CHAPTER 341: CREATURE

Merlin should’ve turned back.

Should’ve told them to return to their dorms, to keep their distance, to stop tightening the circle that thing kept leaning into.

But they didn’t move away.

They moved closer.

And that—

that was exactly what the distortion responded to.

The hallway lights steadied, the mana went quiet, but the air felt wrong in a way Merlin couldn’t describe. Not hostile. Not lurking. Not waiting for an opening.

Listening.

Elara touched his shoulder—lightly, the way she did when she wanted to anchor him without drawing attention to it.

"What is it doing?" she asked.

Merlin didn’t trust himself to answer.

Not with words.

Not when he could feel the distortion humming like a second heartbeat beside his own—quiet, hungry, patient.

Nathan, sensing the tension but misunderstanding its cause, stepped forward with a grim grin.

"Then we just have to be unpredictable, right? If it’s learning, we confuse it."

"That’s a terrible idea," Armin muttered.

"It’s a Nathan idea," Mira whispered.

"Nathan ideas," Armin corrected, "are specifically terrible ideas."

Nathan waved a hand. "We do something random. Like—" He grabbed a broom leaning against the wall, flipped it upside down, and held it like a spear. "—this."

Armin stared. "Yes. Brilliant. We’ll bewilder the cosmic horror with household tools."

Nathan opened his mouth to retort—

—but stopped when he noticed Merlin’s expression.

Not fear.

Not confusion.

Not even concern.

Something quieter.

A realization settling into his bones like frost.

Elara’s voice lowered. "Merlin?"

He slowly pulled his mana inward. Not suppressing it—coiling it, like drawing breath before a spell. The distortion responded instantly, an echo pressed against his back, mirroring him.

"It’s not learning us," he said softly.

Elara’s hand stilled.

Nathan sobered immediately.

Mira’s breath caught.

Armin straightened.

Merlin lifted his eyes toward the empty air beside him.

"It’s learning me."

Nathan swore. "What does that mean?"

Merlin closed his fists slowly, grounding himself against the cold tremor threading through his spine.

"When I react," he said, "it reacts. When I sense something, it shifts. When I focus, it focuses. When I hesitate, it waits."

Elara’s voice sharpened. "Like a reflection."

"No," Merlin whispered. "A resonance."

Mira paled. "Like it’s bonded?"

"Not bonded," Armin said quietly, piecing it together. "Attuned."

Every head turned toward him.

Armin swallowed, then continued, voice steady but brittle.

"When two spells overlap long enough, they start mirroring each other. Mana signatures align. Intent bleeds between them." His eyes locked onto Merlin. "If this thing is that close to you for this long... it could be syncing with your core."

A chill washed over the group.

Nathan’s broom clattered to the floor.

"Syncing?" Nathan repeated. "Like... copying him?"

"No," Armin said. "Worse."

Elara finished it.

"Becoming him."

Merlin didn’t breathe for a moment.

The distortion pressed closer—gentle, warm, almost curious. No malice. No threat. Just an impossible interest.

Elara moved in front of him immediately, weapon flickering into hand.

Nathan stepped behind him.

Mira and Armin flanked.

The formation wasn’t planned.

It just happened.

Like instinct.

And the distortion... leaned into that, too.

Merlin forced himself to speak. "It’s not attacking. It’s not predatory. It’s not even trying to hide."

"So?" Nathan hissed. "That’s worse!"

"No," Merlin said. "It’s observing."

Elara’s eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Merlin met her gaze.

"...Because the world is rewriting itself around me. And it’s trying to understand why I exist."

Silence.

Heavy.

Suffocating.

Mira’s voice trembled. "Merlin... does it want to replace you?"

Merlin shook his head.

"No," he said quietly. "It doesn’t want to be me."

His throat tightened.

"It wants to understand me."

Armin exhaled shakily. "Why?"

Merlin finally answered the thing he had realized the moment Morgana cornered him in the forest.

"...Because I wasn’t supposed to exist here. And the world doesn’t understand how to categorize me."

Nathan swallowed. "So this distortion... what? Watches you like you’re a glitch?"

Merlin nodded once.

Elara stepped closer until her shoulder brushed his. "Then we find it. And we force it away from you."

"No," Merlin murmured. "We can’t."

"Why not?" Nathan demanded.

Because the distortion wasn’t separate.

Wasn’t foreign.

Wasn’t intruding.

It had his mana signature.

His rhythm.

His instinctive pacing.

It wasn’t an enemy.

It wasn’t even alive in the normal sense.

It was the world’s answer to him.

"I think..." Merlin said softly, "this thing exists because of me."

The hallway felt too narrow.

Too quiet.

Too still.

Mira whispered, "Then what do we do?"

Merlin took a slow breath, steadying himself.

"...We stop running from it."

Elara’s eyes widened. "Merlin—"

He didn’t hesitate.

He turned—

slowly—

deliberately—

toward the empty space where he felt the distortion most clearly.

And for the first time—

He acknowledged it.

"Come out," he said quietly. "I know you’re there."

The lights flickered—

—once—

—and something stepped forward.

The light didn’t dim.

The walls didn’t crack.

Reality didn’t tear open.

Nothing dramatic happened.

Something simply... stepped forward.

Not a figure.

Not a creature.

Not a shadow.

A shape.

Humanoid only in the loosest sense—an outline traced in faint, refracting mana, like a heat mirage that almost remembered how to be a person.

No eyes.

No face.

No features.

Just... presence.

And that presence felt exactly like Merlin’s magic—but thinner, stretched, unfinished.

Nathan staggered back. "Nope. Absolutely not. That is you. That is literally you but—gelatin."

Armin whispered, horrified, "It’s mimicking your core signature."

Mira froze completely, hands shaking.

Elara didn’t move at all. Spear lowered, tip angled to strike. Her voice was steady in that way she got when emotions stopped mattering.

"Merlin," she breathed, "tell me this thing isn’t alive."

"It isn’t."

And he meant it.

He felt its structure. Its emptiness. Its incomplete nature.

"It’s not a soul, not a person." He swallowed. "It’s an echo."

The shape tilted its head—the same angle Merlin used when analyzing a spell. Not perfectly copied. More like it wanted to understand what a head tilt was.

Nathan pointed. "Why did it do that? Why did it tilt its head?"

"Because Merlin does," Mira whispered.

Elara didn’t take her eyes off it. "What does it want?"

Merlin forced himself to meet the outline.

His mana brushed against it—like touching a reflection that wanted to become real.

"It wants alignment," he said softly. "It’s trying to resolve the contradiction I create."

"Contradiction?" Armin echoed.

Merlin exhaled.

The words tasted too honest.

"I’m not supposed to be here," he murmured. "So the world is creating something to reconcile me with the timeline."

The echo flickered.

Not violently—like a heartbeat syncing with his.

Nathan swore quietly. "So—it’s like a... natural disaster? A magical immune response??"

"No." Merlin shook his head. "It’s not trying to erase me."

Elara shifted slightly closer to him.

"What, then?" she asked.

Merlin stepped forward one inch.

The echo stepped forward one inch.

He swallowed.

"...It’s trying to understand what I am, so the world can stabilize around me."

Silence spread like frost.

Mira whispered, "Is it dangerous?"

"No," Merlin said.

The thing vibrated faintly, as if in agreement.

Elara frowned. "Then why does it feel so wrong?"

Because she was right.

It wasn’t hostile.

But it wasn’t harmless.

It was... growing.

And now that it was close—Merlin could feel something chilling:

It wasn’t just echoing him anymore.

It was echoing all of them.

Elara’s sharp focus.

Nathan’s restless mana.

Armin’s precision.

Mira’s stabilizing aura.

Minute traces, barely there—but spreading.

Elara sensed it too. Her grip tightened. "It’s copying us."

"Only because you’re close to me," Merlin said. "It’s not interested in you. It’s interested in anything that shapes my path."

Armin’s eyes widened. "Because your connections affect the timeline."

Nathan stared. "And it’s trying to calculate them."

The echo pulsed once, as if confirming it.

Elara took a slow step forward, placing herself between Merlin and the echo even though it wasn’t attacking.

"You stay behind me," she whispered to him. Dead serious.

"Elara—"

"No. I don’t care if it isn’t a creature. If it’s touching your mana, I’m not letting it reach you."

Nathan moved beside her. Mira too. Armin swallowed but joined them.

Merlin stared at their backs.

This wasn’t protection.

This was defiance.

The echo flickered again, almost curious—like it didn’t understand why they moved that way, only that their actions affected Merlin, and thus mattered.

Merlin stepped forward—

"Don’t," Elara hissed.

He kept going.

He walked past her.

Past Nathan’s outstretched hand.

Past Mira’s trembling whisper.

Past Armin’s warning.

And stood directly in front of the echo.

It was barely taller than him.

Barely stable.

Barely anything.

But when he reached out—

—not touching it, simply offering his mana—

the shape brightened.

Not with light.

With clarity.

With definition.

"Elara," he said softly, "I need you calm."

"I am calm," she lied.

"Everyone else," Merlin said without looking away from the echo. "Don’t panic. Don’t flare mana. Don’t try to hide. It’s learning from everything you do."

Nathan swallowed. "What about you?"

Merlin’s expression hardened.

"I’m going to speak to it."

The echo’s form stiffened—like a tuning fork struck in the air.

Merlin lowered his mana to a thin, controlled pulse, not aggressive, not inviting.

"Why are you following me?"

The shape rippled.

Then—

For the first time—

it made a sound.

Not a voice.

Not a word.

A resonance.

Merlin’s own mana frequency

played back at him, distorted and hollow.

Like the world was answering through a broken mirror.

Elara’s breath caught.

Mira covered her mouth.

Nathan whispered, horrified, "Merlin... it’s trying to talk."

Merlin swallowed hard.

"What do you want?" he asked.

The echo vibrated again.

This time the frequency was stronger. Sharper.

Almost decipherable.

Almost.

Armin flinched. "It’s... it’s forming intent."

Merlin took another step closer until he could feel the echo’s outline brush his aura.

He asked one final question.

"Are you here to fix me... or follow me?"

The echo stilled.

Then—

Slowly—

Deliberately—

—it raised an arm.

And extended a hand.

Not toward the world.

Not toward the others.

Toward Merlin.

Elara’s voice cracked like a blade. "If you take its hand, I swear to god—"

But Merlin didn’t move.

Because the echo’s gesture wasn’t asking for trust.

It was asking for direction.

It wasn’t trying to correct him.

It was waiting for him to choose.

And that terrified Merlin more than anything.

Because whatever choice he made—

the world would follow.