Valkorath Realm, Soraya City.

Inside the Purification Tower, Orion's mirrored avatar trembled violently, its entire surface a crawling mass of curse runes. Despite the agony, its eyes remained shut, showing no sign of waking.

Within the bloodline space, the battle raged on.

The Devouring Beast was no longer recognizable. It had become some kind of bipedal kaiju bristling with spikes, a nightmarish fusion of monster and living fortress. As it consumed more and more of the bloodline curse-fiends, the runes covering its body grew denser, and the spikes multiplied. The spines would periodically bloom like flesh-blossoms, revealing faces trapped within—visages of grief, rage, avarice, and despair.

The Devouring Beast had become a bigger, more terrifying version of the very monsters it was fighting.

…devour them…

…who are you… who am I?

…what are you doing here…

…GRRAAAHH…

It was an indescribable, horrifying sensation. Orion realized with a sinking feeling of dread that as his avatar grew stronger, his control over it was paradoxically weakening. With every monster he consumed, a maddening chorus of three distinct whispers echoed in his mind. Their words were a meaningless, insidious drone that frayed his sanity and chipped away at his authority over his own form.

The curse runes on his body pulsed, growing darker and more defined. He had the sickening feeling that this wasn't a battle at all. The curse-fiends weren't fighting him; they were joining him, willingly being absorbed to overwhelm him from the inside out.

Out! Get the fuck OUT!

Orion roared in the chaos of his own mind, a primal act of self-preservation on the ragged edge of insanity. He was furious.

Get the fuck out of me, you goddamn parasites! OUT OF ME!

As an Awakened, raw, unfiltered rage was his anchor. The familiar, guttural act of cursing was a way to claw his way back to himself, a lifeline to his own identity. It bought him a single, precious moment of clarity.

He looked down and, to his horror, saw that the lower half of his body had morphed into something resembling a grotesque ball gown. The skirt of corrupted flesh spread across the floor of the mindscape, its train stretching into the unseen distance. And from that distance, more twisted figures were running towards him, not to attack, but to merge seamlessly into the gown, their essence becoming new curse runes that swarmed up his legs.

Get off me! GET THE FUCK OFF ME!

Panic flared, but it was quickly consumed by a white-hot fury. This was his body, his mind. An invasion. He understood the problem: the Scroll of the Devouring Avatar was, at its core, a low-level skill. The sliver of cosmic law it granted him was a candle in a hurricane, easily battered and overwhelmed by the sheer, raw power of the bloodline curse.

What do I do? How the hell do I break this?

He scanned his prison. The gown was spreading faster now. If he didn't stop it, he would lose control completely. He would be subsumed, dissolved into a puddle of sentient curse, a living banquet to nourish the unknown entity lurking at its heart. His entire plan would end in catastrophic failure.

Think… dammit, think…

He whispered the words, a desperate mantra. He threw his head back and roared at the blood-red sky, a cry of pure, helpless frustration. He had nothing.

Then, a spark. An idea born of pure desperation.

UP!

The Devouring Beast coiled its powerful legs and launched itself upward in a colossal leap. It rose toward the crimson heavens, dragging the massive, fleshy train of the gown with it. The weight was immense, an anchor of damned souls trying to pull him back down into the mire.

Orion had expected this. He ignored the strain, ignored the tearing sensation, and just kept jumping, pouring every ounce of his will into gaining altitude. The gown, dragged from the ground, billowed up behind him like a storm-tossed sheet of silk, a spectacle of grotesque beauty.

And then, a voice. Not the whispers of the curse, but something else. Ancient, powerful, and resonant. It wasn't just in his ears; it was in his very soul.

…Will is the storm… Will is the blade… Use your will to shape your mind…

…What you think, you are.

ROAR!

Orion felt a surge of something alien and profound. He didn't understand the words intellectually, but on a primal level, he knew. He had learned something.

ROAR!

He roared again, but this time it was different. He wasn't just screaming; he was mimicking the voice, matching its divine frequency. His mind, once clouded with panic, was now filled with a single, epic image: a mythical bird of impossible scale, rising on the wind to soar beyond the heavens.

ROAR!

His will had never been so focused, his fighting spirit never so absolute.

SKREEE-AAAWWW!

Suddenly, a new sound ripped from the Devouring Beast's throat. It was not a roar. It was a cry that was part raptor, part dragon, part something far older, filled with a primordial power that shook the foundations of the mindscape.

It was the cry of a Roc.

As he willed it, he became it. The Devouring Beast's form shifted mid-air. Its arms stretched, broadened, and became immense wings. The grotesque gown that had been his anchor was now his fuel. With the speed of a time-lapse, it surged up into his new form, absorbed and reforged.

In moments, a great, wrathful storm-bird whose wings blotted out the sky dominated the blood-red heavens. The only comical detail was the thin, viscous tendril of curse-liquid still connecting it to the ground below, like the string of a monstrous, world-sized kite.

A mythic, epic grandeur filled him. My survival… it's up here!

SKREEE-AAAWWW!

The great bird beat its wings, dragging the last vestiges of its prison with it as it climbed, breaking through layer after layer of the crimson mist that served as a sky. For a delirious moment, he could almost hear a triumphant orchestral blast, a hero's theme heralding his ascent. It wasn't just in his head; it was real, a manifestation of his own triumphant mind.

He was finally breaking through the clouds to see the sun.

After bursting through the final layer of mist, beams of pure, azure light rained down upon the great bird. Orion knew. He had won.

SKREEE! SKREEE! SKREEE!

Nine piercing cries in succession, each one a release of all his rage, his fear, his frustration.

Under the purifying light, the curse runes covering his body began to sizzle and melt away, dissolving not into nothing, but into a potent, liquid essence that was reabsorbed, nourishing him. And this wasn't the end. The kite string, the last connection to the curse below, had now become a siphon. He was no longer the consumed, but the consumer.

The war wasn't over. But now, he was fighting on his terms. He had found an unbeatable strategy.

…Will is the storm… Will is the blade… Use your will to shape your mind…

With the tide turned, Orion recalled the voice. It was the voice of a titan god. It had been his guide, and it had taught him how to fight back.

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