Dirga froze mid-motion.
A flicker of awareness skimmed the nape of his neck—sharp, electric, alive. Not just the mosquito. Something else.
His gaze narrowed, eyes glinting with new alertness. His telekinesis reached out like a reflexive breath and caught a flicker in the air.
"...Wait. Has it already been two days?" he muttered, blinking.
Above the arena, Sasa floated upside-down, lounging like a cloud caught in an idle daydream. He raised a spoonful of pudding and waved it lazily. "Well, yeah. That’s what happens when time passes, kid."
Dirga frowned. No hunger clawed at him. No fatigue dulled his thoughts. His body didn’t ache. It just felt... wrong. Or different.
"Your body’s not what it used to be," Sasa said casually, licking the spoon clean with his rabbit tongue. "You’re transformed now. You’ll still need food, maybe even sleep—but not in the ways you remember. Sleep’s more for the soul now than the flesh."
Dirga rolled his neck until a sharp crack echoed through the chamber. His skin shimmered faintly under the torchlight—denser, more responsive. His very stance felt more grounded, like his bones remembered combat even before his brain did.
His eyes shifted toward the Crimson Core, floating beside him like a faithful ghost.
"...This dice," he said. "It told me there are five more. Like it. Connected. I need to gather them."
Sasa rotated in midair like a lazy carnival wheel, arms behind his head, grinning. "Oh, that thing? Ah, yes. Back when I was still a bit more... impulsive."
"I tracked them all down," Sasa said, nonchalantly. "Dice of the World. All six. Spent a thousand years gathering them."
Dirga’s brow lifted. "And?"
Sasa grinned wider, clearly enjoying the setup. "Nothing happened."
"Yup. Nada. Zilch. I held all six. Danced around in circles. Tried smashing ’em together, singing to ’em, chanting prophecies. Just... nothing."
Dirga narrowed his eyes. "So where are the rest now?"
Sasa shrugged like a gambler throwing in his last coin. "Oh, I lost ’em. Bets. Wagers. Dares. Some got stolen, some misplaced in pocket dimensions. Classic me."
Dirga stared at him. "You bet cosmic artifacts of unimaginable power?"
"Better than letting them rot," Sasa said, his tone too cheerful. "And anyway, if they wanted to be found, they’d call out again. You heard the dice, didn’t you?"
Dirga looked back at the floating cube — red as fresh blood, pulsing like a buried heart.
It had spoken, not in words, but in feeling. Direction. Craving.
Unlike Sasa... it wanted something.
"...Even if nothing happened for you," Dirga said slowly, "my instinct says otherwise. My concept — the Black Star — it’s pulling me toward them. This thing... it fits me."
Sasa stopped smiling.
He stared at Dirga for a moment, then floated down to land beside him, solemn for once.
"Then gather them," he said softly. "Make something new of what I couldn’t. I wasn’t meant to wield them, maybe. But you..."
He pointed at the dice.
Dirga reached out and closed his fingers around the Crimson Core.
It pulsed in his palm — softly, rhythmically — like it was breathing. Not with lungs, but with thought. His thought.
Weapon. Tool. Mirror.
It didn’t resist. It didn’t obey.
The cube shifted shape, edges liquefying, morphing with a quiet whir. It was alive. Not like a creature — but like a concept made manifest. A weapon without a form, waiting for purpose.
Another mosquito struck.
But this time, two came at once — zig-zagging through the air, nearly invisible, cloaked in their camouflage.
Dirga’s body moved on instinct.
The Crimson Core snapped into a dagger, jagged and red, cleaving the first insect midair.
The second—caught in a telekinetic snare—exploded with a soft pop before it could reach his neck.
Dirga exhaled, sweat glinting on his brow.
"You’re messing with me," he muttered, spinning the dagger in his fingers.
Sasa stood nearby, hands tucked behind his back, cane sword resting against his shoulder like a violinist preparing to play. A sly grin curled on his lips.
"Let’s call it... timing." His red eyes gleamed.
And then — the duel resumed.
Steel sang. Gravity bent.
The Crimson Core was in motion.
Dirga dashed forward, and the cube morphed mid-stride — becoming a spear, which he hurled with brutal velocity.
Before it even struck the cane sword Sasa used to parry, it was already changing — retracting into a shield, catching a counter-swipe that came faster than sound.
Then a sword, slashing.
Then a whip, snapping.
Then a second dagger — spinning alongside his telekinesis, creating a deadly orbit around him.
Each transformation layered a new rhythm into the battle — a symphony of adaptive violence.
But the problem wasn’t the dice.
Dirga could barely keep up — not with the weapon’s shifting, not with his mind juggling attacks, defenses, and manipulation all at once. His telekinesis frayed. His hand-to-hand form cracked.
He was using too much brain.
The mosquitoes kept coming — in patterns that weren’t patterns. Sometimes five minutes. Sometimes an hour. Sometimes back-to-back. Cloaked. Silent. Impossible to predict.
Dirga could feel them now, just barely—tiny distortions in the air, threads of motion too quiet to hear but not quite silent.
The sense training was working.
But his mental load was monstrous.
Eventually, his knees bent. His body slammed to the arena floor, chest heaving, sweat pouring down his back like rain.
Sasa approached. Calm. Hands behind his back. No malice in his step.
"Nice work, Dirga," he said. "Getting used to it?"
Dirga wiped sweat from his face. He could barely hold a breath—but something in him laughed.
A grin tugged at the edge of his lips. "It completes me."
Sasa’s expression stayed soft, but something in his voice shifted.
"There’s more you need to understand," he said quietly. "About the weapon. And about yourself."
The Crimson Core rested in his palm—still pulsing, still alive.