***
{Inside The Projection}
Malik looked down at the blade.
The engravings along the steel caught his eye. Old Tongue carved with immaculate precision—a precision he never thought possible.
As anyone would expect, he couldn’t read it, so he thought of asking IT to do so instead.
But before he could open his mouth, the being recited it for him.
“AND ‘HE’ REVEALED WHITE, WHEREIN IS MIGHTY POWER. SULTAN OF THE BRAVE. LION OF SOLOMON. THERE IS NO CONQUEROR LIKE YOU, AND NO SWORD LIKE ZULIFIQAR.”
Malik traced a finger along the inscription and smiled.
The meaning of the word inexplicably reached his mind.
{Spine Splitter.}
“…How quaint.”
He lifted his gaze.
“Where’s the original?”
The being’s glowing eyes caught his for a long moment, unblinking.
“IT DOES NOT EXIST.”
Malik frowned.
“Then how does this copy exist?”
“THAT IS THE PARADOX.”
Silence hung between them for a minute or so before it continued:
“THE ORIGINAL WAS TOO STRONG FOR THIS WORLD. SO IT DID NOT EXIST. THAT WAS ALL.”
Malik sighed slowly.
The logic twisted itself, impossible to grasp, undeniable in its contradiction. But he had walked beyond death, stepped through the Edge—he was in no place to argue with reality itself. Literally, in a sense.
After a beat, he finally reached down and grabbed the sword, one hand around the hilt.
The weight of it felt right. As if it had always been meant for him.
Like it had just been waiting for him to take it.
Perhaps it was.
With a flick of his wrist, he sheathed the blade at his left hip, the weight settling in.
It belonged there in his belt. A twin to the one he already carried.
“It’s nice…”
His fingers lingered for a moment, tracing the pattern on the hilt.
“Really nice.”
The being before him did not move, its stark white eyes gleaming as it watched.
Eventually, Malik looked back at the being and nodded his head.
“Thank you.”
The being nodded back.
There was no need to say more.
These lands of darkness had given him their blessing.
And Malik, a Jinn Al-Naqi, would carry it forward until his grave welcomed him.
“BUT IT IS STRANGE…”
IT mused, voice echoing as if layered with a hundred whispers.
“TO BE AT SUCH A RANK AND ACHIEVE SUCH AN ACHIEVEMENT WITH ONLY ONE ACTUAL ABILITY… QUITE THE ANOMALY.”
Malik said nothing, merely waited, knowing that IT spoke about that for a reason.
He had long learned patience in these kinds of moments.
The being chuckled, a low, eerie sound that rattled.
IT reached behind itself and withdrew three aged Scrolls from thin air.
Each was bound with cords of silver threads that shimmered faintly.
“CONSIDER IT A GIFT, JINN AL-NAQI. YOUR PATH IS A CRUEL ONE, AS IS YOUR END. YOU WILL NEED MORE THAN JUST STRENGTH TO REACH WHAT YOU AND I DESIRE. TAKE THEM. THEY BELONG TO YOU NOW.”
Malik reached out, his hands brushing against the coarse material of the Scrolls.
…Three of them.
Three abilities.
The being had just handed them over like they were nothing, like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was.
Two of the first five abilities were Growth-types.
They were rare to find. Extremely expensive. Coveted by all. And now, they were his.
Malik quickly read the first scroll and was sent to a realm akin to a wooden box.
The Pathing burned into him, searing its knowledge directly into his core.
{Goliath’s Fall.}
His body felt heavier, denser.
His bones creaked like wood straining under the weight of something enormous.
He clenched his fists, and the world around him seemed… smaller.
No, not smaller. He was growing.
His body… expanded? Muscles surged with strength.
There was an extreme pressure in his limbs.
It felt as if his body wanted to burst out of its shell.
He lifted his hands and tasted the heat of his own power.
Then the sand came.
A veil of shifting grains swirled around him, ghostly but solid.
It moved when he moved, hiding him, blurring him out of existence.
If he stayed still, he became part of the land itself—though he wasn’t all that invisible.
That was to be expected considering that he was surrounded by wood, not sand.
In any case, if he moved? It cloaked him, masking his presence, dulling incoming attacks, and generally making him harder to track.
“Not bad…”
Malik muttered, flexing his fingers.
“Real nice.”
That was the weakest version of the ability and it was that strong.
He couldn’t help but get excited for its future.
Malik threw away the first Scroll, watching it dissipate before reading the second.
The ability almost immediately surged within, and he staggered.
{Mirage Strike.}
This one wasn’t a Growth-type ability. Yet, it wasn’t weak. No, it was far from that.
Malik closed his eyes, and when he opened them, the ground was split before him.
He glanced at his right arm.
A whisper of Aether could be seen leaking from it.
‘Hoh…’
Malik swung his arm, and from the empty air, an ethereal blade slashed forward.
It was storm given form. Fast. Precise. But also incredibly wild.
A weapon without weight but all the lethality of a blade.
He exhaled slowly.
His golden eyes glowed.
Malik was starting to like this.
Then came the last one.
{Crowned Trail.}
At first, it was nothing.
Just a whisper of movement.
Fire came right after.
It surged up from his feet, not just rising but grabbing—like chains.
It coiled around his ankles, licked at his calves, yet it never burned him.
The moment he stepped forward, the ground behind him blazed.
Not with fleeting embers, not with fading sparks—with golden fire.
Hungry, snarling, living fire that followed in his wake.
The second step came harder, faster, the flames bursting outward.
The third—
Boom!
He was running at his previous maximum speed.
Malik didn’t stop there, oh no, he was just getting started.
He got faster. Faster. And faster.
Each footfall slammed hard into the wood, branding it red-hot, leaving behind smoldering footprints that pulsed like open wounds. He declared ownership. Domination. A trail not left, but carved into the land.
The fire flared higher with his every step, daring the world to keep up.
Around him, the wooden realm raced past in streaks of brown, the heat distorting the air.
Faster. Harder. More. MORE.
The fire kept up, never faltering, bound to his motion.
It was a shadow that refused to be left behind.
It wasn’t just an ability.
It wasn’t a technique.
It was his.
WHOOSH!
Then, as suddenly as he began, he stopped.
The last flame lashed forward, snarling at empty space before flickering out with a reluctant hiss.
His world settled.
Malik exhaled and glanced at his surroundings.
Smoke curled upward from where his footprints still glowed, cooling from a deep molten red to smoldering embers.
He grinned, finding a fitting name.
“Devil’s Footsteps.”
Just as those words left his mouth, he found himself sitting in front of the being once more.
IT watched him in silence for a moment before chuckling.
“SATISFIED?”
Malik’s golden eyes burned in response.
“Oh yes… I definitely am.”
IT… smiled. Revealing teeth of white.
“YOU MUST UNDERSTAND THAT THIS WASN’T THE SOLE REASON FOR OUR MEETING.”
He simply nodded.
“What is it you want from me?”
The being’s smile widened even further.
“RETURN BY DEATH.”