The cold wind whipped around Xylos, rustling the brittle leaves of the ancient cave he called home. Years of quiet seclusion, years spent in the relentless pursuit of cultivation, had culminated in this moment. His scales, a deep, iridescent obsidian, shimmered in the obsidian moonlight. He had reached the Nascent Soul stage, his core a pulsing ember of power, and with it, the freedom to finally enact his plan.

Humans. They were a festering wound on the face of this world, a plague of destruction and greed. Xylos remembered the terror of his youth, the frantic dives into burrows as a younger serpent as human armies marched through his forest, their laughter as they toppled ancient trees echoing in his very bones. Their insatiable hunger for resources had decimated the landscape, leaving scars that still burned in the very soul of this world.

But fear was a memory now, a faint whisper in the roar of power that coursed through his veins. He had spent the last few years in intense meditation, pouring over ancient texts and drawing upon the innate magic that flowed within him. He had pushed himself to the brink, experimenting, failing, and rising again, driven by the cold, calculating ambition that had been born from the depths of his experiences. And now, finally, he had done it.

The technique he had birthed was not a simple feat of transformation. It was an act of creation, a blending of his serpentine essence with the very essence of humanity. He held out a scaled claw, the tip glinting like obsidian, and carefully pricked it with a sharpened fang. A single drop of blood welled up, crimson against the dark scales. Xylos focused his will, his consciousness resonating with the life force within the single drop. He poured his cold heart into it, not warmth, but the unyielding determination that burned within. The drop shivered, then pulsed. And then, with an almost audible pop, it began to change.

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It expanded, the crimson transforming to pale pink. Skin formed over the pulsing mass, smooth and unblemished. It grew longer, bone and muscle forming beneath the surface. Soon, a small humanoid figure lay before Xylos on the forest floor. The figure was perfect in its imitation of a young human, with fine dark hair and delicate features. But within, it was him, imprinted with his cunning, his resolve, and his cold, serpentine intellect. This was his construct, his spy, his instrument of retribution.

"You will be called 'Kael,'" Xylos hissed, his voice a low rumble. "You will blend in, observe, and learn. You will send back all that you see, all that you hear. And when the time is right, you will take back what is ours."

The blood clone, Kael, opened its eyes. They were the same cold, unblinking obsidian as Xylos' own. It gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, a gesture of obedience that resonated with the creator's own ruthless efficiency.

Xylos watched as Kael, now clad in simple travel clothes he had prepared, moved into the shadows, disappearing into the night. He was alone, yes, but not lonely. He had a purpose, a clarity he had never known before. The weight of years, the injustices he had witnessed, all coalesced into a burning desire for change. He would not stand idly by and watch as the humans continued to bleed this world dry.

He knew this was just the first step, a single tendril reaching into the heart of the human realm. In time, perhaps, other monsters, those who had suffered as he had, would see the path he was forging. Perhaps they would join him, their combined strength a force to be reckoned with, and together, they would reclaim what was rightfully theirs. For now, though, Xylos was content. He had set the wheels in motion, and with a cold, calculating smile, he turned to the rising sun, the harbinger of a new dawn, a dawn where the monsters would no longer hide in the shadows.