CHAPTER 26: ABYSS INCUBATION POOL

Cillian stepped into a plane he had chosen with care, one carved from the raw edge of the abyss.

This time, it was not a quick trial or careless experiment, this plane would matter, and would be the first proof of what he could build.

He wanted a place that could breathe war.

A plane that would never sleep.

A breeding ground for armies that could drown the abyss in endless numbers.

His lips parted slightly. "Alright..."

The words were quiet, almost lost to the windless void, but they carried the weight of command.

His gaze hardened. "First, the land itself. The foundation must be big and rich enough to feed legions."

He shut his eyes, steadying himself, letting the abyss answer him. When they opened again, his pupils twisted into black and crimson spirals.

And then it began.

Information flooded his sight, endless streams of abyssal data.

He saw the currents of space, the tangled flow of resources, the quiet deaths of a thousand forgotten worlds. All of it lay before him like a book and all of it could be bent to his hand.

"Half the resources from the sixth plane... and the twenty-fourth... and the fifty-seventh." His voice was steady. "Redirect them here."

The abyss obeyed.

The air trembled, and through cracks in twisted space, oceans of matter came rushing. Mountains were pulled like gravel. Seas boiled into steam. Chasms filled until the land groaned and spread.

The plane swelled outward, ten times larger than before. Its barren surface stretched across into a vast flatland, the broadest across the abyss.

Cillian exhaled slowly. "Good, that’s only the beginning."

His hand lowered, palm brushing the corrupted wind.

"Now... the soil."

He whispered as though he were reciting a prayer. "Rot, Decay and turn this ground into humus steeped in death."

The land shivered under his words, then green vanished, brown turned black and a stench of old corpses rose as the earth began to rot.

It was becoming a womb, a soil that would grow demons like weeds.

But it was still not enough.

"Rain." His voice deepened. "Let the sky bleed."

Above him, stormclouds rolled out of nothing. They gathered like bruises across the heavens, as the clouds split with violet lightning, the rain lashed down, thick and dark, every drop heavy with rot.

Cillian moved his hand, and time itself bent to his will. What should have taken centuries happened in moments.

The plain festered. The black soil became fertile in its own twisted way. A carpet of mucus spread, glistening under the storm. It was foul, yet rich enough to feed monsters.

"Yes," he murmured, eyes shining. "Now it can begin."

He lifted himself into the air, robes swaying in the storm, his voice echoing like judgment.

"First, the law of soul fragments."

The space above the land tore open. A vortex appeared, red and black, endless and wide.

"This world shall pull in only the weakest souls, the broken, the scattered, the fragments the abyss itself has abandoned. They will be dragged here, unable to escape, and then down here... they will be reborn."

The vortex pulsed once, then spread across the sky.

All at once, tiny sparks of spirit drifted from the abyss. Useless souls, weak souls, fragments unworthy of devils or lords, now they were caught, drawn in by Cillian’s command.

"Second, the law of space."

His eyes grew colder.

"This plane shall be hidden and no gate will ever open leading here, except the one I allow, far below the abyss itself. Only I will pass through it, and nothing else."

The world twisted, closing itself like a fist as countless paths sealed shut. With only one narrow gate remained, buried deep.

"But," he continued, "every demon born here... shall be sent away. Rifts will open, and they will scatter across the abyss like seeds, no one will trace them back to me."

The air rippled, obeying him.

The law was set.

Cillian smiled faintly, with this, secrecy was everything.

In the abyss, even the strongest lords lived like prey, to reveal a weakness was to invite ruin. His design would survive only because none could see its source.

"Now," he said quietly, turning back to the plain, "the demons themselves."

He raised his hand and from the open gate, hundreds of original demons were dragged screaming into the world. Their bodies writhed in pain before bursting into rivers of blood.

"Bang! Bang!"

The air shook as they exploded, crimson flooding the sky, but none of it touched the ground. Every drop hovered in the air, suspended by his will.

Cillian’s eyes burned. "Blood shall be reshaped and flesh will be rewritten. Their essence will be refined."

He reached into their forms, twisting the very codes of their blood. Colors shifted, bones bent, as powerlines redrew themselves, they were hardly but clay to him.

One by one, he cast the rivers into the vortex. It roared, swallowing them whole.

"Now," Cillian whispered, his voice trembling with something close to awe, "let us see the result."

He snapped his fingers.

The sky trembled as the vortex spun faster, tearing against itself.

Souls fused with blood, energy fused with law and Chaos was woven into flesh.

And then, cocoons began to form.

Red and black, they spread across the land like tumors. Millions of them, pulsing, grotesque, birthing things that should not exist.

One by one, the cocoons split.

Millions of demons crawled out, dripping mucus, shrieking. They carried warped bodies and glowing eyes, their movements frantic with hunger.

Each bore the marks of Cillian’s design. They were weak, bound by limits and they could not evolve far.

But they had numbers beyond counting.

They were perfect.

They would be devoured by stronger demons, enslaved by devils, slaughtered by kin, but they would always serve a purpose.

They were soldiers for war.

Slaves for labor.

And fuel for the abyss.

They would never stop coming.

Rifts split open in the air, cracks of gray light that tore through space. Each newborn demon was pulled in, vanishing into random planes, none resisted.

The command was carved into their blood.

Cillian’s eyes followed them as they scattered, filling the abyss with his creations.

He smiled. "Mission accomplished."

The Incubation Pool writhed beneath him, crowned by the eternal vortex. For the first time in abyssal history, there was an army that could never run dry.

But as the storm calmed, his smile faded.

"A pity..."

His gaze rested on the vortex, still roaring as it consumed soul fragments. "It works. But it wastes too much, Soul energy is leaking every moment and the fragments... they take too long to heal."

In his mind, he pictured rivers of Styx circling the plane, binding the souls together, speeding their rebirth. It would have been perfect.

"But the River Styx requires a world’s Origin," he muttered. "And we’re granted only one when we graduate."

He clenched his fist. Unless he destroyed another world, tore out its heart, and stole its origin... but that was forbidden.

At least it was at Grimstone.

Cillian let out a long breath. The work was finished, for now.

A knock broke the silence.

He blinked, the abyss fading away and when his vision cleared, he was back in his dormitory, the four walls plain and quiet.

The knock came again.

"Who is it?"

"It’s me. Vice-principal Warren."

At the sound of the vice principal’s voice, Cillian straightened his posture and opened the door.

Warren stood there, his face calm but his eyes sharp. "Busy, were you?"

"Yes," Cillian said simply.

"With your final project... and this so-called death trial you plan to challenge?"

Cillian sat unmoving for a few short moments before he met his gaze and nodded.

The old man studied him in silence. Then he sighed, slow and heavy. "You know how impossible this is."

"I know."

"You know you could lose everything."

"I will still try."

Warren’s lips pressed into a line. He’d come to somewhat respect the boy’s courage, more than he would ever admit, but the thought and danger of it weighed on him. Still, he was in no position to mock this sort of resolve with denial.

"Very well then." His hand dipped into his pocket. "Then take this."

He pulled out a crystal, clear as diamond, and pressed it into Cillian’s palm.

The moment it touched his skin, Cillian staggered as the power surged through him, it felt it’d come from another time completely, ancient and wild. He felt it beat like a second heart, roaring in silence.

"What... what is this?" he asked, staring.

Warren turned, already walking away. Before the door closed, his voice lingered.

"Inside that crystal lies a single drop of blood. The blood of a mythical creature, you can consider it my blessing... before you step into the storm."

Cillian stood frozen for a moment, the crystal burning in his hand, and for the first time in days, he felt the strong stir of hope.