Chapter 98: Two-Headed Snake

In this dark world, the sky loomed high and black, with a few scattered stars glimmering faintly, like candles about to be snuffed by the wind.

Dense thickets of thorny shrubs lined the ground, their steel-like stems bristling with sharp spines that would pierce any careless touch.

From the distant dark forest came unsettling rustlings, as if some terrible beast or specter watched in secret.

And scattered throughout the forest were swamps—step into one by accident, and no matter how you struggled, you would only sink deeper and deeper…

This world was the deepest recess of Yang Yi’s consciousness, her perception of the real world, a subconscious projection of her impressions of reality.

Here, Yang Yi was a little girl who never grew up, struggling to survive in a world teeming with danger.

Until a sudden appearance of a little girl shoved her into the swamp—confused, young Yang Yi had no idea what had happened.

She summoned strength from nowhere, driven by the raw instinct to live; her legs thrust hard, and her right hand burst from the mud, gripping the little girl’s ankle.

That hand clamped like a vice; the little girl was startled but not frightened—she stomped and pressed down with her other foot, nearly grinding the flesh from Yang Yi’s hand, yet Yang Yi refused to let go, gripping even tighter.

Young Yang Yi crawled out of the swamp, covered in black sludge, like a demon rising from hell; her sludge and blood mingled, slowly dripping down, her whole body seeming to melt.

Only her black eyes remained—darker than sludge, brighter than the stars above, colder than the air.

Her vacant gaze slowly cleared—pushed into the swamp by Him, Yang Yi suddenly remembered who she was, and guessed who this little girl was.

“You finally moved,” Yang Yi’s expression was almost relieved, “You’ve lived inside me for so many years—now you’ve revealed your true purpose…”

The little girl smiled faintly. “If you hadn’t threatened me, we could’ve coexisted peacefully—you could’ve merged into me, become part of me, instead of this mutual slaughter.”

“How could a fragment of a demon god be inside me?” Yang Yi had a thousand questions waiting for an answer. “Did you cause my body to become a vortex?”

“You’ll know everything once you become part of me,” she said coolly, then lunged at Yang Yi—both tiny figures plunged into the swamp together.

Long moments passed; bubbles surged endlessly from the swamp, mud churned violently, as if a fierce battle raged beneath.

Suddenly, the swamp boiled furiously, mud roiled and surged, clusters of foul bubbles burst upward, and strands of blood and shredded flesh rose with them.

A two-headed snake leapt from the swamp—its two heads, one large, one small, bit and tore at each other, writhing and rolling in the mire, flinging sludge in all directions.

The entire serpent was black, its body covered in vortex-like patterns; if stared at too long, one would grow dizzy, as if mind and body were separating, consciousness being sucked into the patterns.

The larger head was triangular, its eyes blazing red, emitting eerie, blood-like light; long fangs protruded beyond its lips, its tongue flickering unpredictably.

The smaller head was oval, its eyes like black jade, no fangs—thus it suffered terribly under the larger head’s bites; black scales fell away, skin split and flesh tore open, blood oozed from several puncture wounds made by the fangs.

Yet the smaller head’s resistance was equally wild—though drenched in blood from the larger head’s bites, it clamped its jaws onto the larger head’s neck, determined to bite it clean off through sheer ferocity.

Though one body, the two heads tore at each other—no peace, no truce, only death or victory.

The distant black forest, startled by this commotion, sent its hidden demons and spirits fleeing in panic, rousing owls into chaotic cries.

After long struggle, both heads lay near death—the smaller head had no intact flesh from head to neck, bones and sinew exposed everywhere, one eye blinded.

The larger head remained mostly whole, but one spot had been gnawed relentlessly by the smaller head—nearly severed, its head hanging precariously.

“Enough,” said the larger head—Him—finally releasing its grip, swallowing the torn flesh it had ripped from the smaller head; as it swallowed, the larger head seemed to swell slightly.

The smaller head—Yang Yi—also released His neck; upon closer look, she had bitten off a chunk of His neck, flesh and bone, and swallowed it whole.

As she swallowed, fleeting images flashed before Yang Yi’s eyes:

In a battle involving several ancient gods, spanning multiple universes, the demon god lost several fragments—Yang Yi felt she was the tiniest of them, drifting through countless timelines, escaping countless predators, weakened a thousandfold in temporal storms, finally landing on Earth.

Now He was like a burnt-out candle, about to gutter out—even an ordinary human could kill Him.

Earth was so barren, there was no substance for Him to survive on—and precisely because it was so barren, no predators had been drawn.

Driven by instinct for survival, He merged into the nearest sentient infant, parasitizing her still-developing soul—and then fell into complete slumber.

Because of His parasitism, the infant remained mentally vacant, soul incomplete, until age six—the doctors diagnosed her with autism.

The natural course should’ve been for the parasite to grow stronger, gradually consuming and fusing with the host, becoming part of the demon god.

But the fragment was too weak, and Yang Yi’s self-awareness too strong—she never lost herself.

After parasitism, the two souls fused; during this process, the fragment developed its own “I” consciousness, forming now a single body with two souls—“you in me, me in you.”

Yang Yi looked down at their shared body, recalling His words: “I am you, you are me—we are one.”

He and she had fused completely, inseparable—unless one devoured the other to become the sole “I,” they would forever fight, divided by goals and ideals.

As a former fragment of the demon god—even the tiniest, most insignificant shard—He did not consider Himself human; He viewed all life as food to be taken at will, all worlds as His pasture.

And Yang Yi, once human, would never allow her own kind to be served on a plate for His feast.

In this moment, Yang Yi understood everything.

“So that’s how it is,” she said, smiling—her smile widened, and as her laughter grew wild and unhinged, the mangled serpent head trembled violently, Yang Yi’s face and the serpent head mirroring each other.

The dark world of her subconscious faded; they returned to Yang Yi’s consciousness sea, the two-headed serpent reforming into two black hole vortices, one large, one small.

Yang Yi turned back and saw, indeed, a faint thread connecting the two vortices.

“Are you coming out?” Yang Yi said coolly. “If you don’t act now, we’ll be swallowed by Him.”

It—stepped forward, still wearing its cruel, mocking grin. “Oh? You’re badly hurt. How utterly incompetent!”

For the first time, He showed wariness. “When did you two unite?”

It gasped dramatically, voice exaggerated: “What? Don’t you know? We’re the same person—I’ve been saying it every time I mocked this useless thing! I am Yang Yi’s truest id, she is Yang Yi’s most conflicted ego. If not for your threat, why would we have split and grown apart? Wasn’t the whole point to reach this moment?”

She had tricked a demon god—even just a fragment—her expression thrilled, her whole body trembling with excitement; suddenly, her form dissolved into a black hole vortex, plunging into Yang Yi’s vortex.

Instantly, the two vortices merged—without the slightest resistance—because they were always one.

The tide turned instantly; Yang Yi’s form surged violently, and from the vortex came both wild laughter and soft laughter, rushing toward the outsider.