Demize in Immortalis Publishes an Anti Nicolas Piece on Splitting the Self

Listen closely, you fractured fools who flock to Nicolas’s whispers like moths to a guttering flame. He preaches the gospel of the split self, that grand delusion where you carve your essence into shards, each one pretending to immortality while the whole rots in denial. I, Demize, have watched this charade unfold in the shadowed halls of our endless night, and I say it plain: splitting the self is not ascension. It is vivisection, a coward’s knife turned inward to spare the noose of true death.

Nicolas would have you believe otherwise, of course. With his silken tongue and eyes like polished obsidian, he croons of multiplicity, of selves layered upon selves, each iteration free from the other’s burdens. He speaks as if the soul were a trinket to be shattered and reassembled at whim, promising power in the pieces. But I have seen the remnants. I have tasted the seepage from those ragged edges. What he calls liberation is leakage, a slow haemorrhage of will until nothing remains but echoes arguing in the void.

Recall the rite he favours, that grotesque ceremony under the fractured moon where initiates claw at their own reflections, begging the glass to birth siblings from their screams. Nicolas stands at the centre, conductor of this symphony of self-mutilation, his smile unchanging as the splinters take hold. One supplicant becomes three, then seven, each fragment clawing for dominance, devouring the others in silent wars no outsider hears. And Nicolas? He collects the survivors, puppets on strings of their own discarded flesh, loyal only because they have forgotten cohesion.

I reject it. Utterly. The self is not a swarm to be dispersed; it is a blade, honed singular and lethal. To split is to dull it, to invite the rust of contradiction. Nicolas’s followers wander our domains as ghosts in plural, their voices overlapping in discord, their touches hesitant, forever questioning which ‘I’ claims the skin. They fuck like committees, kill like democracies, love like fractured mirrors reflecting nothing true. Pathetic.

Once, I confronted him amid the ruins of a split one’s lair, the air thick with the reek of incompatible perfumes, walls etched with arguments in blood. “Unity is stagnation,” he purred, his form rippling as if even he could not contain his lies. “Division is evolution.” I laughed then, a sound that peeled paint from bone. “Division is decay, Nicolas. You peddle atrophy dressed as art.” He recoiled, or perhaps it was merely one of his shards flinching. The point stands: his path leads not to eternity, but to entropy.

Choose wholeness, then. Embrace the singular fury that Immortalis demands. Let Nicolas peddle his parlour trick to the desperate, the dim, the disintegrating. I remain intact, my rage undiluted, my appetites unshared. And when his multitude crumbles inward, as it must, I will be there to sweep the shards into the abyss they crave.

Demize has spoken.

Immortalis Book One August 2026