Aermo wasn't quite sure how he had ended up chained to a chair. The cold metal bit into his wrists and ankles, the rough edges of the chains leaving angry red marks on his skin. His every nerve felt heavy, a leaden weight that made even the smallest movement a monumental effort. His muscles ached with a dull, persistent throb, and he struggled to even lift his head.

The last thing he remembered was wandering through the other areas surrounding the underground arena. He stopped by at a bar that promised free drinks before feeling a sudden, sharp sting on his neck, then another on his arm. His vision quickly blurred, and he couldn't remember much after that.

Suddenly, the creak of a door broke the silence as a Black Eagle member stepped in, his head bowed respectfully. Behind him, another figure followed, seated in a wheelchair. He was an aged man that still exuded a dignified authority that commanded attention. His well-tailored brown suit accentuated the silver threads in his graying hair and the meticulous trim of his beard.

The old man coughed slightly as he wheeled himself inside. "Thank you, you may leave now."

The Black Eagle member hesitated, his eyes darting to Aermo and then back to the man in the wheelchair. "Are you sure, boss?"

"I'll be fine," the man replied with a slight wave. "Leave us."

With a reluctant nod, the member bowed once more and exited the room, the door closing softly behind him. The man in the wheelchair rolled himself closer to a nearby table: cluttered with an array of medical instruments and syringes that were meticulously arranged. He reached out with a steady hand, selecting a syringe. The cool metal glinted under the dim lighting as he examined it briefly, scrutinizing every detail.

He turned his attention to Aermo while holding the syringe. "This will hurt, but I need you to bear with me."

Aermo's senses jolted awake as the man approached him, the syringe glinting ominously in the dim light. He felt a sharp pain as the needle pierced his skin, and the sensation of blood being drawn made his heart race. Despite all this, the man in the wheelchair remained steady, his expression one of practiced indifference.

After filling the syringe with Aermo's blood, the man wheeled himself backward and set the blood-filled syringe on the table. He then turned his gaze to Aermo, studying him intently. "Do you know where you are?"

Aermo blinked a few times, his vision slowly clearing as he took in his surroundings. The room was a stark, metallic chamber lined with instruments of torture and various medical devices. Chains and shackles hung from the ceiling while various tables were cluttered with scalpels, syringes, and other tools that were stained with dark, dried smears.

He felt a chill run down his spine as he realized the gravity of his situation. "Where… am I?"

The man in the wheelchair wheeled himself over to a nearby table cluttered with various objects and tools. "You are in my personal workshop," he said with an almost casual tone. He paused for a moment, turning to face Aermo. "Forgive me, where are my manners? I should introduce myself. I am Vittorio, the current head of the Black Eagles."

Aermo struggled against his bonds, the metal biting into his skin. "Let me go you sick fuck!"

Vittorio shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid I can't do that."

He wheeled himself back to the table, picking up the blood-filled syringe. With a meticulous hand, he began to mix the blood with other substances, creating a dark, swirling mixture. "Tell me, beastkin, are you aware of the truth of the world?"

"Piss off," Aermo spat.

Unfazed, Vittorio continued. "You see, over the many years I've been alive, I've learned a great deal. Some of these truths are things I would rather not remember."

Aermo glared at him. "Why are you even talking to me?"

Vittorio glanced up from his work, his eyes meeting Aermo's. "I simply need a way to pass the time while I work," he said with a shrug. "And it's not as though anyone will be coming to save you anytime soon."

"Maybe you're right about nobody saving me," Aermo said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But you're still gonna die."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"You think you're safe, hidden away in your little workshop, but there's someone out there who's coming for your head, and you won't stand a chance."

Vittorio laughed heartily. "Oh, my beastkin friend, I do admire your confidence." He resumed his work on the mixture, hands moving with practiced ease. "But I'm afraid I'm still not worried."

Aermo's eyes darted around the room, taking in the array of strange instruments and devices. "What are you even doing?"

Vittorio paused for a moment, then continued working on his mixture. "I suppose there's no harm in talking to a soon to be dead man."

He poured the mixture into a beaker and stirred it, the liquid swirling and changing color. "I've always been fond of reading about the myths of old. A time when gods ruled the world, their power unmatched and their will absolute."

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He continued working on the mixture, moving with the practiced precision of a seasoned alchemist. Vittorio carefully poured the viscous liquid into a gleaming distiller. The glass and metal apparatus hissed softly as he adjusted the settings, the fluid beginning to bubble and transform. "The unwashed masses still believe gods to be unparalleled and powerful beings. But I believe that the gods of old were more mortal than they'd like to admit."

Aermo's curiosity finally got the better of him. His eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward. "What do you mean by that?" .

Vittorio's hands moved deftly as he combined other fluids with the mixture, the liquids merging and reacting with a faint hiss. He watched intently as the concoction changed color once again. Satisfied, he carefully transferred the mixture into a small, ornate vial, shaking it gently. "It's well known in academic circles that gods have been dead in this world for a long time. Scholars have debated for how long exactly, but their deaths are a given truth."

Aermo shook his head. "I don't believe you."

Vittorio shrugged, setting the vial aside and turning to face Aermo. "It doesn't matter what you believe, my beastkin friend. Reality won't change to suit your beliefs."

He picked up the vial again, examining it closely. "According to legend, when the beastkin were created, some among them were tied more closely to the divine than others. These chosen beastkin would then become the first shifters."

Aermo's eyes narrowed as he listened. "What's the point of all this?"

Vittorio carefully poured the mixture into another syringe. He tapped the syringe lightly, testing it with a practiced flick of his wrist. "As you can see, my best days have long passed me. So, what's the harm in trying to take one step closer towards divinity?"

Vittorio rested the syringe on his lap and turned to face Aermo. His expression grew more intense, his eyes boring into Aermo's with a hint of malice. "Do you know your wife is actually here, in the underground?"

Aermo's reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, and he surged forward. "Take me to her, now!"

Vittorio couldn't help but laugh. "A barking dog is nothing to be afraid of."

"I still have the reports from when my men worked with the military to raid your village. It was quite the spectacle. While it was impressive that you turned out to be a shifter, your inability to control yourself while transformed makes you nothing more than a beast that needs a leash."

Aermo's face twisted in rage, his fists clenched at his sides. "You bastard."

Vittorio shrugged. "That makes two of us."

With a deep breath, Vittorio brought the syringe to his arm, the needle hovering over a prominent vein. He hesitated, the tip of the needle barely pressing against his skin, as if savoring the moment. Then, with a determined press, he plunged the needle in and injected the mixture into his bloodstream.

Almost immediately, Vittorio convulsed, muscles seizing as the magical concoction spread through his veins. His face contorted with pain as his veins glowed with a pulsating light, coursing through his body like molten metal.

The syringe clattered to the floor as Vittorio's hands clenched into fists. His breathing became ragged, each gasp echoing through the room, a harsh counterpoint to the silence that followed. The old man's skin seemed to stretched and shifted, the glow beneath it pulsating rhythmically,

Vittorio's convulsions gradually subsided, his breathing steadied, though it remained shallow and labored. Yet, the glowing veins remained as he stabilized, his movements stiff at first but growing more fluid with each passing moment.

As he stood, Vittorio's once frail form now exuded an almost palpable energy. His transformation left him visibly changed, the previously brittle exterior replaced by a hardened, more formidable presence. His eyes, now glowing with an otherworldly light, turned to Aermo, filled with triumph.

Aermo's heart pounded in his chest. "What have you done?"

Vittorio smiled, a chilling, almost inhuman grin. "I have taken the first step towards ascension."

Aermo scoffed, his eyes narrowing with disdain. "You're delusional. I know only one person who might actually be close to being a god, and it's definitely not you."

Vittorio's smile faltered, replaced by a flash of anger. He swung his fist which connected with Aermo's face with a sickening thud. The force of the blow sent Aermo and the chair he was bound to crashing to the floor. The cold, hard surface met him with brutal impact, pain radiating through his body.

Vittorio flexed his arm, muscles bulging with newfound strength. "I've always known that beastkin shifters were the key to unmatched power. And now, I have it all to myself."

Aermo glared up at him, defiance burning in his gaze. He tried to summon his own powers, his fur briefly blazing with energy, but it flickered and died out almost immediately. Why can't I transform?

"Don't bother," Vittorio said. "I took precautions to ensure you can't transform. You're powerless."

Vittorio walked up to Aermo, towering over the beastkin. "While it's been fun, your corpse will do just fine for my purposes now."

But before he could come any closer, Vittorio suddenly seized up and convulsed violently. His muscles contracted with a force that looked almost inhuman, back arching and limbs jerking uncontrollably. He collapsed to the floor with a sickening thud as his veins glowed even brighter.

Steam rose from Vittorio's skin, the moisture in his body evaporating from the rapid increase in temperature. His face twisted in sheer agony as the room filled with the smell of burning flesh, and his once pale skin took on a reddened hue, almost as if he were being cooked from the inside out.

Aermo watched in shock, his eyes fixed on Vittorio's writhing form. The old man's body twisted and contorted, a grotesque spectacle of agony. The light from his veins grew so intense it became almost blinding.

Seizing the opportunity, Aermo tried to struggle against his bonds with renewed vigor. The chains bit into his wrists and ankles, but he ignored the pain. Need to get out of here, fast!

Vittorio's screams continued unabated, his body thrashing wildly on the floor. The heat radiating from him was intense, the air around him shimmering with the force of it, making the room feel like an oven. Aermo's heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins, spurring him on.

With a final push, Aermo managed to break free of the chains, the metal links snapping with a sharp crack that echoed in the room. He pushed himself up, body aching but his mind sharp and clear.

Aermo sprinted towards the door, yanking it open and stumbling into the hallway. The cool air hit him like a wave, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the room. His breath came in ragged gasps as he ran, his legs propelling him forward with a desperate urgency. The sounds of Vittorio's screams faded behind him, replaced by the pounding of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears.