The Mind Spirit wasn't just a tool. It was an ocean.
Lying on the thin pallet, the field hospital's cacophony a distant murmur beneath the roaring currents of knowledge in my skull, I understood. Its potential wasn't merely vast; it felt infinite. It hadn't just learned logistics or psychology; it had absorbed them, dissected them, and revealed layers I couldn't have imagined. And this was just the beginning. To wield this… this cosmos of intellect… I needed more than a wounded peasant's frame. I needed a vessel worthy of the storm it could unleash.
The body, I thought, the realization sharp as the lingering ache in my shoulder. The Mind commands, but the Body executes. And mine is… inadequate.
Focusing inward, towards the silent, luminous presence of the Mind, I pushed my will. Knowledge. Human body. Anatomy. Physiology. Limits. Potential. Find it. All of it.
The response was instantaneous. A torrent flooded my awareness, not just dry facts, but a living, breathing map of the flesh and bone I inhabited:
Anatomy: Muscles, tendons, ligaments – their interplay, their strengths, their vulnerabilities. The intricate lattice of bones, the pulsing network of veins and arteries.
Physiology: Oxygen exchange at the cellular level. The fiery furnace of metabolism. The symphony of hormones regulating growth, repair, energy.
Limits: The documented thresholds of strength, speed, endurance – the walls science claimed were unbreakable.
Potential: Theories. Legends. Fragmented studies on peak performance, on unexplainable feats of resilience buried in obscure texts or whispered soldier lore.
And then, cutting through the data like a scalpel, came the Mind's conclusion, delivered with its characteristic, chilling clarity: "Analysis of available knowledge suggests: Human body possesses theoretical infinity potential. Current understanding is superficial. Boundaries are perceived, not proven."
Infinity potential? A miracle? That echoed vague memories of my past life – motivational platitudes. But coming from the Mind, after dissecting everything the chaotic field hospital library and soldier knowledge could offer? It wasn't faith; it was a hypothesis based on incomplete data. A tantalizing gap in understanding.
Why? I questioned mentally. How can you conclude infinity from scraps?
The answer flowed back, logical, cold: "Knowledge base on human body is fragmented, contradictory, incomplete. No definitive upper limit established. Observed phenomena (rapid healing under duress, unexplained strength surges) suggest latent capacities exceeding documented norms. Therefore, 'infinity potential' remains a valid, unrefuted hypothesis based on current data insufficiency."
It saw the gaps in human understanding and declared the possibility of the infinite. It wasn't mysticism; it was the audacity of logic applied to ignorance. And its focus sharpened: "Primary energy source identified: Food. Fuel for observed functions. Hypothesis: Optimized fuel conversion could unlock latent 'infinity potential'. Requires idealistic metabolic process."
Food. The mundane became the key. The body could be more, if only it had the perfect engine to turn sustenance into power.
The concept crystallized. If the Mind Spirit was the externalized, idealized potential of my intellect, then the second spirit… it had to be the externalized, idealized potential of my body. Not brute strength, but the process – the perfect, insatiable engine of conversion, of devouring potential from the world and forging it into physical power.
Gluttony. Not for excess, but for essence. For transformation.
I closed my eyes, not to sleep, but to forge. The drain was immediate and profound – deeper than creating the Mind. It wasn't just mental energy; it felt like drawing from my very marrow, my spirit, my life force. I visualized the core concept: Consume. Convert. Perfect. An engine of physical potential. I poured my desperate need for strength, resilience, a worthy vessel into the form. Idealize the hunger. Idealize the transformation.
The drain intensified, threatening to pull me under. Sweat beaded on my skin, cold despite the tent's stuffiness. My shoulder throbbed in protest. Minutes stretched, each one an eternity of agonizing extraction.
Then, it was done. The drain ceased, replaced by a new, visceral presence beside me.
Floating near the foot of my pallet, squat and pulsating with a faint, warm light, was… well, me, distilled into pure, ravenous potential. Its body was small, almost childlike like the Mind, but utterly different. Its limbs were stubby, almost vestigial. Its head was disproportionately small, dominated by a single, wide, toothless mouth that seemed to shimmer with heat haze. But its center… its center was a massive, rounded belly, glowing faintly from within like a contained forge. It radiated a constant, low thrum of pure, uncomplicated hunger. It resembled me only in the vaguest outline – this was the Id of consumption given form.
"Master," its voice echoed, not in my mind like the Mind, but as a deep, resonant gurgle in my gut. "Hunger."
A wave of gnawing emptiness washed over me, so intense it momentarily eclipsed the pain in my shoulder. Not for food, but for… potential. For fuel to feed the transformation. This was the feedback loop.
Go, I commanded it silently, pushing the thought through the shared connection. Learn food. All food. What nourishes. What transforms. What unlocks. Make this body… perfect. Powerful. I didn't need complex instructions. Its purpose was its being: Devour and Convert.
The Spirit of Gluttony didn't nod. It simply… pulsed. Then, it drifted silently, not through the wall, but down, sinking through the dirt floor of the tent like a stone through water, heading unerringly towards the source of smells – the field kitchen.
Alone again, the profound hunger faded slightly, replaced by a strange warmth spreading from my core. It wasn't pleasant heat; it was the uncomfortable flush of a furnace stoked too high. I felt a faint, almost imperceptible tightening in my muscles. A subtle itch where the bullet had torn through my shoulder – not pain, but the insistent whisper of accelerated repair. The changes were minuscule, but real. The engine had ignited.
Exhausted by the creation and the strange internal fire, I succumbed to sleep.
I woke hours later to the sound of boots stopping by my pallet. It was the skeptical sergeant, Mark Goopsan. His usual grimace faltered for a second as he looked down at me.
"On your feet, Kevin. Time to earn your bread. Supply depot." He paused, squinting. "You look… less like death warmed over. Got some color back." He sounded almost disappointed my raggedness had lessened.
I sat up, and felt it immediately. The weakness was still there, but underpinned by a new, low thrum of vitality. My muscles felt denser, my posture unconsciously straighter. The wound still ached, but the sharp, tearing edge was gone, replaced by a deep, healing soreness. The transformation was subtle – perhaps just the bloom of health returning – but amplified by the Spirit's work. My face felt warmer, my eyes clearer.
"Sleep helps, Sergeant," I said, keeping my voice neutral. The Mind noted his observation: Visible improvement registers. Slightly disarms initial skepticism.
Mark grunted. "We'll see. Follow me."
The supply depot was chaos incarnate – stacks of crates, barrels of fuel, sacks of grain, piles of uniforms, all under flapping canvas roofs. Harried men moved like ants, shouting inventories, arguing over shortages, loading trucks bound for the crumbling front lines. The air stank of diesel, damp canvas, and sweat.
Mark shoved a grimy clipboard into my hands. "Start with Section 3. Ammo crates. Count. Log discrepancies. Don't screw up."
It was menial. It was perfect.
As I walked into the organized chaos, I felt the dual presence within and around me. The Mind Spirit expanded its awareness effortlessly, drinking in the depot's layout, the procedures, the faces, the hidden tensions. Its perception wasn't sight; it was a sphere of pure cognition, expanding to nearly a kilometer in diameter. I knew the exact count of crates stacked behind me. I overheard a whispered argument about pilfered rations three tents away. I sensed the approach of the quartermaster before he rounded the corner. Information flowed in, was instantly categorized, analyzed, and cross-referenced.
The Spirit of Gluttony was a constant, low hum in my gut, a furnace burning. Every breath felt deeper, drawing in more oxygen. Every step felt more grounded, muscles efficiently utilizing energy. The lingering fatigue from my wound and the spirit's creation was steadily burned away, replaced by a resilient stamina. Subtly, week by week, the changes became undeniable. My frame filled out, not with bulk, but with lean, efficient muscle that spoke of coiled power. My posture became effortlessly upright. My skin cleared, radiating a healthy vitality. I moved through the depot with an unnatural grace and economy of motion, handling heavy crates with ease that drew glances. I was becoming robust. Harmonious. Like a statue of human potential carved from living wood.
And I worked. With the Mind guiding my hands and eyes, I didn't just count crates; I optimized. I spotted inefficient stacking patterns and subtly rearranged them during counts. I anticipated shortages based on troop movements whispered at the edge of my perception and flagged them before they became crises. I wrote reports that were models of brutal clarity and efficiency, cutting through bureaucratic sludge. Within days, I wasn't just another pair of hands; I was the unseen engine making the depot run smoother. Men started asking me where things were. Sergeants deferred to my counts.
Mark Goopsan watched, his initial skepticism warring with undeniable results. He saw my transformation – the peasant replaced by someone who looked… capable. Someone who looked like they belonged. And he saw how indispensable I was becoming. The Mind noted his shifting calculus: Recognizes utility. Seeks association. Values influence.
One evening, as I finished streamlining the medical supply inventory (noting critical deficiencies in bandages the Mind had deduced from distant groans), Mark approached, his usual gruffness tempered.
"Kevin. Colonel Henderson is holding a dinner tomorrow. Senior staff, some local bigwigs trying not to piss themselves. My uncle runs his comms." He lowered his voice. "I mentioned you. Said you were sharp. Efficient. Got your head screwed on, unlike most of these mugs. He's curious. Be there. Clean uniform. Don't embarrass me."
The hook was set. The first thread of the web woven over seven days of flawless, superhuman efficiency and calculated physical transformation had snagged its target. The Mind had planned this moment, guiding interactions, highlighting my value through Mark. My body – now radiating health and quiet strength – was the lure.
"Thank you, Mark," I said, the gratitude genuine. A tool acknowledging another. "I won't let you down."
The "dinner" was held in a less-damaged village house commandeered by the Allies. Candles flickered on a rough table laden with surprisingly decent food – likely "requisitioned." Colonel Henderson sat at the head: mid-50s, iron-grey hair cropped short, eyes like chips of flint that missed nothing. English descent, bearing the weary authority of command.
Mark hovered nervously nearby as Henderson fixed his gaze on me. "So. You're Kevin. Goopsan here makes you sound like a one-man salvage operation for this whole damn retreat. Says you can find a needle in a haystack and tell you how many stitches it needs." His voice was dry, his accent crisp.
I met his gaze, the Mind feeding me calm, posture perfect, radiating the healthy vigor the Spirit of Gluttony had forged. "Sergeant Goopsan exaggerates, sir. I just try to be efficient. Better than sleeping in the street." A flicker of sympathy? The Mind noted the micro-expression.
Henderson grunted. "Efficiency is a rare bird out here. Background?"
The fabricated story flowed, smooth as silk, woven by the Mind from fragments of reality and plausible fiction: "Learned youth, sir. Father was a civil engineer, mother a doctor. Sister…" I let the pain the Mind simulated touch my eyes, lowering them briefly. "Killed in the first bombardments. Nazis. I… wandered. Survived. Revenge is a luxury when you're trying not to starve." Truth, half-truth, and calculated omission. The picture of a capable, educated young man forged by tragedy, not a suspicious blank slate.
Henderson studied me, his gaze lingering on my clear eyes, the healthy set of my shoulders, the quiet confidence that wasn't arrogance, but competence. The physical transformation sold the story as much as the words. He saw potential, not a peasant.
"I hear you read maps? Dabble in strategy?" he asked, spearing a piece of tough-looking meat.
"I understand terrain, sir. And how to… anticipate needs. Logistics is strategy on the ground." A humble deflection, showing understanding without overclaiming.
A faint, almost imperceptible nod. "Tomorrow. 0800. Command tent. We're planning the next fallback line. Observe. Listen. After, you'll write me a report. Your thoughts. Independent. See if Goopsan's faith is misplaced."
It wasn't an invitation. It was an audition. For exactly the role the Mind had targeted: proximity to command. Access to information. Influence. The role of a secretary, an aide, a whisperer in the ear of power.
"Understood, sir. 0800." I kept my voice level, but the Mind was already whirring, accessing terrain maps, known unit positions, German doctrine. The Spirit of Gluttony hummed contentedly within, its furnace stoked by the food I ate, fueling the intellect that would seize this chance.
As the Colonel turned to speak to a local official, Mark caught my eye. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Approval. Relief. I had passed the first test. Thanks to a mind that saw the path, a body forged to walk it, and the relentless hunger to ascend.
The first rung of the ladder was mine. The climb, fueled by spirits unseen, had truly begun.
End of Chapter 3