The mist curled tighter, dark and suffocating, as the Ijiraq's jagged form shimmered faintly, its malice now wrapped in a sinister calm. Its voice came next, smooth but unyielding, cold as the frost that lingered in its wake. The sound cut through the air like the chill of winter, every word deliberate and poised to sink into the heart of its prey.

"Even Alternates," it began, its tone sharp yet almost conversational, "have a breaking point."

Silbón froze, his translucent form flickering as the words slithered toward him, their weight pressing against him like the mist itself. He stood over Zeph's crumpled form, his dark eyes darting between the Ijiraq and the unmoving figure at his feet. His spectral fists clenched tightly, his frustration burning just beneath the surface.

"Zeph?" Silbón muttered under his breath, his voice cracking slightly with a mix of fear and confusion. But Zeph didn't stir, his breathing slow and shallow, as if the very fight had been drained from him.

The Ijiraq's jagged edges twisted faintly, its cold malice now laced with something resembling amusement. "When an Alternate reaches their limit," it continued, its voice unwavering, "they either trap themselves—locked at the forefront of their Protector's form, unable to retreat—or they crumple entirely, leaving themselves open to the lull of slumbersong."

Its form shifted slightly, the unnatural motion sending a ripple through the thick mist. "And they aren't the only ones," it added, almost lazily. "Ghostly shades, like your fragile little friend, are no different. When they're too exhausted to go on, when their energy burns out... they fall victim to slumbersong as easily as the rest."

Silbón's form flickered violently, his dark eyes narrowing as he glared at the Ijiraq. "You..." he hissed, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "What did you do to him?"

The Ijiraq tilted its head slightly, its cold gaze locking onto Silbón with an almost predatory precision. "Me?" it said, feigning innocence in its smooth, hard tone. "I merely gave him a push. His breaking point was already there—I simply showed him where it was."

Silbón's spectral fists shook at his sides, the weight of the Ijiraq's words pressing into him. "You think you've won?" he spat, his voice sharp with defiance. "Zeph's not down for good. Morro's still here too. You're not getting away with this!"

The Ijiraq smirked faintly, its cold malice unwavering. "Oh, I'm not so foolish as to underestimate the bond of a Protector and their Alternate," it replied, its tone dripping with mock courtesy. "But even the strongest bonds have their cracks. And exhaustion... is a crack I quite enjoy exploiting."

With that, it shifted again, its jagged form dissolving faintly into the mist, its presence retreating but still lingering like the chill of frost. Silbón watched it disappear, his form trembling with the mix of fury and helplessness roiling within him.

Silbón stood motionless for a moment, his translucent frame flickering with the weight of the decision before him. He glanced down at Zeph—Morro's shared form—crumpled and unmoving on the forest floor, his stormy energy completely drained, his breathing soft but steady. Silbón's dark gaze narrowed as he clenched his skeletal fists, his spectral form trembling faintly with determination.

"He's not getting back up anytime soon," Silbón muttered under his breath, his tone sharp with frustration. He glanced toward the lingering mist, where the Ijiraq's faint, jagged presence rippled in the air like smoke. "If he won't fight, then I will."

With that, Silbón straightened, his translucent shoulders squaring as his resolve hardened. He darted forward, his ghostly agility propelling him through the darkened forest. The mist seemed to part reluctantly, its heavy tendrils clinging to his flickering form as he ran deeper into the Ijiraq's domain. The cold grew sharper, oppressive, as Silbón's surroundings shifted, the forest twisting unnaturally under the creature's influence.

"Come on, you slippery menace," Silbón growled, his voice low but brimming with defiance. "I'm not scared of you."

But that was a lie—a lie he forced himself to believe as the mist thickened, curling tighter around him like a predator closing in on its prey. The Ijiraq's presence loomed closer, the oppressive chill brushing against him, almost whispering to him. And then, the creature shifted again, its jagged edges smoothing into shapes that made Silbón's breath catch in his throat.

The first face emerged—stern and weathered, with eyes dark as the night sky and a jaw set in quiet authority. It was Silbón's father, his presence commanding and unyielding, the very image of strength and expectation that had loomed over Silbón's early life. Silbón froze, his translucent form flickering violently as he stared at the apparition. "No..." he murmured, his voice trembling. "You're not... him. You can't be."

But the Ijiraq didn't stop there. Its jagged form shifted again, melting into a softer shape—a woman with kind, tired eyes and an expression that carried the weight of love and sacrifice. Silbón's mother. Her gaze pierced through him, cutting deeper than any mockery or malice ever could. "Mijo," the illusion whispered, her voice soft and filled with gentle reproach. "Why are you running?"

Silbón staggered back, his spectral fists trembling as he tried to force himself to look away. "No!" he shouted, his voice sharp and desperate. "You're not her! Stop it!"

The final shift came—smooth, deliberate, and devastating. The Ijiraq twisted into the face of Silbón's grandfather, his expression heavy with disappointment, his shadowy gaze cutting into Silbón like daggers. Silbón's translucent form flickered wildly, the memories of his past crashing into him with overwhelming force. "Not him, too," Silbón choked out, his voice trembling. "Not all of them."

The mist closed in tighter, the faces surrounding him like echoes of his deepest fears, his buried guilt, and the bonds that had shaped his fractured existence. Silbón's knees buckled slightly, his ghostly strength wavering as the Ijiraq's illusions pressed against him, seeking the cracks in his resolve.

But Silbón clenched his fists harder, forcing himself to stand. His dark gaze burned with defiance as he faced the figures that haunted him, the specters of his father, his mother, his grandfather—all designed to break him. "I won't let you win," he growled, his voice shaking but brimming with determination. "You can wear their faces, but you'll never be them. You're nothing but a cheap trick."

With that, he charged forward, his spectral agility driving him toward the Ijiraq. He didn't know how he'd wear it out, how he'd push it to its limit—but he knew one thing: no matter what faces it wore, he wouldn't let it break him.

The Ijiraq's twisted malice intensified as it shifted between the three forms seamlessly, the faces of Silbón's father, mother, and grandfather emerging and dissolving as fluidly as mist curling in the wind. Each appearance was sharper than the last, its illusions calculated to dig deeper into Silbón's psyche, to tear through his fragile defenses. Its cold, smooth voice slipped from one face to the next, cruel and deliberate.

"You never told anyone, did you?" the figure of his father said, his voice stern and unyielding, every word cutting like a blade. "What you did. What you still carry. That filthy sack of bones—it's your shame, your burden, and no matter how far you wander, you'll never escape it."

Silbón's form flickered violently, his dark eyes wide and burning with fury, but he forced himself to hold his ground. "Stop it," he growled, his voice trembling. "You don't know anything about me. You don't know what I've been through!"

The Ijiraq shifted effortlessly, its jagged form morphing into the kind, weary face of Silbón's mother. Her gentle blue eyes shimmered with mock compassion as her lips curved into a soft, reproachful smile. "Mijo," she whispered, her tone brimming with false tenderness. "You should've told me. Told me what you did to your father. I would have forgiven you. I would have... loved you, even now."

Silbón stumbled back, his spectral fists clenching tightly at his sides as he glared at the illusion. "You're not her!" he shouted, his voice breaking. "You're not her! Stop messing with me!"

The Ijiraq shifted again, the figure of his grandfather towering over him, his shadowy gaze heavy with disappointment. "You've dishonored us all," the illusion intoned coldly, his voice dripping with disdain. "Look at yourself—wandering endlessly, cursed to whistle and carry your shame. Do you think you'll ever be free?"

Silbón's translucent form rippled violently, the memories he had buried clawing their way to the surface, raw and unrelenting. The sack slung over his shoulder felt heavier, filthier, as the Ijiraq's words wrapped around him like chains. "You don't know what it was like," Silbón choked out, his voice shaking. "You don't know what he—what I—"

But the Ijiraq pressed on, its cold malice slipping effortlessly between the faces. "You killed him, Silbón," the illusion of his father hissed. "You murdered him, and now you carry his bones because that's all you have left. You can't outrun the truth."

Silbón let out a shaky breath, his spectral fists trembling as his resolve wavered. The faces blurred together in his mind, the taunts digging into every vulnerable corner of his soul. But somewhere deep within him, buried beneath the weight of the curse, a flicker of defiance burned.

"You're not them," Silbón growled anew, his dark eyes narrowing as he forced himself to straighten. "You'll never be them. You're just a shadow—a monster hiding behind their faces. And I'm not letting you win."

With that, Silbón lunged forward, his ghostly agility driving him toward the Ijiraq despite the crushing weight of its illusions. He had to wear it out, had to push it to its limit—but every step forward felt like dragging his broken past along with him.

The mist pressed tighter as Silbón ran deeper into the forest, his translucent form flickering erratically as the oppressive cold of the Ijiraq seemed to swallow every breath of warmth. His dark eyes darted frantically around, his skeletal fists clenched tightly as he searched for any sign of the creature. But it was gone—its jagged presence vanished as if it had never existed.

Silbón skidded to a halt, panting despite his ghostly nature, his frustration mounting with every second that passed. "Where did you go, you slippery coward?" he muttered, his voice sharp and trembling. His gaze swept the swirling mist, searching for movement, for any hint of the Ijiraq's malicious intent. But all he found was silence—an eerie, suffocating stillness that seemed to press down on him like a weight.

And then, through the haze, he saw him.

"Zeph," Silbón breathed, his voice breaking as the figure stepped forward, emerging from the mist like a beacon. Zeph's stormy green gaze locked onto him, steady and unwavering, his movements calm but deliberate. Silbón's translucent form flickered, his mind racing as he took a hesitant step closer. "You—you're awake?" he stammered, his voice tinged with confusion and relief. "How did you—"

But something felt wrong.

Zeph's posture was different—too composed, too deliberate. His stormy gaze lacked its usual sharp edge, replaced by something cold and calculating. Silbón froze, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied the figure before him, his instincts screaming that something wasn't right.

"Zeph?" Silbón said again, his voice quieter now, filled with cautious skepticism. His translucent fists clenched tightly at his sides as he took another step closer, his movements slower, more deliberate. "Is it... really you?"

The figure smirked faintly, its stormy presence flickering just enough to send a chill down Silbón's spine. "Why wouldn't it be?" the figure replied smoothly, its tone sharp but calm, the words carrying a weight that Silbón couldn't quite place.

Silbón hesitated, his spectral form trembling as doubt clawed at his thoughts. The mist curled tighter, heavy and suffocating, as the tension surged between them. He didn't know what to believe—but deep down, he knew one thing: Zeph didn't move like that.

The mist hung thick and cold as Silbón's dark eyes narrowed on the figure before him. "Okay, 'Zeph'," he began, his tone sharp and challenging as he edged closer to the imposter. "You know Yugi Muto... and Yami, his Alternate... so answer me this." His translucent form flickered faintly as he crossed his arms. "What is the meaning of the Heart of the Cards?"

The figure—posing as Zeph—hesitated, the stormy facade faltering for a fraction of a second. Silbón caught the flicker of uncertainty in its gaze, the faint ripple of doubt that betrayed the Ijiraq's carefully constructed illusion. It opened its mouth to respond, but no words came—just silence.

Silbón's smirk widened, the sharpness in his gaze cutting through the tension. "That's what I thought," he muttered under his breath, his voice dripping with mock satisfaction. He stepped back slightly, his stance brimming with cautious confidence as he watched the figure tremble.

The Ijiraq's form rippled violently, its jagged edges reemerging as the illusion shattered. It collapsed to the ground, its twisted body curling inward as it let out a low, pitiful hiss. "Don't hurt me," it rasped, its smooth but cold voice now tinged with desperation. Its jagged form writhed weakly, the malice in its presence fading into something far more pathetic. "Please... no more."

Silbón froze, his spectral fists trembling slightly as he stared at the pitiful creature before him. His dark gaze softened just enough to reveal a flicker of something—pity? Restraint? He let out a sharp breath, his shoulders sagging slightly as his anger began to ebb. "You're already hurt," he muttered, his tone quieter now but no less firm. "You're not going to attack me again. I don't need to finish this."

The Ijiraq let out a low, shuddering breath, its jagged form curling tighter as it withdrew, its cold malice now almost entirely gone.

Silbón turned away, his dark gaze scanning the forest floor until he spotted movement in the underbrush—a small rabbit nibbling on a patch of grass. His expression hardened, but not with malice, as he bent down, picked up a jagged stone, and aimed. With one swift motion, the rock struck true. The rabbit fell instantly, its death clean and merciful, free of pain or suffering.

Silbón approached the creature, his spectral form flickering faintly as he knelt beside it. He glanced back at the Ijiraq, his tone dry as he called out, "How do you like it? Roasted or in stew?"

The Ijiraq's jagged form shifted faintly, its cold voice softer now, almost uncertain. It didn't respond, merely stared at Silbón, its once-mocking presence reduced to a fragile shadow of what it had been.

Silbón straightened, slinging the rabbit over his shoulder as he gave the Ijiraq a long, piercing look. "If you make it out of here," he said, his voice low but steady, "remember this: next time, you might not find someone willing to spare you. Think about that."

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving the broken creature behind as the mist began to thin.

Three hours later

The mist had thinned considerably, and Silbón returned with a pot of freshly made rabbit stew. The savory aroma wafted through the air, mingling with the damp earthy scent of the forest. He carried it carefully, his translucent form steady, though his dark eyes remained sharp and watchful. The Ijiraq had retreated into the shadows, but Silbón wasn't foolish enough to let his guard down entirely.

As he approached, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The jagged, weakened figure of the Ijiraq shifted and shimmered, its broken edges smoothing into something entirely new. Silbón froze, his spectral fists tightening briefly before he set the pot down and turned to face it.

What he saw made him falter, just for a moment. The creature had taken on a different form—unassuming, nondescript, and almost eerily neutral. A teen, about Morro's age, stood before him, his features lacking distinction but carrying a faint air of familiarity. His shaggy dark hair fell loosely around his face, his posture slightly hunched as though uncertain of his place in the world.

Silbón narrowed his dark eyes, his expression hard as he studied the figure. "So, that's your new trick, huh?" he muttered, his tone laced with cautious disdain. He crossed his arms, his spectral form flickering faintly. "Trying to look harmless?"

The teen-like Ijiraq didn't respond right away. It stood there, its head tilted slightly, its cold gaze flickering faintly with something unreadable. Silbón couldn't tell if it was genuine weariness or simply another mask.

"I'm not here to fight," the Ijiraq finally said, its voice softer now but carrying the same smooth, measured tone as before. It shifted slightly, its nondescript appearance further blending into the muted colors of the forest. "You've made your point. I don't want more trouble."

Silbón arched a brow, his ghostly form flickering faintly as he regarded it with skepticism. "Yeah? Funny how you suddenly don't want trouble now that you're too weak to cause any." He gestured to the pot of stew beside him, the steam curling upward in delicate wisps. "You hungry or what? Because this stew's not going to sit around forever."

The Ijiraq hesitated, its gaze flickering toward the pot as though unsure how to respond. Silbón smirked faintly, his tone turning dry. "Roasted or in stew, remember? Take your pick, because I'm not dragging this thing through the woods again."

The teen-like figure let out a faint breath, its posture shifting slightly, almost hesitantly. Silbón watched it closely, his instincts sharp, though a faint flicker of something resembling pity lingered in his gaze. For all its malice and deception, the Ijiraq—at least in this moment—was nothing more than a shadow of its former threat.

Silbón sighed heavily, his translucent form flickering faintly as he watched the Ijiraq—Jirii, as he now decided to call it—remain frozen, its nondescript teen-like form stuck in an odd blend of hesitance and uncertainty. "For someone who spent so much energy pretending to be everyone I've ever feared," he muttered under his breath, his voice sharp yet oddly resigned, "you're pretty lousy at taking the hint."

Shaking his head, Silbón crouched down beside the pot, the savory aroma of the rabbit stew curling warmly around him. He grabbed two bowls, dishing up generous portions before sliding one across the forest floor toward Jirii. "Here," he said firmly, his tone tinged with exasperation. "It's not poisoned, so quit stalling."

Jirii tilted its head slightly, its blank, nondescript features flickering faintly as it reached for the bowl. The hesitation lingered a moment longer, but eventually, it picked up the stew and sniffed at it cautiously. Then, without another second's pause, it began eating—if "eating" was the right word for the absolute mess it made of the task.

Silbón winced slightly as Jirii slurped loudly at the broth, its soup manners bordering on atrocious. The creature practically inhaled the stew, its movements awkward and hurried, sending droplets splattering across its lap with every overzealous scoop. Silbón watched in mild horror, his spectral brows furrowed as he leaned back, the bowl of stew cradled in his own hands.

"Well," Silbón muttered, his tone dry as he took a careful sip, "you clearly like it. I'll give you that much. But I've seen actual raccoons eat with more grace than whatever this is."

Jirii paused briefly, tilting its head as though considering the remark, before returning to its slurping with renewed vigor. Silbón shook his head again, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips despite the absurdity of the situation. "Guess proper table manners are asking too much from a shapeshifting menace."

Still, as Silbón watched Jirii devour the stew, some part of him softened—just slightly. For all its malice and deception, the creature now seemed... strange. Lost, even. In this moment, it wasn't the enemy he'd feared and hated; it was just a being, hurt and hungry, trying to survive.

And maybe that was enough to let his guard down—just for now.

Silbón sat back against a tree, the warmth of the stew spreading through him as he spooned it into his mouth at a steady pace. His dark eyes occasionally darted toward Jirii, who was still noisily slurping the last of its bowl with a distinct lack of refinement. The sound grated on Silbón's nerves, but he didn't say anything. For now, the Ijiraq seemed too weak—or too distracted by the food—to try anything.

Finishing the last of his own bowl, Silbón set it down with a soft clink and stretched his ghostly arms behind his head. He watched Jirii for a moment longer, his gaze narrowing faintly before he finally spoke. "I'm going to get Zeph," he said, his tone clipped and firm. He stood slowly, brushing off his translucent pants as he stared down at the nondescript teen-like figure. "Don't move."

Jirii glanced up from its empty bowl, its blank expression unreadable, though its frame trembled faintly as though in protest. Silbón snorted, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Yeah, like you could move anyway," he muttered under his breath. "Stay put and don't cause any trouble."

He turned on his heel and started walking back toward the clearing where he'd left Zeph, his translucent form flickering faintly as the mist parted before him. For all his bluster, though, Silbón couldn't shake the faint unease that prickled at the edges of his thoughts. The Ijiraq—Jirii—was still dangerous, even in its weakened state. And leaving it alone, even for a short time, felt like tempting fate.

But Zeph was still unconscious, and if anyone could help Silbón deal with this mess, it was the stormy, sharp-tongued Alternate.

Silbón crouched down beside Zeph, his translucent hands hovering over Morro's shared form as he shook him gently at first. "Zeph," he said, his voice sharp but steady. "Come on, big guy. Wake up. We've got a situation here."

No response.

Silbón sighed heavily, his frustration bubbling to the surface as he shook Zeph harder, his spectral grip surprisingly firm. "Zephyrus," he said, his tone rising slightly, his dark eyes narrowing. "Wake up! Seriously—this isn't the time to be playing dead."

Zeph groaned faintly, his stormy green gaze flickering behind closed lids as he shifted slightly but didn't fully stir. "Leave me alone," Zeph muttered, his voice low and sluggish. "I'm tired... just five more minutes."

Silbón threw his hands into the air, his translucent form flickering violently as his exasperation boiled over. "Five more minutes? Are you kidding me?" he snapped, his tone sharp and incredulous. He shook Zeph even harder, his spectral fists trembling slightly. "You're the great and mighty Alternate, and you're telling me you don't wanna get up? Morro would be mortified!"

Zeph cracked one eye open briefly, his stormy gaze flickering weakly as a smirk tugged at the corner of Morro's lips. "Tell Morro... I said he's annoying," Zeph muttered, his voice still sluggish as he turned his head away. "Go bother someone else."

Silbón let out a loud groan, his translucent shoulders sagging as he rubbed his ghostly temple. "You're unbelievable," he muttered under his breath. "Fine. You wanna sleep through this mess? Be my guest. But don't blame me if Jirii—or whatever it's calling itself now—decides to pull another one of its tricks while you're snoring."

That seemed to get Zeph's attention, albeit faintly. He groaned again, the stormy energy flickering weakly around him as he shifted slightly, his movements sluggish but deliberate. "Jirii," he murmured, his voice soft and strained. "Still here?"

"Yes!" Silbón snapped, crossing his arms as he glared at Zeph. "And I'm over there feeding it rabbit stew while you're over here auditioning for a coma! Now, get up before I start whistling in your ear nonstop—because trust me, I can do it."

Zeph let out a long, exaggerated sigh before finally cracking his eyes open fully, his stormy gaze glinting faintly with reluctance. "You're exhausting," he muttered, his tone dripping with grudging annoyance. "Fine. I'm up."

Silbón smirked faintly, his translucent form flickering with satisfaction as he stepped back and crossed his arms. "It's about time," he muttered, his tone dry. "Now, let's go deal with our new friend before he decides to cause trouble."

Had Silbón's jaw not been attached, it would have fallen off his face and straight into the grass. He did a double-take, blinking owlishly, his dark eyes widening as he processed Zeph's words. "Wait... he?" he echoed, his voice rising slightly with disbelief. His translucent form flickered faintly as he turned to glance at the nondescript teen-like form of Jirii, who was now sitting awkwardly beside the pot of stew. "Did you just call it—him—a he?"

Zeph, still looking slightly groggy but nonetheless composed, raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of Morro's lips. "Yeah," he replied matter-of-factly, his stormy green gaze flicking toward Jirii. "Is that a problem?"

Silbón's translucent shoulders sagged slightly as he crossed his arms, his expression brimming with incredulity. "It's an Ijiraq," he said, his tone sharp with exasperation. "Can an Ijiraq even be male or female? I thought they were just... shapeshifters. Shadows wearing faces. What even are they?"

Jirii shifted uncomfortably, his posture hunched as though trying to avoid the conversation entirely. He glanced away, his nondescript features flickering faintly as though debating whether to respond.

Zeph shrugged lightly, his tone casual as he replied, "Apparently, they do. No shapeshifter is completely devoid of identity, Silbón—even if he or she is talked about that way. They have genders, believe it or not. It's not like I'm calling it out of the blue—look at him." He gestured loosely toward Jirii, who flinched slightly under the scrutiny. "Clearly a boy, don't you see?"

Silbón frowned, his gaze narrowing as he studied Jirii more closely. The nondescript teen-like form, while neutral in many ways, did seem to be of a masculine presentation. In fact, there was no doubt that he was male—always had been, always would be. No doubt at all. The hunched posture, the slightly awkward way he avoided eye contact—it all gave off a certain boyishness, even if it was subtle.

"I guess..." Silbón muttered reluctantly, his tone edged with skepticism. He glanced back at Zeph, his brow furrowed. "Still weird, though. I always thought an Ijiraq would be... I don't know, less human."

"Maybe that's the point," Zeph said, his voice quieter now, as though mulling over the idea himself. "Maybe the better question is why he's choosing to show himself like this now. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

Jirii, still silent, shifted again, his hands awkwardly folding in his lap as he stared at the ground. It was hard to tell if he was uncomfortable, contemplative, or simply drained. Whatever the case, it was clear he wasn't interested in explaining himself—or his form—anytime soon.

Silbón glanced between the two of them, his expression torn between curiosity and unease. "This just keeps getting stranger," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "First stew, now pronouns. About whether it's a 'he' or an 'it,' no less. What's next?"

Zeph let out a faint chuckle, his stormy gaze softening slightly as he replied, "You'd be surprised."