Pain gnawed deeper into Northern’s chest, relentless and unforgiving. His fingers clenched around his uniform, knuckles turning white. The agony wasn’t just burning—it was stagnant, festering, as though an infernal force coiled around his ribs, searing through his flesh.
He coughed. Again. And again. But nothing came out. No blood. No bile. Just the hollow, rasping sound of his breath scraping against his throat. Yet, his complexion paled—his skin draining of warmth, his body following suit.
Northern cast a glance down at himself. A minute had passed since the pain began, but each fleeting second left him more pallid, his veins turning to husks.
His blood was drying up.
His expression darkened. He understood immediately. His awareness of his body was unparalleled—so finely attuned that even the subtlest changes within him did not go unnoticed.
And something was happening.
His body was fighting back, every fiber resisting the foreign force invading him. His muscles twitched, his bones ached, and Chaos itself was beginning to move—a slow, predatory move through his body.
But Northern wasn’t afraid. He was shaken, perhaps, by the sheer ferocity of the pain, but not afraid. If anything, the struggle within him only confirmed that his body—this strange, formidable entity he now called his own—was already working to annihilate whatever had trespassed inside.
A quiet chuckle pulled him from his thoughts.
The young man watching him smiled, a tranquil amusement playing at his lips.
"Interesting," he murmured, tilting his head. "You’re resisting better than I expected. Most would already be on their knees, writhing in agony."
Northern gritted his teeth. His fingers pressed into his chest as the fire beneath his skin grew hotter, more insidious, slithering deeper into his flesh. It moved—crawled—like something sentient, igniting his veins from within. Beads of sweat gathered at his brow.
He already knew the source. The bastard didn’t even need to say it.
’That damned insect… It had to have been him.’
Even as the burning sensation coiled tighter around his insides, he forced himself upright. The pain threatened to collapse his knees, but his voice remained steady, his resolve unyielding.
"You still haven’t answered my question."
The student chuckled again, the sound light, silvery—almost mocking.
"Ah, but wouldn’t it be boring if I did?" His serpent-like eyes glinted with something dangerous. "I’d rather you feel it. After all, isn’t experience the greatest teacher?"
Northern’s pupils contracted. He shifted past the pain, senses sharpening. His mind dissected every detail—his opponent’s stance, the rhythm of his breathing, the telltale signs of amusement laced with something more sinister.
Then, he exhaled, slow and deliberate, and spoke.
"You’re a moron."
The words carried no heat, just a detached certainty.
"You had some nasty little mosquito inject me with whatever this is… while I was in the middle of a battle?"
Uron blinked, head tilting slightly.
"Mos...kito?" The word sounded foreign on his tongue.
His confusion lingered only a moment before he shrugged it off and met Northern’s gaze once more.
"Insect, then," Northern clarified. "You used one to inject something into me?"
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Uron’s lips quirked in faint amusement, his expression briefly puzzled before he let out a short laugh, shaking his head.
"Poison?" His voice was smooth, almost indulgent. "Poisoning you would be a waste."
He paused, letting his words sink in, the weight of them pressing against the air.
"You have a power… a body… that I can control." His voice dropped, a subtle hunger creeping into it. "A second body—mine to command. All I have to do is make it mine. Don’t blame the tactics, boy. More than winning… all I really wanted was you."
A chill crawled up Northern’s spine.
The words carried an ominous weight, the kind that dug into the marrow of his bones.
And the worst part? He didn’t understand.
Not exactly. Not fully.
Something was gnawing away at his insides, an insidious force burrowing deeper, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Couldn’t grasp the nature of it.
More frustratingly—it wasn’t a talent.
If it was a talent he would have seen it pop up before his eyes.
Whatever that damned insect had been, it hadn’t belonged to any known talent ability. It was something else.
’Could he be a Tamer?’
Tamers were rare. Extremely rare. But they existed.
Northern had even met one before—in the Dark Continent.
’Did he tame the insect and use it to inject something inside me?’
That part made sense. But the real question remained:
’What exactly had he put inside me?’
What was slithering through his veins, burning through his chest?
Finally, Uron let out a slow, pleasant grin—like a man savoring a moment long anticipated.
He stepped forward, his movements casual, deliberate.
"You shouldn’t be wasting precious seconds," he said smoothly. "By now, there are hundreds of them inside you. When they become thousands… you’ll begin to lose control. Then, when they number in the hundreds of thousands…" His grin widened. "All that will be left of you is a shell. A shell that I can use."
Northern stilled. His thoughts slowed, calculating. Then his gaze lifted, locking onto the student—now standing far closer.
And he shook his head.
"You’re an idiot," he said, voice flat. "A pathetic, undignified coward." His lip curled in disgust. "A rat like you isn’t even worth fighting."
Uron’s expression twitched, a flicker of irritation breaking through his amusement. He tilted his head, his smirk faltering into something more rigid.
"What?" He scoffed, then chuckled, though there was an edge to it now. "Oh? You’re angry?" His eyes gleamed, that serpent-like glint returning. "Whether it’s schemes or strength, what difference does it make? Victory is all that matters. Power is all that matters."
His voice dropped, almost a whisper.
"As long as I reach my goal… who cares how I do it?"
Uron’s gaze settled on Northern, his grin widening, eyes gleaming with something twisted.
"My goal… my victory in this case… is you."
Northern exhaled sharply, his mind clicking pieces together.
The damned student—whoever he was—had put insects inside him through that one.
That single insect had likely multiplied inside him. Or maybe it had laid eggs before it died.
Or worse—what if its death had been part of the process? What if the reason it had crawled out and perished was because its work was done?
The damage had already been inflicted.
And now, inside his body, those things were multiplying. Crawling. Spreading.
Soon, they’d devour his insides. Hollow him out. Reduce him to nothing but an empty shell—a puppet for Uron to control.
Northern tilted his head back slightly, taking it all in.
And then, despite the situation—despite the searing agony gnawing at his chest—he felt something unexpected.
A twinge of amusement.
’Wow… this bastard really wants to control me?’