, disease—but this was something different, something that defied their understanding.
Erik's body convulsed, his muscles straining against the unyielding cuffs as the energy surged through him, burning and reshaping his meridians into something unnatural. His training, the hours of grueling physical drills, had honed his body into a weapon, but even that could not shield him from this torment. His fingers clawed at the air, his back arching as though trying to escape his own skin, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords of iron.
But he did not break. Even as his body was wracked with pain, even as his vision blurred and darkened, Erik held on, driven by something deeper than the agony—an iron will forged in the fires of a lifetime of rejection and hardship. He would not die like this, not as a victim, not as a slave. The pain that would have shattered a lesser man only seemed to fuel his determination, a determination that kept him anchored to life even as the world around him dissolved into a blur of fire and shadows.
And then, just as suddenly as it began, the pain ebbed, the searing energy receding like a tide. Erik’s scream faded into a ragged breath, his body collapsing into itself as the last vestiges of the magical assault drained away. The connection between the Focus Stone and the cuffs snapped, severed by the overwhelming force. The cuffs fell silent, the runes etched into them flickering and then fading completely. The Focus Stone’s glow dimmed, its energy spent.
The Focus Stone, Erik realized in the dimming haze of his consciousness, was never meant to act this way. Designed to amplify and direct existing magic, the stone had instead turned its own power inward, forcing it through Erik’s dormant meridians. The energy that had coursed through his body wasn’t just ordinary magic; it was primal magic—one of the foundational forces used in creation magic, raw and untamed. Handling such energy would normally require decades of experience and mastery. No one without immense control could have survived it—yet somehow, Erik had.
The primal magic had done more than just force itself through his meridians; it had etched itself into the very fabric of his being, weaving through his meridians like threads of liquid fire. It was an unprecedented event, something that had never happened before in recorded history. The magic sealant runes from the cuffs, instead of merely binding him, had prevented his body from being torn apart by the overwhelming force. They acted as a containment system, sealing the primal energy within him, creating a paradox—Erik had become both his own slave and his own master.
But as miraculous as this transformation was, it came with a bitter irony. Erik still had no magic of his own. His meridians, now vast and capable of containing immense power, were like empty vessels. The size and structure of Erik’s meridians had expanded to a level far beyond that of even the highest-ranking mages. To put it in perspective, if most mages could be classified within a system ranging from basic levels of power—denoted by colors such as Iron, Copper, and Silver—up through the rarer levels like Gold, Ruby, and Diamond, Erik’s meridians were now at a level that surpassed even the legendary Diamond class, reaching into the realm of Primal and Celestial.
Yet, despite this newfound potential, Erik remained a Lethri, a rare anomaly with no innate magic to call his own. The classification system in his world was strict and absolute. A Lethri was almost unheard of in most regions, considered more myth than reality. The existence of a Lethri with meridians of this magnitude defied all logic, and the implications were staggering.
As Erik lay there, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of the primal magic, he felt something stir deep within him—a pulse, faint and tentative, like the first hesitant beat of a heart that had never known life. His core, once untouched and pure, now bore the figurative chains of the slavers' runes, their magic an unintentional catalyst for something unprecedented. The very runes meant to bind him had etched themselves into his core, transforming it into a vessel capable of absorbing magic.
That pulse, that first heartbeat, was his core’s desperate attempt to forge a connection with a magic it had never known, a link that simply wasn’t there. But the transformation had left his core vast, an empty chasm with an ocean’s capacity—a potential so great it was almost terrifying. And now, it was hungry.
With each quiet thud, the new core sought to fill itself, to draw in the magic it instinctively craved. But there was nothing to satisfy it, only a gnawing emptiness, a deep yearning that threatened to consume him from within. It was as if his soul had been awakened only to realize it was starving, left to wander in search of a power it could not yet grasp.
The emptiness grew, expanding into a vast, dark void within him. Erik's vision blurred, the edges of his consciousness fraying as his body struggled to keep up with the demands of the primal force now residing within him. The more his core reached out for magic, the more it recoiled, trapped within the tightening chains that held it back. The strain was unbearable, a weight pressing down on his chest, making it difficult to breathe.
And with that first echoing beat, the chains that bound his core tightened, holding back a force that was both his curse and his only hope. The pressure built until it was too much—his mind, his body, his very soul could no longer bear it. Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, his thoughts becoming sluggish, disjointed.
His last conscious thought was a fleeting one, a desperate hope that whatever was happening to him would end, one way or another. And then, mercifully, the world faded to black. His body went limp, the fight drained from him, and Erik was lost to the void.
Erik awoke with a groan, his body weak, his mind swimming in a haze of pain and confusion. His first sensation was the cold, clammy feel of something beneath him—something that shifted and gave way as he tried to move. Panic surged through him as the realization hit: he was lying atop a pile of bodies. The stench of decay filled his nostrils, the air thick with the oppressive smell of death and rot.
His limbs were heavy, unresponsive, his muscles screaming with every slight movement. He was ravenous, his body desperate for nourishment, but the horror of his surroundings stole any thought of food. The last thing he remembered was the searing pain of the cuffs and the primal magic coursing through him, and now... this.
The slavers, upon discovering him in the hold, had found his cuffs removed. Such a thing was only possible for two reasons: either the slavers had released him themselves, or he was dead. Given Erik’s lack of magic, the slavers had been unable to feel any energy within him, which further complicated their judgment. To ensure no one could fake their death, the slavers checked him with a health stone—a small, unassuming object that could detect the faintest pulse of life by sensing the presence of magic, however dormant. But Erik had none to speak of, and the stone’s reading was unequivocal: he was as good as dead.
Satisfied that Erik was no longer of any value, the slavers had sold his seemingly lifeless body to a local death cult once they reached land—a jungle region lush with vegetation, the air heavy with humidity and the smell of earth. The cultists were eager to receive him, for they had a dark purpose in mind. They intended to use his body in a ritual, a gruesome offering to their patron—a demon of ancient and terrible power, known only as N’zol the Devourer. The name itself was enough to send shivers through even the most hardened souls, for N’zol was no mere demon. It was a being of insatiable hunger, a creature that feasted not just on flesh but on the very essence of life and magic itself.
As Erik lay atop the pile of corpses, a chilling awareness began to settle in. His body was alive, but just barely—sustained by the primal magic that had forcibly expanded his meridians and transformed his core. Yet, he felt utterly powerless, a shadow of his former self, trapped in a frail shell. He could sense that something was deeply wrong, but he couldn’t fully comprehend it—how could he? This had never happened before.
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The primal magic had altered him in ways that defied understanding, and now his new core, unknown to him, was eating him alive from the inside out. The vast emptiness within it, desperate to be filled, was drawing on the only source of energy available—his own life force.
It was an unfortunate and cruel side effect of the runes etched onto his core by the slavers’ cuffs. Designed to control, they had instead twisted his very essence. Erik’s core, once pure and untainted, was now consuming him, devouring what little strength he had left in a futile attempt to fill the void. He wanted to act, to fight back, but he was too weak, his body ravaged by the internal struggle, every breath a laborious effort to cling to life.
The death cultists moved with an eerie, fanatical precision, their crimson robes sweeping the ground as they carried the dead bodies into their temple. The robes were a deep, blood-red, contrasting sharply with their unnervingly clean and neat appearance. Despite the gruesome task they performed, not a single speck of dirt marred their garments. None of them wore shoes, their bare feet silent on the stone floor as they moved with the solemnity of a funeral procession. All of them, men and women alike, had shaved their heads completely, leaving no trace of hair on their bodies. Their smooth, bald heads reflected the dim light that filtered through the narrow temple windows, adding to the otherworldly aura they exuded.
The temple itself was a place of dark reverence, its stone walls inscribed with ancient runes that pulsed with a faint, malevolent energy. The air was thick with the scent of incense and decay, a pungent blend that clung to the skin and seeped into the soul. The cultists moved in perfect synchrony, laying the bodies in a circle around a large, intricately carved stone slab at the center of the chamber. The slab was etched with a vast array of runes, each one meticulously inlaid with a shimmering black substance that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
This was the heart of their ritual, the sacred space where the flesh of the dead was offered to their dark master. The runes on the slab formed a complex, interwoven pattern—a magical circle designed to channel the life essence of the bodies into the demon’s realm. The circle radiated an ominous power, the runes glowing with a cold, unnatural light that made the very air vibrate with tension.
The cultists’ ultimate goal was clear: to bring forth their god, a demon of terrifying power, from its plane of existence into this world. But the demon, known as N’zol the Devourer, could not cross over entirely on its own. It required a mortal vessel, a body through which it could manifest and consume the offerings laid before it. This vessel was traditionally one of the death priests, a cultist who had spent years tempering his body and soul, preparing to sacrifice himself for the demon’s arrival. Once the ritual was complete, N’zol would inherit the priest’s body, feasting on the dead flesh to regain its corporeal form and, ultimately, to rule over the world of the living.
As the cultists began their chant, their voices rising and falling in a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence, Erik found himself being dragged to the center of the circle. His weakened body offered no resistance, his consciousness flickering on the edge of oblivion. The cultists positioned him beside the death priest, who stood stoically in the middle of the runic circle, his head bowed in grim acceptance of his fate.
But there was a problem—an unforeseen complication in the ritual. There were now two living bodies within the circle, and the demon, bound by ancient laws, could only inhabit the stronger of the two hosts. As the final words of the chant echoed through the chamber, the air around them seemed to thicken, the runes on the stone slab flaring to life with a blinding light.
N’zol’s essence began to seep into the circle, searching for its vessel, for the body that could sustain it in this world. The demon’s will was powerful, its hunger insatiable, and it always sought out the host with the greatest capacity to contain it. The death priest, with his years of preparation, had been the intended vessel, his body ready to be consumed and transformed by N’zol’s dark power.
But as the demon’s essence flowed into the circle, it hesitated, sensing something it had never encountered before. There, beside the priest, was Erik—a man with a core unlike any other, a vast ocean of potential that dwarfed the priest’s meager capacity. Erik’s meridians, forcibly expanded by the primal magic, now presented an irresistible temptation to the demon. N’zol, driven by its nature to seek the strongest vessel, was drawn to Erik like a moth to a flame.
But as it tried to enter Erik’s body, it was met with an unexpected barrier. The runes from the slavers’ cuffs, now etched into Erik’s very core, acted as a seal, trapping the demon within him but preventing it from fully taking control. N’zol found itself imprisoned within a host that it could not dominate, its immense power locked away by the very magic meant to bind Erik.
The demon’s frustration and rage pulsed through Erik’s weakened form, but there was nothing it could do. It had chosen the stronger host, but in doing so, it had unknowingly sealed itself in a prison of its own making. Erik, now harboring the demon within him, lay motionless, his mind a whirl of pain and confusion, his body barely clinging to life as the cultists continued their ritual, unaware of the catastrophic error they had made.
Without hesitation, the priest dropped onto the bodies of the dead, mimicking the cultists’ posture. He pressed his face to the ground, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and awe. The cultists and the priest alike lay prostrate, their forms trembling not with uncertainty, but with reverence. They knew exactly what they were doing—they were feeding the demon, providing it with sustenance, awaiting the moment when it would bestow upon them a blessing or curse. This ritual was a test, one where the current priest would either be chosen as the vessel or meet his end as his body decayed under the demon’s overwhelming presence.
Typically, the death priests would become possessed for a brief period, their bodies animated by the demon’s will just long enough to receive the offerings and make a blessing. The priests’ bodies would then decompose rapidly, unable to withstand the demonic essence that coursed through them. But as Erik’s body floated above them, surrounded by dark energies, it was clear something was different this time. The demon, N’zol, found itself trapped within a vessel that did not wither but instead contained and controlled its essence. Erik’s unique core had created a prison for the demon—a containment the cultists had never anticipated. They hadn’t summoned their god; they had enslaved it. They just didn’t know it yet.
As Erik began to stir, awakening from the depths of unconsciousness, he was met with a flood of new sensations—overwhelming, vivid, and entirely foreign. It was as if he were seeing the world for the first time, every sense heightened to an unimaginable degree. His eyes opened, and the dimly lit chamber exploded into a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that had been invisible to him before.
The world around him was no longer merely physical; it was layered with intricate patterns of magic, each thread and line humming with energy. He could see the meridians—the delicate, shimmering lines of magic that wove through the air and connected everything in the room. They pulsed with life, each one a different shade, some as bright as the sun, others deep and dark as the void. The runes etched into the walls and floors glowed with a soft, steady light, their meanings clear to him now in a way they had never been before. Each rune spoke of ancient power, of rituals long forgotten, and Erik could feel them, sense the magic that ran through them as easily as he could feel his own breath.
He could feel the core within him, a vast ocean of potential, churning and pushing against the confines of his being. The core was alive, vibrating with the primal energy it had absorbed from the demon. It was as if a new heart had been placed within his chest, one that beat with a rhythm all its own. But with each beat, he felt something more—a heavy, persistent tug from within, as the demon N’zol, now trapped inside him, struggled in vain to break free. The chains of the runes held it fast, but the demon’s rage was palpable, a seething fury that resonated through Erik’s every nerve.
Erik’s senses, now magically enhanced, picked up on every detail with a precision that bordered on painful. The sound of the cultists’ breathing, the faint rustle of their robes against the stone floor, the distant drip of water echoing through the cavern—all of it reached his ears with perfect clarity. The air was thick with the scent of blood and decay, but underneath it, he could detect the subtle fragrance of incense, the lingering traces of burnt offerings. He could even taste the magic in the air, a bitter, metallic tang that clung to the back of his throat.
His vision swam with the shades of magic, each hue telling a different story. The crimson of the cultists’ robes was interwoven with dark strands of necromantic energy, pulsing in time with their chants. The runes on the floor glowed a deep, ominous red, their energy flowing into the center of the ritual circle where Erik hovered. The energy of the room fed into him, and he could feel it being drawn into his core, mixing with the demonic essence now coursing through his veins.
Yet, despite the overwhelming flood of sensations, Erik felt an eerie calm settle over him. The demon was there, locked away within him, but it could do nothing without his will. He was no longer just Erik; he was something more, something powerful. The death cultists, still bowing in reverence, had unknowingly made him their new leader.
And as he began to understand the full extent of his transformation, Erik realized that he now had the power to shape his own destiny—if he could survive the forces that had been unleashed within him. Erik’s heart thudded within his chest, the sound echoing in his ears like the toll of a distant bell. With each beat, he felt something stir—a presence deep within, dark and ancient. The demon, N’zol, awakened to its new reality. The connection between them snapped into place, and Erik felt the demon’s essence unfurl like a shroud, spreading through his veins.
So this is what I’m reduced to? The demon’s voice was cold, imperious, dripping with disdain. A human? Pathetic. You are nothing but a fragile, weak vessel, unworthy of containing even a fraction of my power.
Erik blinked, confusion settling over him like a fog. A voice—deep, imperious, and definitely not his own—echoed in his mind. His eyebrow twitched in response. "Who the hell…," he muttered, glancing around, expecting to see someone nearby. But there was no one—just the eerie silence of the dark temple.
Foolish human, the voice spat back, dripping with disdain. You dare question your new master?
Erik’s confusion deepened, but his irritation quickly followed. "Master? Listen, Samantha, or whatever your name is—" he said aloud, turning in circles as if expecting to find the source of the voice lurking somewhere in the shadows.
The voice cut him off with a snarl. Samantha? Do you mock me?
Erik paused, squinting into the darkness. "Fine, not Samantha. How about Veronica?" he called out, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Are you going to explain what’s going on here, or just keep yelling at me in my own head?"
The demon’s presence flared with anger, but Erik could sense its helplessness. The chains in his core squeezed tighter, the pressure pushing back against the demon's attempts to dominate his senses. Erik felt the overwhelming flood of supercharged perceptions—sounds, sights, smells—start to fade as the chains held the demon’s essence in check, relaxing his mind just enough to function. The demon's frustration was palpable, a low growl rumbling through Erik's thoughts. You insolent wretch! You dare speak to me with such disrespect? I could crush you with a thought if not for these... these accursed bindings!
Erik’s lips quirked up in a half-smile, the absurdity of the situation not lost on him. "Yeah, well, good luck with that. Seems like you’re stuck in here just like I am." He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. "So, what now? You planning on sulking in my head forever, or do we figure out how to make this work?"
The demon growled again, a low rumble that Erik felt more than heard. You have no idea what you’ve done, human. No idea the power you’ve tampered with. When I break free—
But Erik wasn’t listening anymore. He was more focused on the odd sensation of weightlessness that had suddenly overtaken him. His body wasn’t touching the ground—he was floating, suspended in the air like some sort of deranged marionette. His eyes widened in surprise as he flailed his arms, trying to regain some sense of control.
Uh, okay… how do I get down? Erik thought, a tinge of panic creeping into his voice. He tried to move, but it was like trying to swim in midair—his limbs flopped uselessly around him, and the more he struggled, the more ridiculous he looked.
From the ground, the death cultists watched with wide eyes, their expressions a mixture of awe and bewilderment. The current death priest, his face still pressed to the ground, dared to lift his head just a fraction to peek at the spectacle. He had expected the usual manifestation of the demon—a terrifying, commanding presence that would bring the ritual to its expected conclusion. But what he saw was something entirely different.
Erik, now fully aware of how absurd he looked, tried to pull himself into a more dignified position. Instead, he ended up twisting around, his legs flailing awkwardly in the air, making him look like an upside-down turtle. His frustration bubbled over, and he began to mutter under his breath. "Oh, for the love of—can’t a guy get some gravity around here?"
He attempted to right himself again, but his efforts only made things worse. Now, he was spinning slowly in circles, his limbs flopping in various directions as he tried and failed to find any kind of equilibrium. "This is just great," he grumbled, his voice low and irritated. "First, I get demon-napped, then I’m turned into some kind of floating cursed piñata. Perfect. Just perfect."
The cultists exchanged confused glances, unsure of what to make of their new “demon god.” This was not the fearsome entity they had expected, and the sight of Erik’s less-than-majestic floating act left them in silent bewilderment. The priest, still trying to maintain his posture of reverence, couldn’t help but peek again, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
Erik, meanwhile, had given up on maintaining any dignity. He was now muttering to himself like a frustrated child who couldn’t figure out how to work a toy. "Come on, down. Down, I say! This is ridiculous." His arms flailed once more, and he flipped again, his expression one of pure exasperation. "If I had known I’d be levitating against my will, I’d have taken some lessons or something. This is just embarrassing."
The scene was almost too much—a powerful, ancient demon trapped in a bumbling human who couldn’t even control his own floating body. The irony was lost on neither Erik nor the demon, though the latter was far less amused.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of awkward, midair flailing, Erik managed to slow his spin. He hovered there, panting slightly from the effort, as the death cultists continued to watch in stunned silence. The priest, still lying prone, dared not move, though he was now thoroughly confused by the sight before him.
Erik sighed heavily, the ridiculousness of the situation finally sinking in. "Okay," he muttered to himself. "First order of business: figure out how to land without looking like an idiot."
But even as he tried to regain his composure, Erik couldn’t help but snicker at the absurdity of it all. Here he was, floating like a fool with a demon trapped inside him, surrounded by a cult that thought he was their new god. If this was the start of his new life, it was going to be one hell of a ride.
As Erik hovered there, his heart suddenly gave a strong, resounding beat. The sound echoed through his being, reverberating in his ears like a war drum. The demon, still fuming, latched onto that heartbeat with a sinister glee. It was more than just a pulse—it was a connection, a link that allowed the demon to tap into the new reality it found itself in. The moment Erik’s heart pumped, the demon’s essence surged within him, attempting to assert control.
But the chains within Erik’s core responded instantly, tightening their grip and forcing the demonic energy back. The demon's attempt to overpower Erik was thwarted, leaving it raging helplessly against its bindings. Yet, as the chains held firm, Erik felt something else—a faint, rhythmic pulse within his core. It was as if his core, normally pristine and pure, now had figurative chains wrapped around it—chains he could sense, but also control. With each pulse, the chains constricted, binding the demon more tightly within its prison.
Erik's eyes widened as he began to understand. The primal magic that had flooded his meridians had done more than just expand his capacity—it had transformed his core into something new, something capable of containing even a being as powerful as N’zol. The demon’s essence, though still a dangerous force, was now intertwined with Erik’s own, held in check by the very magic that had sought to enslave him.
And then, his core gave a strong, undeniable beat—a magical heartbeat, resonating with newfound power. Erik could feel it in every fiber of his being: the demon's essence, dark and potent, now part of him, filling the vast ocean of his core. But where the demon sought to dominate, Erik’s core contained and controlled, turning what should have been his downfall into his strength.
Erik chuckled to himself, the absurdity of it all making him shake his head. "Well, Valerie," he said, finally settling on a name for the voice in his head, "looks like you’re stuck with me. Now, let’s figure out how to get out of this mess."
The demon snarled in response, but Erik could sense its frustration, its inability to break free. The dark energies within him churned and pushed against the chains, but the primal magic held firm, ensuring that the demon’s power would remain contained.
And as Erik’s new, demonic heartbeat echoed in his ears, he knew one thing for certain: whatever lay ahead, he wasn’t facing it alone. He had a demon in his corner—literally. And that, as strange as it was, gave him a twisted sense of comfort.
But first, he needed to figure out how to stop floating like an idiot.