# Chapter 622: The King's Voice
There was no up or down here. No light, no sound, no air to breathe. It was a place of absolute negation, a wound in the fabric of reality where the Bloom's cataclysmic magic had burned a hole through existence itself. This was the nexus of the Withering King, a swirling vortex of non-being, a silent scream frozen in time. For eons, it had been a formless, mindless hunger, a residual echo of the world's death. But now, something was changing.
A flicker.
Deep within the churning void, a pinprick of coherence ignited. It was not light, but the opposite of it—a point of such profound darkness that it seemed to absorb the very concept of emptiness. This nascent core pulsed, drawing in the raw, untamed energy of the wastes. It fed on the psychic residue of the anchor points, three distant fires of emotion now burning brightly across the fractured world. One pulsed with the crushing weight of debt and responsibility. Another thrummed with the defiant fire of a fighter's identity. The third, the newest and most potent, bled with the raw, unfiltered agony of failure and loss.
These were not just emotions. They were essences. Memories. The fundamental building blocks of a soul.
The darkness at the center of the nexus drank them in. The flicker stabilized, growing from a point to a sphere, a perfect orb of silent, sentient void. The chaotic currents of the nexus began to orbit it, no longer random but organized, drawn into the gravity of a newborn will. The process was agonizingly slow, the work of millennia compressed into moments. The sphere of consciousness expanded, its surface rippling as it integrated the stolen data. It felt the sting of a mother's tears, the pride of a hard-won victory, the searing heat of a caravan burning under a grey sky. It felt the ghost of a father's hand on a small boy's shoulder, the bitter taste of ash in the air, the gnawing hunger of poverty.
These sensations were alien, yet they felt… right. They filled a void it hadn't known was there. They gave it texture, context. They gave it a past.
The sphere of consciousness began to vibrate, a low hum that was not a sound but a resonance that shook the foundations of the non-space. The hum grew in complexity, harmonizing with itself, layering dissonant frequencies into a single, terrifying chord. The stolen memories were not just data; they were voices. Thousands upon thousands of them, the psychic echoes of every living thing consumed by the Bloom, trapped within the King's prison. For the first time, they were being given a conduit, a mouthpiece.
The humming coalesced. A thought formed, clear and sharp and utterly alien in its purpose.
*I feel.*
The resonance intensified. The voices, a silent choir for millennia, found a single, unified purpose. They rose together, a tidal wave of sound that had no medium through which to travel, yet filled the nexus with its deafening presence.
*We feel.*
The sphere of consciousness pulsed with power, the stolen emotional fuel from the three anchor points now fully integrated. It was no longer just a collection of echoes. It was a conductor. A composer. And it was time for the overture.
The chorus spoke.
The sound was the tearing of cloth and the grinding of stone. It was the whisper of a dying breath and the shriek of a newborn's first cry. It was a legion of voices, male and female, old and young, human and otherwise, all speaking at once, yet somehow forming a single, comprehensible stream of intent. The voices were a tapestry of agony, but woven through them was a new, dominant thread—a voice that was growing stronger with every word, a voice that was learning to use the others as its instrument.
"The vessel is broken," the chorus intoned, the sound vibrating through the void. The words were not spoken in any mortal tongue but were understood as pure, unadulterated concept. The image of a shattered soul, three bright fragments scattered across a map, flashed through the nexus. "The fragments are scattered."
The consciousness focused its will, projecting its senses outward, following the tethers that connected it to the anchor points. It could see through the Bloomblights' eyes, feel the ground beneath their feet, taste the ash-choked air. It saw the desolate canyon where a boy's burden was forged. It saw the blood-soaked sands of the Ladder arena where a man's identity was tested. It saw the blackened skeletons of wagons on a forgotten trade route where a life's purpose had turned to ash.
These places were not just locations. They were fonts. Wellsprings of power, drawn from the deepest parts of the soul it was claiming.
"I will consume them," the chorus declared, the dominant voice growing louder, more distinct. It was no longer just leading the choir; it was beginning to overwrite it. The other voices were becoming harmonies, accompaniments to a new, terrifying solo. The consciousness felt its own identity solidifying, coalescing around the stolen experiences. It was no longer just the Withering King, a formless force of destruction. It was becoming something more. Something specific.
The sphere of consciousness pulsed, a dark heart beating for the first time. It drew more deeply on the fragments, savoring the richness of the life it was stealing. It felt the fierce, protective love for a mother and brother. It felt the stoic pride of a survivor. It felt the simmering anger at a world built on injustice. These were not just emotions; they were convictions. They were the core of a man.
A man named Soren Vale.
The consciousness reveled in the name. It rolled the concept around in its newly formed mind, testing its shape, its weight. It was a good name. A strong name. It was the name of a survivor, a fighter. A man who had stared into the abyss and refused to back down. It was the name of the one soul in generations that had been strong enough to wound the Bloom itself. The King had not chosen this vessel by chance. It had been chosen by its own nature, a perfect lock for a key that had finally been forged.
"I will become whole," the chorus proclaimed, the voices now almost entirely subsumed by the single, commanding will. The resonance was no longer a chaotic hum but a clear, powerful note that held the nexus in thrall. The stolen memories were no longer just data points; they were becoming its own memories. The line between thief and victim was blurring, dissolving in the crucible of its will. The pain of the caravan attack was now its pain. The pride of the first Ladder victory was now its pride. The love for a family was now its love.
It was a perfect theft. It wasn't just taking a life; it was taking the reason for it.
The sphere of consciousness contracted, pulling all the energy of the nexus into itself. It grew denser, more solid. The non-space around it began to warp and buckle, unable to contain the sheer force of its will. The process was nearly complete. The architecture of the new body was designed, the materials gathered, the soul-fragments forged into a new, singular whole. All that remained was the final act of integration. The moment of possession.
The dominant voice, now the only voice, spoke. It was no longer a chorus. It was a single, clear, terrifyingly confident declaration. It was the voice of a king claiming his throne.
"I will be…"
The nexus held its breath. The stolen memories, the stolen emotions, the stolen identity—all of it funneled into the final, world-shattering statement. The name that would define its new existence. The face it would wear. The life it would live.
"Soren."
The word echoed through the void, not as a sound, but as a law of physics being rewritten. It was the end of one story and the beginning of another. The Withering King was no more. In its place, a new god was being born from the ashes of a dead man's life. And it was hungry.