“Majesty Formless? Why are we kidnapping all the hidden Martians in Roman territory? Won’t we spark more conflict?” Faceless Nail asked his superior while they stalked through a remote mountain village on Exerous Eleven. A cerulean sky, embedded with shards of violet burned above the thick canopy. The younger man struggled to keep up with his burly form against the other figure’s lithe movement beneath the sweltering atmosphere.

The commander twisted back, his wooden mask bearing no recognizable traits. Then, he spoke with an altered voice, “Martians are the best seed for our training. Everyone that survives the Path Of Grasses will become Formless.”

In awe, the younger man nodded his head, redoubling his efforts toward scaling the mountain. Rumors said a family lived up here. It was their job to ‘recruit’ them.

* A Glaniecian cell covertly acquiring new blood.

A young man flicked open the clasp of a chilled sphere, feeling the faint hum of power emanate from the Immortal Corpse. The box unleashed mist over his hands, the metal deceptively quiet against the turmoil that awaited within.

Archimedes hesitated, staring at the contents—a shimmering substance suspended in the sphere’s center, something beyond science or logic. The concentrated essence of a Dirge, the sole method to slow their revival, pulsed with an eerie, unnatural vitality, a fragment of existence caught between worlds.

Unlike Joan, it didn’t jump at him hungrily. Instead, it seemed scared, almost anxious, before the engineer.

He had read about Immortal Corpses and studied its theoretical usage, but to hold one and even consider using them felt like stepping off a precipice into the unknown.

Outside, the scraping grew louder, the creatures scratching relentlessly at the hull. The narrow field of his view through the slits in the power rack allowed him to glimpse vague, shifting forms prowling outside. Dark shapes twisted in unnatural ways, each move accompanied by a low, predatory growl.

They were getting closer, and Isaac could almost feel the weight of their collective presence pressing down on him, suffocating and oppressive. The Dirge were relentless; even the tiniest mistake would bring them down upon him, and then… then there would be no more thinking, no more calculating.

A cold sweat broke over his malnourished body. Despite the months spent eating well, he had not yet broken past his youth’s torturous conditions. Against the chill, he took a steadying breath and, pressing the Immortal Corpse against his chest, let the sphere’s energy bleed into him.

The beast within hesitated, its spirit unsure, but Archimedes showed no hostility or strength. And so it lunged.

It was unlike anything the boy had ever felt—a searing flood of raw vitality filling every cell and saturating his veins with an alien power. The tiny cabinet around him seemed to expand and contract, each pulse of the Immortal Corpse heightening his senses and altering his perception. Pythagoras’ thoughts became razor-sharp, and he could feel the barriers within his own mind beginning to fall.

The Lightsea, the dark, extra-dimensional waters, flooded into him with ruthless ferocity, a tidal wave of consciousness sweeping through his mind. It was unlike the smooth, controlled entry he heard with Dante, Rejo, and Sonna. Yet it was also opposite to Joan’s interaction, as she had fallen unconscious.

Archimedes had his own battle, for his soul was timid yet pure. He could not be forced out of his own mind like Joan. This was an invasion, a test of will. The engineer held his ground, grounding himself against the onslaught. His hands clenched and pulled the enveloping wires, his entire body rigid as he met the Qualae’s residual consciousness flowing into him.

He realized it was young—young and scared, its mind frantic with instinct and desperation. The darkness that was the Lightsea whispered in broken tones, fragmented words of a creature that only knew survival. Images flickered before him without ending.

An absolute ocean, without a surface to be seen, held countless monsters hungering for the little thing. It scrounged for every second with its entire being, but then a voice called for it, raising it from the darkness and into the light. There, it had less to compete with and less to fight against, yet that did not mean no enemies or no predators. So, it built itself up and raised its own children to accompany it in order to survive.

This Anachronism had existed in that brutal reality, clawing its way up from nothing, always hunting, always consuming.

“I understand,” Archimedes whispered, his voice barely audible over the rumble prowling Dirge. “You were like me. Alone.”

The words seemed to reach the consciousness. The beast paused, its slurred, jumbled thoughts sharpening in response. It regarded him, its mind recoiling, then pushing against him, testing his resolve. Archimedes’ soul stood before it, vulnerable yet unwavering. He felt the creature’s struggle, its reluctance to surrender, and yet its acknowledgment of him.

More than simple acknowledgment, he could also sense confusion, as if it couldn’t fathom why this small, frail thing would challenge it, why he would stand against something so obviously beyond him.

They were supposed to merge. The living were meant to take the dead’s spoils, and the dead were meant to forever inhabit the living’s essence until they, too, joined the Lightsea. It was the Prime Covenant.

But Archimedes didn’t flinch. This was his moment, his decision. He could allow the merger to happen as usual, but he didn’t. His mind spiked with power, something he wasn’t aware he possessed, and he forced a connection between consciousnesses.

There were many Designations that spoke of one’s potential, yet only two possessed power without the Lightsea’s fickle aid. These were beings who held supernatural power on their own, one in a million for the faintest aptitude, one in a billion for mediocre, and one in a trillion for true potential.

A Seer.

And a Psion.

A vast field opened before Archimedes, a world between worlds, where metal and life, beast and machine, entwined in a surreal harmony. The boy stood beside a hunched-over hound with its once twisted and splattered body, now wholly recovered.

The hound gazed sideways at Archimedes, their heights equal. It didn’t know how to act or what to do. Unable to fight back, it simply sat, watching as the plain before them grew.

Starships fizzled from nothingness as the hound’s family returned, running along the landed steel beasts. Spires of metal reached toward the heavens as the bestial children scampered up the steles, enjoying themselves beyond measure.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Archimedes stared at the scene, tears cascading from his eyes as he watched the kids frolic, savoring their lives with bliss. He gazed down at his own hands, scrawny, pale, and scarred from overwork.

Beside him, the Dirge’s many eyes upon its wolfish head lowered to those palms. It recognized something through its limited yet awakened intelligence. Then, it bowed its skull for the kindness shown to it.

With a struggle, its mind formed thanks, “Th... hank... yo... ouu.”

The boy released a smile and raised his weathered hand to rest upon the hound’s fearsome maw. His fear evaporated as he found not a monster in the bottle of terror but a lonely child like himself.

He found a friend.

“No. Thank you. I... won’t let you die. I won’t kill you. Join me. I can make you a body. We can... we can work together. We don’t have to be so lonely. Would you like to... would you like to be my friend?” Archimedes asked with great hesitance, for his sole lingering rear was rejection, not death.

A beat passed as the beast returned the boy’s gaze. They stood silent, as neither knew what to do or say. Then, the terrible creature shifted its many eyes back to its deceased children, its friends, and soaked in one last image of their joy.

“Fr... ie... nd.”

The sole word, spoken through its mind while stretched and disfigured, meant the world to Archimedes. He had made his first friend.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice choked with falling liquid. His trembling hands reached for the hound’s spectral form, and, with a steady resolve, he gave his new companion a name. “Euclid. Your name will be Euclid, for the many shapes you bear and all the paths you’ve traveled to get here.”

The typical cowardly nature of Archimedes felt stifled, for his joy was overflowing. His words emerged easier than they ever had before as he unearthed his confidence.

Euclid’s form shimmered, the ghostly hound lowering its many-eyed head in acceptance. Archimedes could feel the cold press of the Anachronism’s energy as Euclid’s essence began to merge with him, and he instinctively funneled the spirit into his right arm, the foreign power taking root within his bones and veins. With a grunt, he reached with his left hand, pulling out a length of wire from the wall. Without worrying about the electricity within, he wound it tightly around his upper right arm, fastening it with his teeth to create a crude but effective brace that could hold Euclid in place.

“Sorry,” Archimedes said softly, biting down on the wire to tighten it further, for his arms were weaker than his jaws. “I didn’t have time to prepare anything better.”

Through their shared connection, Euclid’s mind rippled in response, a soothing acknowledgment that wordlessly reassured him.

“It’s fine,” the voice echoed, disjointed but dogged. At that moment, ice crystals began to spiderweb across Archimedes’ right arm, encasing it in a thin layer of geometrical frost as Euclid settled into his new home. The arm felt strangely weightless yet brimming with latent strength—a strength that Isaac knew would be both his shield and his weapon.

His grin enlarged as he realized he was like Eight. Like Rejo. He, too, could be strong.

But the melding of Lightsea energies had not gone unnoticed. He could hear the Dirge stirring beyond the cramped cabinet, their skittering claws and low growls growing louder, drawn by the presence of the power he had only barely contained. He knew he had only seconds before they would find him.

With a racing heart, he burst from his hiding place, sprinting down the narrow hallway toward the glass door that led to the docking corridor. Before, it was an impenetrable wall.

Yet now that he had the piercing power of a Cryo? The most offensive of all Tides?

Archimedes’ eyes scoured the transparent frame, scavenging for any hint of weakness to guarantee his escape. Meanwhile, his bare feet pounded against the metal floor as he darted forward, the chill of Euclid’s presence sharpening his senses even as the frantic stomps behind quickened his heart.

The icicles from his right arm spread along the edges of his fingers, trailing his touch, but his left arm felt increasingly warm. A soft wisp of steam rose from it, the heat building in counterpoint to the cold. Archimedes tightened his grip on Euclid’s power as he neared the reinforced glass door. Just before his last step, he saw a slight mark from its creation, a tiny imperfection in the structure.

His teeth clenched as he swung his right arm with every ounce of momentum he could muster. “Now, Euclid!” Isaac shouted, his voice carrying over the growing cacophony of pursuing Dirge.

Euclid’s essence surged in response, and the ice across Archimedes’ arm condensed, intensifying as a sharpened spike. The glass airlock shattered beneath the blow, shards bursting outward. Without pausing or slowing, he charged through the ruined door, the cold intensifying as he pressed onward.

API’s legs burned from the sprint, his feet bled from stepping on glass, and his left arm, too, shed crimson through the burgeoning steam. He rarely wore long sleeves, shoes, socks, or anything beyond a T-shirt and pants. The extra stimulation was too much, distracting him from his focus.

But right now, through the pain, discomfort, and chill of his arm, he pushed on, knowing that hesitation would mean death.

The howl of the Dirge echoed behind him, closer now, and Archimedes dared not look back. He felt the presence of the creatures gaining ground, their hunger and bloodlust spurring them faster.

They were like Euclid, starving from circumstance and deprived of care, yet Archimedes’ empathy meant nothing. He could only rush ahead while the strange, warming power within him intensified as he hastened, steam billowing in his wake.

Another door loomed ahead—a glass center and steel perimeter, reinforced to withstand external force. Archimedes didn’t slow, gritting his teeth as he swung his right arm again, channeling the might he saw within Eight. He couldn’t find a weakness, for the Heron’s Wing was made without error.

All he could do was hope the ice was enough. With his eyes closed, the young boy’s frail body propelled itself forward at a speed impossible for his condition.

Ice met glass, and the impact was immediate, bruising every bone in Archimedes’ body and shaking his mind inside its cage. Before his eyes, A crack emerged from the sheer force.

Isaac’s focus narrowed, and his ears rustled, hearing the approaching death. Euclid spoke within him, a warning and encouragement, but the boy couldn’t hear him.

His mind was within the splinter of transparent silica.

Blood dripped down his nose as his consciousness expanded, for his grand intelligence was not simple. With just his mental strength, without an ounce of experience, he slammed his mind against the crack with the instinct of a trapped animal.

All that came was a dull thud and a burst of vessels in his nose. The wall was unaffected, save a minor expansion on the crack. More crimson dripped down, a significant amount for a teen of his size.

With few options, Pythagoras struck out his hand again, pathetically, without the previous momentum. The spiderwebs barely moved from his force, deepening his despair. In the gate’s reflection, he could see them get closer. All he could do was watch, frozen with the leaking blood. Fifty feet. Forty feet. Thirty feet.

The boy looked around, grasping at metaphorical straws, until he noticed the steam seething from his left arm.

Steam. Thermo. How? Doesn’t matter. Heat. Heat. Fire. Glass. Ice. It’ll work!

Through his panic, Archimedes found a calm he didn’t possess. The scrambling mind, with far too much power and wisdom to ever relax, settled after expending its vibrancy.

His left arm flexed, the air around it heating to a near-boiling degree, and pressed against the freezing glass.

Heat met cold within the cracked glass, and the expansion of the crystals within the wall burst it apart at the seams. With a rare laugh, Archimedes stepped through the door, stumbling forward into the hallway of the Heron’s Wing. He had done it. He had made it to the Heron’s Wing. His eyes scanned the passage in bliss, taking in the incredible technology.

Then he slipped, the gushing blood from his feet too much for his uncoordinated nerves and muscles.

Isaac collapsed to his knees, chest heaving with exhaustion as he skidded across the floor. The rush of power within him was like a furnace, the heat from his left side mingling with the chilling frost that had taken root in his right. He couldn’t control it, not properly, but he couldn’t stop—couldn’t rest. The Dirge were still after him.

He scrambled forward, reaching for the power box on the wall near the docking mechanism as he properly entered the Heron’s Wing. His fingers fumbled over the controls, his mind working frantically to override the lock commands. Each second stretched as he keyed in the sequence, stealing glances at the creatures closing in on him through the corridor, their black eyes glinting with hunger.

Twenty feet.

Ten feet.

“Come on, come on!” he shouted, raising his voice to the loudest he ever had. His fingers jerked as he bypassed the safety protocols, overriding the docking system’s automated commands. Starships were never meant to undock this quickly and without lowering the walls alongside raising another airlock. Nonetheless, there were always exceptions.

All automated systems needed an admin. That was a literal law, written into code for what terrors humanity had left in their wake.

Five feet.

The mechanism accepted his input, bending before his combined mind and skill, and with a heavy shudder, the hallway connecting the two ships retracted.

Zero.

The Dirge screeched in protest as the docking corridor folded inward, the walls collapsing and crushing anything within their path. One by one, the creatures were trapped. Their frantic movements halted as the structure compressed, snuffing them out with a series of sickening crunches.

But one was too close. It dived toward Archimedes, lusting after his flesh and the power he held within him.

Archimedes held his breath, frozen as he watched the internal airlock of the Heron’s Wing slam shut with the force to cleave steel.

Half. The Dirge made it halfway through as the lower half of the feline Anaphage sliced itself at its ribs. Two forelimbs, a maw, and copious liters of blood flew toward the young boy. It landed inches in front of him, already unbreathing as it rolled without life.

Silence returned, broken only by the low hum of the Heron’s Wing’s engines. Archimedes let out a shaky sigh as he stared into the beast’s eyes, slumping back against the cold metal wall when his legs gave out beneath him. His chest rose and fell as he struggled to breathe, the exertion of the escape and the power of Euclid’s spirit taking their toll.

He could feel the frost dissipating from his right arm, the intense chill easing while the steam evaporated, leaving his left arm swollen and red, yet a faint trace of Euclid’s presence remained.

“I did it,” Arch whispered while closing his eyes, the weight of his exhaustion almost too heavy to bear. Euclid’s spirit pulsed within him, a steady and reassuring rhythm that mirrored his heartbeat, as if the hound, too, was savoring their survival.

For the first time in a long time, Archimedes felt something other than fear, something other than the endless struggle to survive. He felt hope—a tiny, fragile spark that burned brightly against the darkness of his lidded eyes.

Those eyes, however, opened and beamed toward the center of the starship. A delicate light bloomed behind Archimedes’ eyes, and the boy crawled toward the Skull, slathering a trail of blood from his feet behind him.

In just a few minutes, he traversed from the edge of the starship toward the central command. There, the systems were still online, waiting for their owners to return.

The instant Arch saw the consoles, tools, and expensive tech, the pain of his bleeding feet vanished. His heart beat with exhilaration, and he dropped his hands to the keyboard below, beginning to break into the Heron’s Wing in a way only he could.

Soon, it would belong to him.