The air crackled with an energy that transcended the familiar hum of the forge. It was the raw power of thought made manifest, of memory given shape. The shadows writhing around the edges of the colossal chamber intensified, no longer random fluctuations of light and darkness. They were solidifying, called forth by Yaldabaoth’s silent query and the churning depths of your own intertwined consciousness.
The Nihilanth shimmered into being, its oversized head lolling, the single, cyclopean eye dark and vacant yet somehow filled with a haunting familiarity. The raw psychic force it had once wielded felt like a ghost of a scream in the newly charged atmosphere. Beside it, the Chaos Champion coalesced, the grotesque details of its corrupted power armor forming with sickening clarity. The scent of ozone warred with a phantom stench of decay and brimstone.
These were not mere illusions. They held the weight of past battles, the sting of past defeats, the echoes of triumphs hard-won. Your hand tightened instinctively, even before the crowbar materialized. The Primaris within you recognized the threat, the ingrained combat protocols flaring to life. Tang Sanzang’s inherent understanding of suffering saw not malice, but the lingering imprint of pain. Gordon Freeman’s analytical mind cataloged their forms, searching for weaknesses, for exploitable physics.
A Test of Unity