Partygoer 0's smile froze mid-expression, the first crack in its perfect composure. The floating heads continued their lazy rotation overhead, the balloon rain still falling in thick, glittering sheets, but none of it touched Daniel Voss. He stood untouched, pipe blazing white-gold, the new Immune All passive radiating outward like an invisible sun.
The progenitor tilted its head, voice still warm yet now edged with something sharper.
"Immune All. How charming. The Pantheon has given you a pretty shield."
It snapped its fingers again.
Not once.
Dozens of times in rapid succession.
Reality fractured like glass struck by a hammer.
From Partygoer 0's own body, identical copies peeled away—each one a perfect duplicate in pristine white suit, microphone in hand, serene aristocratic grin fixed in place. Ten. Twenty. Fifty. They multiplied exponentially until the chamber was filled with an army of identical First Party Creators, every single one radiating the same omnipotent authority.
The original Partygoer 0 laughed softly, the sound echoed and amplified by every copy until it became a chorus.
"You are immune to *me*," all fifty voices said in perfect unison. "But you are not immune to *us*."
They moved as one.
The multiples attacked with coordinated precision that no single entity could match. One copy blurred forward and drove a gloved fist into Daniel's midsection—physical force backed by the full weight of the Backrooms' narrative authority. Another seized his arm and twisted. A third slammed a microphone stand across his jaw like a baton. More piled on, a smiling avalanche of white suits and perfect grins.
Immune All held against the anomalous effects—gravity, memetics, erasure, party protocols—but the sheer physical multiplicity overwhelmed raw mass and momentum. Daniel was driven to his knees, then slammed face-first into the balloon-strewn tile. The pipe was wrenched from his grip and tossed aside. Fists rained down in perfect rhythm, each strike carrying the combined force of the progenitor's will.
Vannia screamed and lunged, silver aura blazing, but three copies intercepted her instantly, pinning her against the wall with casual ease.
Daniel felt bones crack again. Blood filled his mouth. The interface flickered wildly:
```
[Immune All: Active – Anomalous & Reality Effects Nullified]
Warning: Raw physical multiplicity exceeds current threshold
Chosen-0007 structural integrity: 34% and dropping
```
Partygoer 0—the original—watched from the center of the swarm, microphone raised like a conductor's baton, smile never wavering.
"Even gods can be beaten by numbers," all copies chorused. "Welcome to the party, Chosen-0007."
Daniel's vision tunneled. The violet-black vein along his forearm—Pestilence Type 2—burned hotter than it ever had, spreading like wildfire across his chest, neck, and face. The fractal etchings on the discarded pipe flared in response, screaming for escalation.
Then the system detonated once more.
```
[Catastrophic Overload Detected]
Pestilence Type 2: Maximum Saturation
Integration Limit Breached by Multiplicity Assault
New Core Passive Evolved: Pestilence Type 3 – "Plague Sovereign"
```
The vein exploded outward in a storm of violet-black lightning. Every copy of Partygoer 0 that touched Daniel recoiled as if burned by acid. Their pristine white suits blackened and rotted instantly, smiles cracking into static. The original progenitor staggered backward, grin fracturing for the first time.
Daniel rose.
Not with effort.
He simply *became*.
Pestilence Type 3 radiated from him in visible waves—black-violet tendrils that snaked across the floor, up the walls, and into the falling balloons. Every balloon they touched withered into ash mid-air. The floating heads of the outpost team dissolved into harmless gray dust, finally released.
The multiples tried to swarm again.
They disintegrated on contact.
Daniel's voice was calm, almost gentle, yet it carried the weight of absolute decree.
"Type 3. Plague Sovereign. Every version of you is now infected."
The original Partygoer 0 clutched its chest as black veins spread across its own parchment skin. Its microphone fell from limp fingers.
Daniel stepped forward through the collapsing swarm of duplicates, each copy dissolving into static and confetti as he passed.
Immune All still held.
Pestilence Type 3 now ruled.
And the First Party Creator finally understood it was no longer facing a wanderer.
It was facing the beginning of the Backrooms' new plague.