The Shadow Veil shudders around me.
Alive. Instinctive.
An entity that waits, that gauges, that calculates.
Not yet tamed. Just raw.
Wild.
Like a blade still incandescent in its forge.
A wave of shivers runs through me.
No control. Just the unknown.
I know I must focus, that I have a choice to make.
But something tells me it won't be that simple.
I close my eyes. I force myself to breathe.
I can shape it... I can tame it…
But it freaks me out.
An intuition tells me I control nothing.
A blinding flash strikes me.
BAM.
— Iris (always calm): First transformation activated.
I look at my hands. I wave them, but… there are gloves. A tight suit. Red and blue. A stylized spider on my chest.
— Me (shocked, disoriented): Wait… What the hell is this?! — Me (panicking, looking around): NO WAY, this is straight-up plagiarism!
BAM. Another flash.
— Iris (impassive): Correction applied.
This time, an orange kimono, a headband with a weird symbol on my forehead. Open sandals.
— Me (muttering, unimpressed): Ah, even worse… now I'm about to get hit with a Razengan by the new generation!
BAM. A third flash.
I look down. A loincloth, oversized muscles, and… golden hair!!
— Me (desperate, wide-eyed): A Black Super Saiyan?! But wait, why am I in a loincloth?! Is this supposed to be stylish or a joke?! — Iris (neutral, but slightly amused): You thought of raw power. The Veil adjusted accordingly. — Me (facepalming, exasperated): Delete everything. Right now. Reset.
BAM.
Silence. A shiver of uncertainty runs through me. A moment of hesitation. I lift my eyes, unsure.
— Me: I… I didn't want this.
The transformation. The weight of choices. This moment. This moment that can change everything.
— Me: I… I don't know if I'm ready.
Maybe I could still go back.
But… this power…
What if I let the Veil take control, just this once?
I close my eyes for a moment, as if I could reverse the course of things.
— Me: Maybe I… No!
But it's already done. It's too late.
The vertigo strikes me, and I have no other option.
BAM.
This time, it's the right one.
Black. Menacing. Fluid.
My alter ego. Dark Iluzion.
The Cloak.
A trench coat of abyssal black.
It reflects nothing. It captures no light. It devours it.
No defined edges. Just a shifting silhouette, oscillating between the tangible and the immaterial.
Sometimes a cape. Sometimes sharp tendrils. Sometimes nothing.
It tears and reforms like a restless entity waiting for a command.
The Armor.
It is not worn upon me. It is me.
Alive. Organic. It feels like it's consuming me with every movement.
A weight. Not just on my body, but on my soul.
Every fiber reacts to my muscles.
Vibrates with them. Breathes with me.
On my chest?
A black eye, engraved into the material.
Empty. Omniscient. It sees. It knows.
The Gloves.
Smooth. Solid.
And on impact?
They harden. Absorb. Amplify.
On my middle finger, a ring of influence.
A thought. An impulse. Creation takes shape.
Instantly reconstructed through the Veil.
Perfect. Lethal.
The Lower Half.
Dark pants. Adaptive. Alive.
Shifting patterns glide across the surface.
My Boots?
— Me (lightheartedly): Way better than my old sandals!
No sound. No echo.
Just an inexorable stride.
A single press, and they release retractable claws.
To climb. To slash. To kill.
The Face.
No mask.
I'm already too good-looking.
— Me (with a smirk): Yeah, my mom told me so!
Nothing to hide. Just a violet glow under my eyes.
Subtle. Almost absent. But real. Spectral.
A luminous slit gleaming like a gaze from another plane.
Cold. Unfathomable.
My Dreadlocks.
Black. Braided.
A few strands threaded with filaments of shadow reacting to the Veil's energy.
They quiver, vibrate, breathe with me.
The Attitude.
Nothing superfluous.
Just fluid movement.
Controlled.
Every motion is a choice.
The time around me hesitates.
Speeds up. Slows down.
It bends, twists, adapts to my presence.
Dark Iluzion is no longer an avatar.
— Me (big voice): I'm Dark Iluzion.
A presence that dominates.
A shadow that watches. A silent warning.
— Me (mocking, exhilarated): Fire on tar!
I laugh, admiring my own reflection.
— Me (with determination): Step aside, I'm coming through!
— Iris (with a touch of admiration, but ever professional): Adaptation successful, Master. Your appearance now reflects your title and function.
Silence stretches.
The door creaks.
Roch enters.
He stops dead.
His eyes scrutinize me. Frozen.
Speechless.
Time holds its breath.
Then, slowly, a smile forms on his lips.
Mocking.
Challenging.
— Roch (teasing, piercing): So… had a good nap, Pablo?
I stared at him for a moment. Calm.
A forced smile spread across my face.
A veil of uneasy coils in my gut.
The air around us shivers.
— Roch (lower, almost inaudible): You get it now, brother. You finally decided to wear your mantle, huh…
My throat tightens.
Why do I feel like he knows something?