"Hey... what is it this time?"
Frustration flickered in his chest, though he wasn't particularly surprised.
By now, he was getting used to the fact that his bizarre, uncategorized powers never came with a convenient instruction manual.
"Alright. Let's take it from the top."
He took a slow breath and willed the shadowy chains to appear.
Clang.
They snapped into existence instantly, hovering around him, humming with fluid, absolute obedience.
No issues there.
Then he shifted his focus back to the crimson shards.
They materialized on command, but even to the naked eye, they looked dull, almost rusted.
They completely lacked the vicious, razor-sharp lethality they had possessed when he unleashed them against the shadow-beasts invading his sanctuary, or when he had hurled them at Hector.
Maybe it's just a raw energy issue. I just don't have enough gas in the tank.
Gil took a deep breath, centered his mind, and focused entirely on the flow of power within his ethereal core.
He willed a single crimson shard to materialize, floating right in front of him.
Then, he began to force-feed it.
He poured as much of his internal energy—whatever that strange, burning substance in his soul actually was—directly into the crystal.
He poured energy into it for what felt like an eternity.
The results, however, were thoroughly mixed.
Sure, the shard expanded.
It swelled in size, growing larger and larger until it hovered before him like a massive, jagged crimson boulder.
But looking at it closely, something about it felt deeply off. It felt empty, ringing hollow in his senses. It was huge, yes, but it lacked density; it was a bloated shell missing real substance, about as deadly as a giant piece of red glass.
Gil sighed, letting the massive, fragile crystal dissolve back into faint red dust.
"Well... that's only half of the puzzle," he muttered to himself, rubbing his temples with his single hand.
If raw energy just bloated the form without making it truly lethal, and unbridled emotion made it wild and dangerously uncontrolled... what the hell was missing?
"So what else does it take?" he asked the silence of his sanctuary, staring at his glowing palm. "There's got to be a catalyst."
Gil stared at the hovering red crystal dust, mentally tracing back through every single moment he had successfully used them.
And then, the answer struck him with terrifying clarity.
Emotions.
If the chains were the physical manifestation of his desire for control—his desperate need to set rules, to bind, to grasp, and to master a chaotic situation—then the shards were the exact opposite.
They were the physical embodiment of his raw aggression, his instinct to survive, and his deepest, most destructive impulses.
When the beast tore off his arm, when the shadows invaded his mind, when Hector stood over him mocking his existence—in every single one of those moments, the shards had deployed with blinding, horrific power.
Because in those moments, he wasn't trying to control anything.
He was furious. He wanted to rip his enemies to shreds.
Let's test the theory, he thought grimly.
Gil closed his eyes and summoned the image of Hector standing directly in front of him.
He didn't just picture the man's face; he forced himself to relive the agonizing humiliation of that fight.
He recalled the absolute helplessness, the feeling of his body breaking, the sickening arrogance in Hector's voice before he knocked Gil unconscious and dragged him into this underground hell.
A low, animalistic growl escaped Gil's throat. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth gritted painfully.
"Hector..." he spat.
WHOOSH!
Without a conscious thought, a massive crimson shard materialized and shot forward like an artillery shell, screaming through the cosmic air. It crashed into the starlight soil, tearing a deep, jagged trench across the floating island.
Gil blinked, looking at the devastation. The size, the deep blood-red hue, the sheer velocity—it was night and day compared to his earlier limp attempt.
Yet, as he stared at the smoking tear in the ground, Gil narrowed his eyes.
It's stronger... but it can be stronger, I can feel it.
Then, a specific memory surfaced.
He flashed back to that brutal moment in the arena, pinned down and staring into the gullet of the beast.
He remembered the exact thought that had pierced through the sheer terror right before his arm was ripped away: If I'm going down, I'm taking as much of this bastard with me as I possibly can.
It wasn't just blind, chaotic rage, and it wasn't a cold, empty dumping of raw energy. It was a sharp, focused, spiteful resolve to destroy.
Immediately, the shift in his sanctuary was night and day.
The air crackled with a far deeper, more concentrated pressure.
Gil subconsciously mimicked the biting motion, channeling that exact, razor-sharp intent, and willed it into form. The crimson crystals didn't just swell like hollow balloons this time—they condensed, hardening with a terrifying, dense lethality.
His intent wove dozens of floating shards into a massive, snapping jaw of crimson glass suspended in mid-air.
It hovered above the starry soil, radiating an ominous heat and carrying almost the exact same bone-crushing pressure as the day he had first unleashed them.
Snap!
The floating jaws clapped shut, sending a localized shockwave through the ethereal air.
Gil let out a slow breath, a grim smile tugging at the corner of his lips and fleeting red light flashes in his eyes as the deadly jaw dissolved back into glowing dust.
"Progress," he murmured, flexing his ethereal left hand. "Slow, but it's progress. Still... I can feel it. I can do even better than this."
Reaching even deeper into his psyche, past his cold hatred for Hector, he searched for the rawest, darkest core of his turmoil...
He reached far deeper, summoning a memory much more recent.
His breathing hitched violently as the horrifying image flooded his mind. Instinctively, his right hand flew across his chest to grab his left shoulder.
He remembered waking up. The cold, hollow terror of realizing he was no longer whole.
He remembered Hector standing over him, dismissive and condescending, telling him he was getting off easy.
He remembered the humiliating weight of Hector pinning him to the bed like a helpless animal, forcing him to endure the absolute helplessness of his ruined body.
The cold rage that had fermented in his chest exploded into something raw, primal, and suffocating—a scorching desire to destroy the man, to tear him limb from limb, to inflict every unthinkable horror his mind could conjure.
His features twisted in a mask of unadulterated rage, his eyes reddening.
Without him making a single conscious gesture, the air around him fractured.
Dozens—hundreds—of razor-sharp crimson shards burst into existence.
They multiplied uncontrollably, swarming like ravenous locusts with no rhythm or order. The golden iris of his inner eye bled into a deep, volatile red.
The crimson crystals tore through the cosmic atmosphere, slashing through the empty air and shredding the starry soil as if violently dicing an invisible enemy that was everywhere and nowhere at once.
Lost in the storm of his own imaginary vengeance, he hadn't even realized that beyond just his eyes, his very form—the silhouette he took in this realm—was beginning to shift.
The warm, golden radiance that usually composed his body was bleeding into a menacing, dark crimson hue.
Yet he just kept staring blankly into the void, as if he could see Hector right in front of him, envisioning every terrible thing he wanted to inflict upon the man, completely consumed by his own rage.
As the transformation deepened, he gritted his teeth as his fingernails elongated slowly into sharp claws. His hair shortened, turning a dangerous shade of red.
But before the change could go any further—the golden orb at the heart of his sanctuary let out a single, sharp pulse.
Oooooohmmmm.
It was like a bucket of ice water poured directly over his head, and unbeknownst to him, the changes he was undergoing reverted back swiftly as if nothing had ever happened.
Gil snapped out of the trance, gasping for breath as he looked around at the sheer, terrifying ruin he had wrought upon his island.
Deep, jagged trenches carved up the ground; the crimson shards vibrated in mid-air, humming with horrific, unstable lethality.
Yes... this is it, he realized, a cold sweat breaking out on his soul.
Yet, looking at the chaos around him, a chill ran down his spine.
The destructive force is unbelievable, but... I lost myself for a second back there. If this happens in the middle of a real fight with Hector... brute force won't matter if I lose my head.
Too much control, and the shards were weak. Not enough control, and they became strong, but...
He didn't need to finish the thought. The red shards were a double-edged sword. If he couldn't find the balance between cold discipline and raw instinct, his own power would consume him long before Hector ever did.
Unfortunately, that recent outburst had completely drained his reserves once again.
Feeling the sudden wave of mental fatigue crash over him, Gil sank back down onto the celestial soil.
He decided to put his training on hold for now and return to simply staring up at the endless, glowing expanse of the Milky Way, waiting for his energy to slowly recharge.
Bit by bit, as he gazed into the quiet starry void, his mind drifted. Exhaustion finally won, and he slid into a deep, dreamless sleep—completely forgetting that he had intended to test his powers further.
He had no idea how much time passed while he slept in that tranquil space.
When he woke anew, feeling refreshed, he wanted to go back to it—to find that middle ground, to learn how to use the shards without losing himself in rage.
But...
Before he could dive deeper into his training, his instincts flared.
A gaze. Someone was watching him.
Instantly back on guard, Gil raised his hands.
CLANG!
The shadowy chains whipped into existence around him, interweaving with the floating crimson shards to form a lethal, defensive perimeter.
He scanned the starry expanse, searching for another shadow-beast or invader.
Nothing.
The cosmic space was completely empty.
Gil paused, frowning.
Wait... is there even anything left in here that can threaten me?
He held his breath, tracing the strange, prickling sensation on his skin.
It wasn't coming from the island. It wasn't coming from the stars.
It's coming from the outside.
In an instant, his ethereal form dissolved, vacating his sanctuary in a heartbeat.
Gil snapped his eyes open in the underground hall.
Around him, the other captives were still fast asleep, proving his theory that time moved far slower in his inner sanctuary.
But he had no time to celebrate his discovery.
Someone was standing right over him—dangerously close, silent as a ghost.
It wasn't Greg, nor was it Kuro.
It was her.
Gil tensed every muscle in his body, his single remaining hand coiling into a tight, defensive fist as he met the purple gaze staring down at him in the dark.
Damn it, Gil thought, his heart turning to ice. I almost forgot about this one.