So, his task was simply to kill the chicken. Easy enough—especially given the large knife conveniently placed upon the table. Nemo felt a fleeting sense of absurd confidence; it was only a chicken, after all.
If this was some strange test of resolve or practicality, he would demonstrate without hesitation. Stepping forward confidently, he ignored the blade entirely.
Instead, he reached out swiftly and grasped the bird's delicate throat firmly between his fingers. A startled cluck escaped the chicken, its feathers ruffling indignantly as it swiveled its small, beady eyes to stare directly at Nemo.
Their eyes met, and at that moment, something deep within Nemo shifted, unleashing an instinctual awareness he'd never known. A strange pulse surged through him—a sensitivity beyond sight, a primal intuition.
The chicken before him hadn't changed, not physically. Yet, Nemo sensed something intangible and profound, a latent energy permeating its fragile, mortal body, nourishing possibilities hidden deep within.
Suddenly, reality seemed to fracture before his eyes. He saw not a simple bird, but a myriad of terrifying possibilities—potential forms this harmless creature could assume if it somehow transcended its earthly limitations.
In one heartbeat, the chicken transformed before Nemo's horrified eyes into a creature wreathed in roaring flames. Fire engulfed its feathers, blackened claws dripping molten embers as its eyes blazed with infernal fury.
Nemo could feel the scorching heat, the blistering agony of flesh peeling away under relentless, burning wrath. Panic surged, paralyzing him.
The next instant, the fiery vision shattered, replaced by something equally monstrous yet wholly different—a massive serpent coiled beneath feathered wings, its scaled tail coiling dangerously, dripping venom.
Nemo watched helplessly as his hand dissolved slowly, agonizingly, into bubbling pools of acid. Vision after vision bombarded Nemo's psyche relentlessly.
Even as terror surged to unbearable levels, yet another form manifested: a grotesque bird composed entirely of writhing insects and swarming maggots, constantly shifting, reforming, devouring, and renewing itself endlessly.
A profound nausea gripped him as he imagined maggots crawling across his skin, burrowing hungrily beneath. Each scenario played out vividly, each form crueler, more painful, and more nightmarish than the last.
In mere seconds, Nemo experienced countless tortures, countless deaths. His mind fractured, overwhelmed by sheer existential horror, retreating deep into subconscious safety.
What remained in control was singular, primal—pure, insatiable hunger. His body moved of its own volition, shaking violently yet without hesitation, and his jaw clamped down viciously upon the chicken's neck, severing its head in a grotesque burst of blood.
Still locked within his subconscious refuge, Nemo's consciousness could only observe numbly as his physical form, controlled entirely by primal instinct, methodically consumed the bird.
Blood splattered his face and clothing, dripping onto the table and pooling grotesquely on the floor. With frightening thoroughness, his hunger-driven self devoured every scrap—meat, bones, even feathers disappeared relentlessly into his ravenous maw.
After a prolonged frenzy, the hunger receded abruptly, leaving only a hollow emptiness behind. Slowly, painstakingly, Nemo regained awareness.
His trembling fingers were crusted with dried blood; hours had seemingly passed. Numbly, mechanically, he cleaned himself at the sink, washing away physical traces but unable to cleanse the traumatic echoes lingering within.
The blood, table, and knife vanished silently, leaving only blank space where the chaos had unfolded. Dazed, Nemo sank onto his bed, staring into the distance.
He wanted nothing more than to sleep and forget, but his mind would not allow it, and through clenched teeth he muttered, "What was that?"
The voice returned, and Nemo felt a bit better when he noticed the obvious compassion in it. "That is why we say that newly rooted but not yet awakened individuals are even more useless than uninitiated ones."
A deep sigh could be heard. "Basically what you experienced is the realm of possibility. The chicken, of course, is just a harmless bird. It can't do anything grand or be any threat, but what would happen if you were to feed it the best nourishment?
What would happen if you trained it, gave it other beasts to feast on, and let it grow for a hundred years? We live in a new world; you are born as a mundane, and beasts are born as dormant.
But since the cataclysm, every living thing has gotten the capability to advance in strength. That is what you saw. You saw what the single chicken could become, and you froze.
As you are now, every single thing you see could kill you in a fraction of a second. Now imagine you were outside while going through that.
Humans have terrifying potential when compared to a chicken, but even plants can grow in our world. A weed you see on your way to work could, feasibly, become a city-ending threat in three hundred years.
So yeah, in this state, only absolute silence and isolation from the outside world make you act and feel normal."
Nemo sat, staring at the wall, processing the information, thinking of the monsters he had seen, and all of that from a stupid single chicken?
He had to be honest with himself; he gained newfound respect for it.
"How did the people right after the cataclysm handle it?" Nemo asked before he had even registered it.
There was a small pause, and then, with a heavy note, the voice spoke: "Almost no one did. Those were dark years; most became mad, ran off, or committed... well, you can imagine. It is much better today.
Come, let's not think about that dreary topic. Now it's time to recover and prepare for your next trip." With that, the voice fell silent again.
Nemo thought for a moment longer, then shook his head and picked up the next book, Fauna and Flora of Atlantis (1st Threat Level), resuming his study.
As hours passed, his thoughts gradually steadied, aided by the rhythmic monotony of reading and questioning.
A third voice, a woman's this time—deep, gravelly, indicative of a life hardened by experience—answered his inquiries reluctantly yet reliably.
She didn't offer excessive detail or abrupt clarity, but each word resonated with a palpable depth of wisdom and cautious detachment.
The creatures within the pages were fascinating, each possessing similarities yet marked by distinct and defining differences. Nemo became deeply engrossed, momentarily distracted from his experience, captivated by nature's infinite diversity and lethal ingenuity.
Gradually, exhaustion returned, quietly enveloping his mind in gentle darkness. The room faded softly, replaced by a new, strange landscape as sleep claimed him effortlessly.
Yet, as Nemo's vision cleared once again into a dreamlike realm, a chill of apprehension immediately seized him. He took one uneasy glance at the surroundings, absorbing the unfamiliar, forbidding vista of his second trip—and knew immediately, instinctively, that he did not like it one bit.