Gaseous metal poured into Dellen’s wound. Torn flesh was seared, and in some places, stitched with iron and copper. An oval mesh of steelskin was erected like a scaffolding holding him together.

The mesh was working, he was going to be stronger, he could feel it.

“More ingots!” He yelled.

A pair of ingots were dropped into his hands.

Dellen sent Electrical Aether coursing into them, he felt the change as they glowed and dissolved.

The first particles came into contact with his skin, Dellen felt a tingling sensation build and become an inferno of heat. The alloy swept into his body. In his mind’s eye, he saw it as a warm, cleansing force, then it changed.

His mental image of a healing flow turned black and sinister. Dellen struggled to scream, ‘Stop!’ Pain caught the words in his throat.

The black current wove its way around his bones, chipping away and weakening him; muscles were infected with lines of black, like a plague-born curse. His steelskin drank in the corruption, splitting in places and hurting everywhere.

The current of Aether died.

Gaseous metal swirled in his body and solidified. Particles of the copper-iron-zinc alloy sublimated into tiny jagged fragments. They burrowed and embedded themselves into his tissue, causing an explosion of pain that radiated outward from his wounded side. His breath hitched in his throat as his body convulsed involuntarily. It was as if hot needles were stitching their way through his flesh and nerves, over and over.

His body slumped in the seat, the rigid tension holding him upright suddenly releasing as if a puppet’s strings had been cut. Sweat broke out on his forehead, trickling down the sides of his face, as his body began to react to the shock. His heart pounded like a war drum, the rhythm echoing in his ears.

His eyelids fluttered as he fought to maintain consciousness. The room around him seemed to blur and distort. Every sound muffled as if underwater. The faces of his companions registered concern, their mouths opening and closing in a silent discourse he couldn't hear.

“Dellen? Dellen? Dellen!” Gilgamesh screamed, his voice receding to the back of Dellen’s mind.

His name echoed around him. It was a beacon trying to pierce through the dense fog of his disoriented mind. The edges of his reality began to fracture, the searing pain fragmenting his consciousness. Each call of his name was a distant throb, a beat that seemed to sync with the pulsating agony radiating from his side.

Then, he felt movement, a jarring shift in his reality as hands unstrapped him. His body felt both heavy and weightless, each motion sending an electric jolt of torment through his nerves. The once firm support of the chair beneath him was gone, replaced by a cold emptiness. He was left suspended in a void, floating aimlessly as disjointed images and blurred colors swirled around him.

His awareness flickered like a weak flame dancing against a harsh wind. The sensation of rough hands carefully maneuvering him, the sharp scent of sterile metal, and the muffled sounds of worried voices, all melded together into a distorted dreamscape. It was as though he was submerged deep underwater, struggling to breach the surface but hindered by the weight of his own body. He tried to respond, to assure them he was still there, but his voice was lost in the haze.

Every breath was an effort, each inhalation and exhalation sending a shudder of pain through his torso. Each heartbeat was a hammer against his skull. He could feel himself spiraling deeper into the fog of pain and disorientation, but something pulled him back. The distant echo of his name.

He fought the swirling abyss of unconsciousness, clawing back toward the flickering light of awareness. He wrestled with the hazy fog enveloping him, breaking through the veil in momentary spurts. Slowly, painstakingly, he dragged himself back to the waking world, his senses gradually regaining their sharpness amidst the dulling ache of his wounds.

“Dellen!” Gilgamesh screamed.

“Ow,” Dellen muttered.

“He’s alive.” He heard Tristan say.

“Ow,” Dellen said again. He was on the floor. It was cold on his skin. He moved his arm, and it hurt. Jagged little pricks tore at the inside of his injury and across his body.

“What went wrong?” Lydia said.

“Incompatible alloy,” Callum replied, the skin on his face pulled tight in a horrified grimace.

“But it was all going perfectly; he asked for more, and I handed him more.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“This idiot must have kept more than one alloy in his bag.”

Dellen didn’t make the effort to speak.

“What do we do with him now?”

Dellen tried to push himself up and groaned as the strain tugged at his wound. The world spun, a vertigo-inducing swirl of colors and shapes. He felt a firm grip on his arm, helping him steady.

“Easy,” a voice, Callum’s voice, advised the word a soft sigh against the backdrop of concerned murmurs.

“Don’t try to move so quickly,” another voice added. Lydia’s. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“Gotta... get up,” Dellen managed to grit out between clenched teeth. His words were slurred, but he was determined. The cold floor beneath him was uninviting, and he felt too exposed, too vulnerable, laid out as he was.

He heard a sigh, followed by a low exchange of words that he couldn’t quite catch, his hearing still muffled as if he was underwater. Then, he felt another set of hands joining the first, carefully maneuvering him into a sitting position. The world tilted precariously for a moment, his vision clouded with spots of black and white, but he swallowed back the wave of nausea and tightened his grip on the arms supporting him.

The room came into focus again, the blurred outlines sharpening into recognizable objects, the whirl of voices coalescing into distinct sentences. He blinked away the lingering haze in his vision and gritted his teeth against the spikes of pain shooting through his body.

“Water,” Dellen croaked, his throat raw. He needed to clear his head, needed to regain control. His attempt had backfired. Now, he needed to regroup and figure out the next step.

"Dellen, can you hear me?" Gilgamesh's mechanical voice buzzed in his ear, punctuating the symphony of pain that was his body.

"Sure, " Dellen forced out through clenched teeth.

The others were talking above him, their voices a confused mix of concern and uncertainty. Callum advocated for immediate medical attention, but Dellen waved the suggestion away with a grimace.

"I need... a minute," he rasped. His body was a confluence of agony, the sharp spikes of pain radiating from his side, making each breath painful.

“You've undergone a severe aetheric reaction. We should,” Callum began, but Dellen interrupted him with a pained laugh.

"Just... help me up."

Lydia and Callum shared a look, but at Dellen's nod, they helped him slowly to his feet. Dellen swayed, the room seeming to tilt beneath him, but he held his ground, leaning heavily on Lydia.

He tried to take a step, and the room spun and tilted sideways, the chatter of the others became indistinct murmurs. He tried to force himself to his feet, but his body refused to obey.

“Damn it, he's in a bad state,” Tristan muttered, guilt washing over his features. “I shouldn't have let him push himself like this.”

“We didn’t know this would happen, Tristan,” Lydia reassured him, her tone professional. Yet, a hint of worry was detectable in her eyes.

Gritting his teeth, Dellen struggled to push himself up, but a sharp jolt of pain shot through him, driving him back down.

“Forget about it,” Callum said, his hands on his hips, looking at Dellen with concern. “We need to get him to the infirmary. Now.”

With that, Tristan and Callum hoisted him up, each man taking one of his arms over their shoulders. Lydia led the way, opening doors and guiding them through the winding corridors of the airship. Dellen could barely keep his eyes open, his vision blurring with each agonizing step.

The infirmary was a utilitarian room designed for efficiency rather than comfort. Its shelves were lined with herbs, salves, and bandages. Dellen was eased onto a stiff cot, his body screaming against the simple action.

A physician was summoned, a grizzled man with gnarled hands that spoke of years of practical work. He immediately set about examining Dellen, his hands prodding gently but insistently, causing Dellen to wince in pain.

“What in the name of the Aether has happened here?” The physician asked, his gruff voice filling the room. But his question seemed more to himself than to anyone else present.

As Dellen struggled to stay conscious, he caught snatches of conversation between the physician, Tristan, Lydia, and Callum.

“We didn’t know...”

“...pushed himself too hard…”

“Incompatible alloy…”

Each phrase floated in and out of Dellen's consciousness like leaves carried on a breeze. His vision blurred, the figures around him becoming indistinct. He could feel the physician pressing a cool, damp cloth against his forehead, the soothing sensation providing a small measure of relief.

The physician muttered something under his breath, his skilled hands moving carefully, attentively over Dellen's injuries. The room fell silent except for the rustle of his clothes and the murmur of his low, rhythmic voice as he explained something to the others, something about aetheric resonance, metal incompatibility, and bodily reactions.

Dellen was barely able to catch any of it. He tried to focus on the physician's words, but the pain and exhaustion were overpowering. His mind drifted, the voices in the room becoming distant echoes.

And then, finally, mercifully, the darkness of unconsciousness engulfed him. He barely registered the physician's last words as the world faded away.

“I’ll do what I can...”

The doctor’s voice dropped into a low murmur, and Dellen tried to tune into the words. It was a challenge, the pain was overwhelming, and the darkness around his vision was creeping closer.

“...comfortable... rest… bodies are surprisingly resilient…"

The words were hard to follow. He felt the pressure of the doctor’s hands lift from the wound on his side. Something soft was applied, something cool and soothing, a salve perhaps. The voices in the room became indistinct, fading in and out of clarity like whispers in the wind.

Dellen was aware of people moving around him, of gentle hands, adjusting his body, of a blanket being draped over him. The doctor was saying something else now, words too low for Dellen to catch. The room fell into a quiet hum of activity, with everyone focused on their tasks.

His body felt heavy, an immovable weight anchoring him to the cot. His side throbbed with a persistent, gnawing pain, but it was manageable, distant, almost as if he was observing it from afar.

Tristan's worried face loomed into his line of sight, the young man’s brow furrowed in concern. He said something, but Dellen didn't catch the words, his consciousness drifting away, swept along on a tide of exhaustion. Tristan's face blurred, faded, replaced by the soft, welcoming darkness.

With the soothing hum of activity around him and the comforting pressure of the blanket over his body, Dellen allowed himself to slip deeper into unconsciousness.