Chapter 103: The Butterfly Effect of the Moon's Light: Myotismon Acts Ahead of Schedule
Deep within the oppressive gloom of Myotismon's Castle, the heavy silence was broken by a sudden, sharp intake of breath. The destruction of his clone had not inflicted any significant physical toll on his main body, but the memories transmitted back from that shattered consciousness were enough to shatter his usually impeccable composure. Myotismon, a being who prided himself on his elegant and icy demeanor, paced the stone floor of his throne room. His crimson eyes twitched with a restless, uncharacteristic anxiety.
A Mega Level.
Aside from the dreaded Dark Masters and the Four Sovereign Beasts they had sealed away, a brand-new Mega Level entity had actually manifested in this world!
His clawed fingers gripped the armrest of his throne, the stone cracking under the pressure. What exactly was happening out there? In this decaying Digital World, merely surviving long enough to reach the Ultimate Level was a monumental feat. The Mega Level was supposed to be a myth, a world of power reserved only for gods and monsters.
Worse still, ever since the shadow of Apocalymon fell over the digital plane, the suffocating curse of non-digivolution had twisted the very fabric of reality, locking countless Digimon into their current forms. For a new Mega to emerge under these stifling conditions... the sheer statistical impossibility of it was absurd. It was akin to a radiant Rosemon spontaneously blooming from a wretched, squirming pile of Numemon.
"That sickening, overwhelming power..." Myotismon muttered, his voice a low, venomous hiss echoing through the empty hall.
Every time his mind replayed the memory of Belle's effortless, crushing display of dominance, a cold sweat pricked his pale skin. He harbored no delusions. Even if his main body had been present at the absolute peak of its strength, he would have been swatted out of existence just as easily as his clone. He would not have escaped the cold jaws of death.
An Undead-type Digimon? He let out a bitter, mocking scoff. What a meaningless title. When confronted with absolute, world-breaking strength, true immortality was nothing but a fragile illusion.
"While the gap in strength between individual Mega Levels can be vast," he reasoned aloud, his sharp fangs glinting in the dim candlelight, "that particular creature's power is entirely off the charts. She is no ordinary Mega."
He closed his eyes, visualizing the suffocating weight of her presence. "That aura... even the crushing pressure the Dark Masters exert upon their subordinates pales in comparison to the sheer terror radiating from that single Digimon. Just what kind of abomination is she?"
The longer he dwelled on the memory, the hotter the toxic venom of jealousy burned in his chest. His crimson eyes flared with a manic intensity. Why? Why was that little brat, a creature who looked like she had barely hatched yesterday, allowed to ascend to the Mega Level?
Why must he, a visionary who had carefully calculated every step of his digivolution, be denied? He had swallowed his immense pride. He had humbled himself, bowing his head to serve as a mere lackey for the Nightmare Soldiers, all in the pursuit of greater power. Yet, he was cursed to forever stagnate at the Ultimate Level, hitting an invisible ceiling he could not break.
But the insult that truly boiled his blood, the absolute mockery of it all, was her behavior. As a supreme Mega Level powerhouse, she possessed absolutely none of the dignity, majesty, or terrifying aura expected of a superior being. Instead, she had deliberately disguised herself as a harmless, pathetic little brat!
The sheer deception of it! How utterly despicable! How deeply evil!
With power like hers, even the arrogant Dark Masters might be forced to bow their heads and call her boss if they ever crossed paths. Myotismon swore upon his dark core that he had never encountered such a twisted, contradictory anomaly in all his centuries of existence.
A chaotic maelstrom of negative emotions—envy, rage, terror, and humiliation—churned violently within his mind. The storm was so intense that it completely overshadowed his ongoing hunt for the eighth DigiDestined child.
However, Myotismon was not a creature ruled entirely by blind rage. He was a veteran Ultimate Level commander who had survived countless wars through sheer cunning. After allowing himself a brief moment to vent his frustrations, he forced his breathing to steady. He smoothed the lapels of his aristocratic coat, buried his fury behind a mask of cold calculation, and began to dissect the situation.
Fact one: achieving the Mega Level naturally in this corrupted Digital World was practically impossible. Operating under this absolute premise, there had to be an external catalyst. If there was any unique variable surrounding that terrifying Digimon, it could only be her companion. That peculiar human boy who looked entirely too much like a fragile girl—an observation that would surely earn a violent sneeze from the boy in question wherever he currently was.
Was he one of the DigiDestined?
No, absolutely not. Myotismon had scrutinized the boy through his clone's eyes. The child carried no Digivice. He possessed no Crest, nor the Tag required to channel it.
By all logical deductions, the boy was merely an unlucky stray, a random soul who had accidentally slipped through a dimensional tear caused by the growing instability between the two worlds. And yet, it was this seemingly ordinary, unlucky stray who possessed the miraculous ability to push a Digimon all the way to the Mega Level.
Was this, too, the hidden potential of humanity?
Myotismon paced slowly toward the grand window of his throne room, gazing out at the perpetual night. Before the arrival of the DigiDestined, he had never interacted with a human face-to-face. However, he was a scholar of the dark arts, having spent decades pouring over ancient, forbidden records detailing the nature of the Human World.
The texts were clear. As individual biological organisms, humans were pitifully frail, easily crushed by a Champion Level's passing footstep. Yet, they possessed a terrifying, abstract power: the ability to manifest miracles. And all of those miracles were intrinsically tied to the boundless depths of their inner will.
In the past, Myotismon had scoffed at such sentimental drivel. Willpower? Emotions? Such concepts were the crutches of the weak. If he hadn't been truly desperate to break through his evolutionary ceiling, he never would have entertained the absurd notion of invading the Human World to harvest their data.
But reality had shattered his skepticism. He had witnessed the DigiDestined force their partners into Super Digivolution, bypassing the natural laws of data accumulation entirely without the use of their Crests. And then, he had seen the ultimate proof: that white-haired boy commanding a Mega Level entity. A dark, hungry anticipation began to coil in Myotismon's gut.
Human will. The radiant light of the heart.
If he could somehow harness that abstract energy, bend it to his own dark purposes, wouldn't he finally shatter his limits? He paused, a cruel smile curling his lips. Harvesting the raw emotional energy of humans suddenly seemed infinitely more efficient and reliable than his original plan of simply devouring their physical data en masse.
Myotismon turned away from the window, his cape billowing behind him like a shadow given form. Deep within the twisting, shadowed catacombs of this very castle lay a secret so deep that not even the omniscient Dark Masters knew of its existence.
A dimensional gate. A direct, physical bridge leading straight into the Human World.
His original grand strategy had dictated patience. He was to bide his time, gather his forces, and wait for the perfect astronomical alignment before activating the gate. But his recent, humiliating defeats at the hands of Taichi's group and that terrifying Mizuki had changed the calculus. He could no longer afford the luxury of patience. The clock was ticking, and the executioner's blade was hovering over his neck.
Just as he finalized his decision, a small, white figure padded silently into the grand hall, stepping into the periphery of his vision.
"Lord Myotismon," a crisp, disciplined voice echoed against the stone walls. "I have successfully recruited a substantial number of powerful mercenary Digimon."
Gatomon sat attentively at the base of the dais, her tail swishing in a slow, measured rhythm. "They are currently assembled in the grand foyer, awaiting your direct instructions."
"Gatomon... is it?" Myotismon drawled, his tone dripping with barely concealed disdain. He looked down at the small feline, and an immediate, visceral wave of revulsion clawed at his insides. It was an instinctual, biological disgust—the innate, burning hatred that a Dark-type Digimon harbored for any creature born of the Holy-species.
Under normal circumstances, he would have indulged his sadistic urges. He would have found some trivial fault in her report and tormented her thoroughly, just to watch the holy light in her eyes dim a little more.
But today, he had no time for his usual cruel games.
"The grand foyer... very well. I shall address them shortly," Myotismon replied, his voice a cold, commanding baritone. "However, Gatomon, the parameters of our recruitment plan have changed."
He stepped down from the dais, towering over her. "I no longer want just the powerful mercenaries. I want you to round up the weak. Bring me the Rookie Levels. Bring me the Fresh and In-Training forms. Gather every pathetic scrap of data you can find."
"The weak ones as well?" Gatomon's brow furrowed in genuine confusion. She subconsciously raised her head, her large blue eyes meeting his gaze. Why would a perfectionist like Myotismon want useless, low-level fodder?
But the moment she met his eyes, the question died in her throat. His crimson irises were completely devoid of warmth, burning with a cold, unyielding madness that promised immediate death to anyone who questioned him. Gatomon swallowed hard, her survival instincts overriding her curiosity. After a tense moment of silence, she bowed her head in absolute submission.
"I understand perfectly, Lord Myotismon. It will be done."
"If you understand, then stop wasting my time and get to work!" Myotismon snapped, his voice cracking like a whip. "Do not stand there polluting my line of sight!"
He had never bothered to mask his hostility toward her. Beyond his biological aversion to her Holy-type data, he could sense it—that stubborn, unwavering spark of defiance buried deep within her heart. She played the role of the obedient servant well, but her spirit remained unbroken. Usually, slowly crushing that hidden hope provided him with excellent entertainment.
But not today. The phantom images of MetalGreymon's destructive blasts and that unknown Mega Level's terrifying aura flashed through his mind once more. Myotismon's hands curled into tight fists, his sharp black nails digging painfully into his pale palms.
His time was rapidly running out. He had to accelerate his timetable!
He would split his data. He would leave another clone behind to manage the castle and maintain the illusion of his presence in the Digital World. Splitting his consciousness while his core data was still recovering from the shock of his previous clone's destruction was a massive gamble. It would drastically reduce his overall combat power, perhaps even risking a forced de-digivolution back to the Champion Level if he wasn't careful.
But it was a risk he had to take. He was in a desperate race against time, and the executioner was closing in.
'Human will... the boundless power of the heart...'Myotismon thought, his eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger.'I pray that this fabled power does not disappoint me.'
With a sharp sweep of his cape, the vampire lord turned his back on the throne room, dissolving into a swarm of bats that quickly vanished into the suffocating darkness deep within the bowels of his castle.
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