Damien was hardly ever left speechless—but not a single word would come out of his mouth right now. The sight before him was beyond anything he could've imagined, something he would've thought belonged in a myth or dream. It was breathtaking. At the top of each of the eight towering golden walls before him was etched a single word—each one a classification.
Attack.
Defense.
Mobility.
Magic.
Transformation.
Utility.
Control.
Healing.
A glowing line separated each class name from the abilities beneath it, forming an elegant hierarchy. And within those classes, each ability was divided further into ranks, from S rank at the very top to D rank at the bottom. It was a pyramid, widening as it descended. The higher the rank, the fewer the abilities—just as he'd expect. There were hundreds, maybe even a thousand, of the D-ranked ones. And only a handful in S.
He stepped closer, reading through the names, letting his eyes and mind swim in the endless text carved into gold. His brain couldn't keep up.
Damien felt something odd stir in his chest—a blend of awe, confusion, and the creeping edge of unease. There was no known system like this. No Deviant had ever mentioned a soul space with this kind of organization or this sheer volume of power. Your soul was supposed to be a reflection of yourself, a place to strengthen your energy… not a cosmic library stacked with thousands of abilities like some mystical pawn shop.
"How…" Damien's brow furrowed. The thought surfaced uninvited, almost whispered. "How did that idiot acquire all of these?"
There had to be over ten thousand abilities in total. Considering there were only a few thousand living Deviants in the world, even the idea of gathering this many powers seemed absurd.
Unless… he stole them.
Even thinking it made Damien feel crazy.
Interrupting his spiraling thoughts, the man on the throne—his twin, who looked exactly like him—grinned. "Who are you calling an idiot? It took you four whole hours to find your soul. An idiot could do it in three!"
Damien blinked, startled. His inner thoughts had been broadcast again. Damn it. He shook his head, more to shake off his embarrassment than to deny anything. He still hadn't figured out how to keep the voice out when he truly wanted to.
Trying to shift the conversation, Damien asked what he'd wanted to ask from the moment he saw the walls.
"…How did you manage to store all of these?"
The voice leaned back in the throne and shrugged with infuriating casualness. "Oh, you know. I picked them up off the floor."
It took every ounce of restraint not to scream. Damien almost snapped, ready to chew him out for never giving a straight answer—but then remembered. The voice could sense emotions. And what would it do if it didn't like his tone?
'Who knows if that thing would kill me just because I got mad.' The thought chilled him. 'I should probably treat him with more respect…'
"Don't worry," the voice said in a mock-reassuring tone, clearly enjoying himself. "My humble godliness would never hurt you, little goblin."
Damien reflexively slapped a hand over his mouth, as if that could somehow block his thoughts from leaking out. Of course, it didn't. His consciousness was still undisciplined. Still open.
Another thought crept up anyway. Can I even believe him?
The being didn't hesitate. "I couldn't hurt you even if I wanted to. Come here—I'll show you."
Damien approached cautiously, stepping away from the eight golden walls and toward the throne. Each footstep echoed faintly across the marble-like floor, reminding him he was deep inside his own soul. His own essence.
He studied the man sitting on the throne as he moved closer. It was strange to see a version of himself like this. Damien had never considered himself especially handsome, unlike Charles or Luka. But still, there was something strong in his own features: sharp eyes, defined cheekbones, and a quiet intensity.
The voice interrupted his thoughts, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Yes, yes, we're so pretty. Now stop admiring us and stick your hand out. Like this." The figure held out a hand, palm facing Damien.
Damien hesitated. He didn't know what would happen, but curiosity tugged at him harder than caution. Slowly, he raised his hand to match. Their palms nearly touched.
A sharp force struck between them.
BOOM.
An invisible wall flung the throne—and the voice in it—flying backward like a ragdoll. The entire chair sailed through the air for what looked like thirty meters before slamming to a stop.
"Hurts every time," the voice groaned with a painful laugh, legs still tangled in the throne like a bug flipped on its back.
Damien stared in stunned silence. He didn't leave the chair…
That detail struck him.
"Hey," he called out, "how come you're still stuck in that thing? Don't tell me a powerful god like yourself can't move without his little chair."
The voice groaned louder. "Oh, you know. A bit of this, a bit of that. Got sealed, got stuck. Just another Tuesday."
Damien raised an eyebrow, but the joke didn't land. If this being was powerful enough to create or store all of these abilities… what sealed it? What kind of monster could take down something like that?
The voice must've heard his thoughts but didn't comment this time. That in itself was almost more unsettling.
Instead, he groaned dramatically. "Would you come help me up, please? I think the blood's rushing to my head. Even super important gods get dizzy, you know."
Damien tilted his head and smirked. "Won't I just send you flying deeper into my soul if I touch you?"
"Wow. The little goblin actually learned something. You just earned a cookie." The voice's sarcasm was thick enough to taste. "You can't touch me directly, but lifting the chair should be fine. Just don't get handsy."
Still bitter about the cookie comment, Damien hesitated. But his curiosity pushed him forward. Besides… he didn't think the voice could hurt him. Not right now.
"Only if you ask nicely," Damien said with a grin.
The voice sighed. "Will you please pick me up, oh generous Damien, so I can teach you how to use this place?"
Satisfied, Damien stepped forward, carefully avoiding skin-to-skin contact as he gripped the back of the throne and hauled it upright. It was surprisingly light.
Once upright, the twin version of himself settled back into place and gave a small nod of thanks.
Damien looked down at him, a crooked smile spreading across his face. "Alright, teach me. Please."
The voice returned the smile—this one far too knowing.
"Oh, I intend to."