Within the dome-shaped hall, the crystal walls spiraled upward, tapering to a sharp peak, channeling the moonlight's silvery glow into a central jade platform. On that once-pristine surface now lay torn chunks of flesh, pulsing faintly, alongside glistening innards. Silver blood coated everything, casting the scene in an eerie, otherworldly glow. Over the remnants, silver fireflies buzzed like ethereal sentinels, drawn to the carnage below.
If one looked closer, they would witness a strange, unsettling phenomenon—the scattered chunks of meat, ever so slowly, inching toward the platform, as if summoned by some invisible force. The pieces, like parts of a broken puzzle, began to reassemble, pulling together to form the lean, muscular body of a man with silver hair. His eyes remained closed.
I opened my eyes slowly, the sensation of waking from a deep slumber washing over me. For a moment, I felt an unusual clarity, as though I had been reborn. But then, the memory of the excruciating pain struck me like a dagger, and I groaned, the echo of that torment still lingering in my bones.
"Everything feels... alright. Maybe it's over," I muttered to myself. But then I realized, with a sinking dread, that I had not yet awakened any power. The silver blood was once again surging through my veins, thrashing violently against them. Though they seemed reinforced now, capable of enduring the pressure, I understood that I had merely returned to the starting point.
Focusing, I guided the fireflies into my body. It was easier now, the silver blood coating my flesh serving as a natural conduit for their ethereal glow. Slowly, I navigated the fireflies through the turbulent stream of blood, guiding them toward my heart. They reached it, and as they reinforced it, I felt a subtle shift—an increase in the essence coursing through me. The thrashing within my veins grew more intense, but I could bear it. For now.
I repeated the process, over and over, feeling small but noticeable changes with each attempt. My blood was becoming purer, stronger. Soon, a small corner of my heart took on a faint, white hue, and I allowed myself a moment of hope. But just as I did, the veins bulged once more. Horror gripped me as they began to burst again, and my body exploded into chunks, the agony consuming me once more as consciousness faded.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
When I awoke again, my body had reformed. My heart was a shade whiter, my veins slightly more resilient. I resumed the process, refining my heart again, and again, until the pain became a constant companion—an agony so familiar it felt as natural as breathing.
Meanwhile, in a room far from the hall, a large white table cluttered with documents and vials dominated the space. Seated at one end of the table was Vasen, his usual calm composure now tinged with an undercurrent of worry.
"What's happening? It's been two weeks since he entered. Normally, the awakening takes no more than two or three days," Vasen's voice, though still measured, betrayed his concern.
"He's suffering," replied the head, a seemingly middle-aged man seated at the other end of the table, his ageless voice filled with quiet authority.
"What do you mean?" Vasen asked, his brow furrowing.
The head raised his hand, drawing a square in the air. Within it, an image of the hall materialized—scattered chunks of flesh littering the platform. The image flickered before vanishing.
"That's not supposed to happen," Vasen said, standing abruptly.
"Nor is he supposed to have silver blood at this stage," the head replied, calm as ever.
Realization dawned on Vasen. "Is that the reason?"
The head nodded. "He doesn't have a sense of time. He wakes each night, refines his heart, and bursts apart before the sun rises. He spends the day recombining, unaware that the first time took him Four days, while now it only takes Three. The time is shortening, and he's adjusting to the process."
"The pain—" Vasen's voice faltered. "The pain will drive him mad."
"Every ruler requires a touch of madness. It keeps them unpredictable," the head remarked, his gaze unwavering.
"How long will this go on? When will it be enough?" Vasen asked, his tone laced with urgency.
"Normally, it would end when at least half his heart has turned white," the head began, his voice filled with wisdom, "but the power he's awakening is far beyond anything we've ever seen. To fully manifest it, he'll need his entire heart to turn white. His silver blood must grow dense enough to channel it, and his veins will need to strengthen to form a stable passage for that immense power. This is just the beginning."
The weight of the head's words hung heavy in the air. Vasen stood silently, processing what he had heard as the head returned to his documents, seemingly unbothered by the agonizing trial unfolding in the hall.