• The One With Amethyst Eyes

Purple?

They were actually purple, like dark drops of amethyst on a white canvas. In fact, after a clearer inspection, he saw that the color of eyes was the same dark, oil-slick shade as the [Writhe of Command].

A ripple of shock ran through him. He blinked, but the color remained. He blinked again and again but it seemed that there was no going back to the blue eyes he had inherited from the former Deremiah. Purple was the color now.

But then he noticed something else, something even more shocking than his apparent eyes of lavender. His jawline was strong, his face was clear, his brows were as sharp as blades, and his lips were full and red.

With those deep purple eyes staring back at him, Deremiah came to a realization.

'I'm… handsome?'

He laughed softly at himself. 'What a day I'm having. How is this the same face that I saw inside that bathroom? This can't be right. This must be a trick of the firelight.'

In truth, his face was the same face he had when he woke up in the bathroom. Except that now, it was without fault, without blemish, pure and without corruption.

It reminded him of videos on social media where average or ugly looking guys hit the gym and worked on themselves then suddenly turned to a handsome prince from the times of Camelot.

That was exactly what he was seeing and it completely made sense now why Mist had acted the way she did towards him.

His fingers brushed over his own face, as if testing its new shape. 'What even could be the cause of this?' he wondered.

It could be the work of the Inquisitor. Perhaps when he had asked him to bring him back fully healed, he must have healed every blemish in his body.

Or it could be the work of the [Writhe of Command]. Perhaps its presence within him had somehow turned him into a chiseled model.

It could also simply be because he awakened his soul core. However, beauty increased alongside one's Echelon, the presence of Aether or even Void didn't just instantly turn one beautiful, it took time, increasing alongside the person's power.

Speaking of the [Writhe of Command], Deremiah placed his sword on the ground, lifted his head and glanced around to make sure no one was watching.

After making sure, he extended his hand and summoned the corruptive Technique. After what had happened with the sword and what just happened with his face, Deremiah was more and more impatient to study the Technique.

As usual, he felt the warm, pulsating sensation of it surging through his outstretched hand and swirling out of his palm, appearing as a liquid, oily substance floating above him.

'What are you?' Deremiah wondered, watching it dance, coil and swirl.

That was when a thought struck him. By inserting his will into the liquid, it shaped into a simple circle, an orb rather, having no edges.

Deremiah tried again. He willed it to create a star and the liquid responded instantly, shaping into a star. Seeing it was actually working, he attempted many other simple shapes and the [Writhe of Command] obeyed and created all of them.

But Deremiah wasn't done. He wanted to know the depths of this intriguing power. The curiosity that came with being a fantasy writer urged him and so he willed the Writhe to create something more complicated.

This time, a car.

Deremiah froze, instantly stunned. The Technique actually did it. It morphed into a small car, floating right in front of his face.

This discovery left him speechless and even thoughtless for a while. He realized that the liquid was not bound to the possibilities of the world he was in but rather the world in his mind.

His imagination was the only thing that could limit it.

To be certain of this, Deremiah willed it to form a pistol, a charger, a pair of converse shoes, and for every imagination of an object that didn't exist in Uxetor, the [Writhe of Command] was still able to create.

This discovery was exhilarating and even still, left him with more questions.

He so badly wanted to explore more, but he found the powerful force of sleep starting to overtake him. So, Deremiah decided to expand on his discovery tomorrow.

He retracted the Writhe back into his palm, lowered his hands and closed his eyes.

But unbeknownst to him, some distance away, a pair of wide, frightened eyes watched from the shadows. Pallock had seen everything.

Deremiah slept rather soundly, oblivious of it. How he woke up on the other hand, was very different.

☆ ☆ ☆

A rough hand clutched him by his collar and yanked him upward, jolting him awake even though not fully.

Deremiah blinked, feeling dazed as the sound of rushing footsteps and the smell of dust filled his senses. The fog in his eyes cleared and he saw Alfis standing over him.

The first thing Deremiah thought was yeah, Alfis was about to rain punches down on him for 'stealing Mist from him,' but he saw the boy's mouth open wide and yell straight into his face.

"Wake up, you damn slummer!"

Alfis's voice was harsh and it snapped Deremiah awake in an instant. His eyes darted around and he saw that everywhere was in chaos.

Someone was shouting. No, people were shouting. There were sounds of swords clashing against each other and there was heavy panic in the air.

Deremiah sprang up instantly and picked up his sword, his heart racing as he tried to make sense of the madness unfolding around. Right in front of him, Mist struck down what seemed to be a fellow participant.

She turned around to Alfis who approached and stood beside her. "Have you woken Deremiah up?" she asked.

Alfis looked at her and nodded. "Yes."

Deremiah's head spun as someone attacked from behind him. Faya blocked the attack with her sword and Mist pivoted, slashing the enemy's chest open with an arc of her blade.

Deremiah remained frozen, heart beating, mind reeling. He looked at Alfis and asked, "What is going on?"

Alfis grimaced. "What the hell do you think, slummer? It's an ambush."