The final night of preparation was a ritual of silence and focus. Zero sat in his high, shadowed alcove, a ghost in his own machine of death. Below him, the main chamber of the Alchemist's Maw lay in a deep, expectant gloom, a perfectly arranged tableau of traps and kill-zones. Every chain was in place. Every line of iron dust was a hidden scar on the floor. Every flask of oil was a pregnant promise of fire. The architectural work was done. The intricate furnishing of the tomb was complete.
But a perfect trap is a useless, impotent thing without its prey.
He knew the Glimmer-Hulk was out there. He could feel its presence as a faint, distant, dissonant hum on the edge of his perception, a low-level static that was a constant reminder of the chaotic storm to come. But he could not afford to wait for it to wander into his web. His supplies were finite. His time, with Tarsus now hunting him, was a rapidly dwindling resource. He had to force the confrontation. He had to seize control of the timeline.
He had to bait the trap.
He sat cross-legged on the cold stone of the alcove, his back pressed against the wall. He closed his eyes, shutting out the physical world, and turned his senses inward. He was about to do something incredibly dangerous, something he had only ever done by accident. He was about to deliberately ring a dinner bell for a monster, using his own soul as the clapper.
The grimoire had described chaotic creatures as being drawn to 'sympathetic resonance'. The Queen, in her psionic whispers, had called it the 'scent' of his dissonance. He understood the principle. He and the beast were two glitches in the same system, two discordant notes in the same grand, orderly song. If he could amplify his own dissonance, if he could scream his own wrongness into the silent, psychic ecosystem of the city, the beast, with its ravenous hunger for chaotic energy, would not be able to resist.
He began the process, not with a shout, but with a whisper. He reached deep inside himself, past the cold, silent shield of the [Callous] skill, and touched the horrifying, corrupted skills that were now a part of him.
First, he focused on the [Flesh Devourer's Strength]. He did not activate it. He simply… listened to it. He felt the cold, gnawing, parasitic hunger that was its constant companion. He focused on the raw, predatory need at its core, the desire to consume, to assimilate, to grow stronger by devouring the life force of others. He let that feeling build, not fighting it, but nurturing it, amplifying it, letting the cold, cannibalistic hunger fill his consciousness until it was a tangible, psychic presence.
Next, he reached for the [Nerve-Wrack Sting]. He felt the faint, buzzing, addictive echo it had left in his nerves. He focused on that feeling, on the memory of the chaotic, purple energy erupting from his palm. He recalled the sensation of absolute, neurological dominance, the intoxicating thrill of overwhelming another's system with a jolt of pure, anarchic power. He nurtured that feeling too, letting the psycho-addictive craving rise to the surface, a high-pitched, vibrating hum of pure, weaponized chaos.
He began to weave the two sensations together. The low, bass thrum of the predatory hunger and the high, whining shriek of the neurological poison. It was a deeply unnatural, dissonant harmony, a chord of pure, monstrous intent. He was composing a symphony of his own corruption.
The Glitch System reacted. Unstable, white-text warnings began to flash in his mind's eye, no longer just a UI, but a direct, internal response to what he was doing.
[WARNING: HOST IS DELIBERATELY AMPLIFYING SOUL-KERNEL DISSONANCE.]
[SYSTEM INSTABILITY RISING. PSYCHIC INTEGRITY AT 74% AND FALLING.]
[CONTINUED AMPLIFICATION MAY RESULT IN PERMANENT SOUL-DATA CORRUPTION.]
He ignored the warnings. The risk was calculated. Necessary.
He took a deep, centering breath, and then he pushed. He took the swirling, chaotic symphony of his own corrupted power and broadcast it outwards. It was not a physical act. It was an act of pure will, a focused, directed psionic scream that ripped through the undercity's psychic ecosystem. It was a silent, screaming invitation, a message sent on a frequency only one other creature in the city could possibly hear.
"I am here. I am chaos. I am a feast. Come and get me."
The effect was instantaneous. He felt a faint, distant, but undeniable response. The low, dissonant hum of the Glimmer-Hulk, which had been a meandering, ambient presence miles away, suddenly spiked. It was as if a sleeping beast had just had its head snapped up, its attention instantly, absolutely captured.
He felt the beast's own chaotic signature shift. The meandering, searching pattern vanished. It was replaced by a new, singular, and terrifyingly direct vector. A straight, unwavering line of pure, predatory intent. It was heading directly for him.
A slow, cold smile touched Zero's lips. The beast had taken the bait.
He severed the broadcast, pulling his chaotic energy back in, wrapping himself in a cloak of psychic silence once more. The chamber was quiet again. But the silence was different now. It was no longer a passive, waiting thing. It was the held breath before the plunge, the taut, vibrating silence of a drawn bowstring just moments before the arrow is loosed.
He opened his eyes. He rose to his feet in the darkness of the alcove, his movements fluid and precise. He laid out his few remaining tools. The small, sharp skinning knife. A handful of heavy, dense ball bearings—a more aerodynamic, more lethal projectile than a simple stone. And the final, critical component: a small, flint-and-steel striker.
He was ready.
He looked down at his perfect, silent kill-box. He was a ghost in a machine of his own making, a god in a tiny, handcrafted universe of death. He had studied his enemy. He had designed the battlefield. He had sent the invitation. All that was left was to welcome his guest.
He could feel the Glimmer-Hulk's approach, its chaotic resonance growing stronger with every passing second, a rapidly approaching storm front of pure, unadulterated chaos. It was moving fast, its glimmering teleports carrying it through the undercity's labyrinth with an unnatural, terrifying speed.
Five minutes. Maybe less.
Zero leaned back against the cold stone of the alcove, his breathing slow and even, his heart a steady, metronomic drum. The fear, the doubt, the last, lingering echoes of the terrified boy named Ashe, were gone. There was only the cold, clean, and beautifully simple certainty of the coming confrontation.
The curtain was about to rise.