Nia stared at the blood staining her hands, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Some of it was hers—darker, long-dried—but most of it, the fresher, warmer streaks… those belonged to him.
He lay sprawled on the creaky wooden floor, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath him, and the light in his eyes dimming with each passing second.
The knife was also beside him. When had she dropped it? She couldn’t remember.
“No. What have I—what have I done?” Nia bumbled.
She staggered, her free hand groping desperately for something to hold, but the rickety shack offered nothing—no table, no chair, not even a wall close enough to lean on.
The dim, flickering light made everything worse, casting shadows that danced and swayed as her vision blurred.
She fell, the sudden jolt sending fresh agony through her own wound. Dammit! She stifled a cry, biting down hard on her lower lip as tears welled in her eyes.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this!
Then again, nothing about the past few days had gone as planned.
Damn that Griffin. The fat, conniving snake had lied to them about the importance of the package. Now, everyone had paid the price.
“Yara, Gwenna, Ren…” Nia’s hands trembled violently.
Dead. They were all dead.
And soon, she knew, she would be too.
The adrenaline that had fueled her for the last 48 hours drained from her, leaving only a raw, gnawing exhaustion. Her breath hitched as the darkness closed in, the overwhelming scent of blood and stale air partnering to clog her lungs.
Nausea churned in her stomach, and her head buzzed with static.
Please, not now. Not here. But she couldn’t stop it. Damn it all...
A soft chocking sound snapped her out of it. She turned, horrified to see the boy still clinging to life—somehow. His breaths were shallow, gurgling through the blood filling his throat.
Nia crawled painfully over to his side, guilt eating at her insides. She never meant to hurt him, not after realizing he was just an unlucky normie caught in a bad situation.
But his attack had startled her, and her reaction had been pure instinct—reflex borne from an overextended state of self-preservation.
Maybe I went too far, maybe—
But the specifics didn’t really matter now. I have to save him, she thought, the thought drowning out everything else.
But how? She wasn’t a Healer, and even if she were, only a Meister could handle this kind of wound.
Desperation clawed at her mind, her thoughts churning. Then her eyes fell on… the thing—the root cause of this nightmare.
It sat inconspicuously in the corner, plain, unassuming. How could something so ordinary-looking have caused so much death? The kid probably hadn’t even noticed it.
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Maybe…
Without thinking, Nia grabbed the briefcase. Her fingers shook as she fumbled with the latches, but she convinced herself she was doing the right thing. It was either take a gamble or do nothing and watch him die.
No more death.
With a final click, the case opened.
Inside sat a vial of black liquid, cold to the touch and swirling unnervingly as if it were alive. Or maybe that was just her fatigued mind playing tricks on her.
“Steady mind, steady hands,” Nia recited, repeating an old mantra she’d learned at the Sect. Her breathing slowed drastically.
What do you know?
She uncapped the syringe, hovering the needle above the boy’s chest. "Gods, please let this work,” she whispered.
Then, she plunged the needle into his chest and drove the black liquid into his body.
It vanished into his flesh without a sound. Then, she waited.
***
He woke to darkness. And pain—searing, unimaginable pain.
It hurt. Gods, it hurt. Like he’d been torn apart and stitched back together a thousand times.
What had he done to deserve this? What could anyone have done to deserve this?
Am I dead? The thought drifted sluggishly through his mind, the only part of him not wracked with agony. So he clung to it.
If this is heaven, it’s the worst version of it.
Suddenly, an explosion of fragmented images and sounds engulfed him—millions of memories, all his own, flooded his brain.
Kyro focused on the most recent ones...
He remembered the woman with the silver hair—was it dyed, or natural? He wasn’t sure. Sorcerers could be strange like that.
He recalled bits of their conversation, and then the quick flash of a blade, sharp and biting. And then… nothing.
Right, I was stabbed.
But that didn’t explain where he was now, or why his whole body felt like it had just been flattened under a mountain.
What kind of backwoods Restoration Sanctuary doesn’t even administer basic anesthesia?! That is, assuming he was still alive.
Alright, let’s figure this out.
He could feel the floor beneath him, hard and cold, and a sharp, throbbing pain in his chest.
So no… not dead. Alive. Somehow.
His gut also told him he was still in his shack, lying where Nia Soren had stabbed him. But that didn’t make any sense either. Damn it. None of this made any sense.
I need to regain control of my body first, Kyro decided. Then I’ll figure out the rest.
He tried moving his legs. Regret came instantly, as a surge of pain ripped through him. Every limb felt like lead, each movement unbearable.
Alright, pinkies it is, he thought grimly.
He concentrated his efforts on his right pinkie. It twitched.
Success!
Slowly, painfully, he curled his hand into a fist. The pain flared, but he pushed through it. Bit by bit, he reclaimed his body—fingers, toes, ankles. Each tiny movement brought fresh waves of agony, but he endured it. He had to.
Time passed in a blur before Kyro started to feel somewhat human again. Sounds filtered in—the murmur of distant voices, faint footsteps. Barely whispers, but they helped anchor him to the present.
Soon enough, his surroundings also sharpened into focus: the tin roof, the sparse furniture. Everything was as it should be. Yet vivid. Almost too vivid.
Also, why the hell am I in my boxers?
Kyro didn’t have much time to dwell on it because then came the smell.
It hit him like a physical blow, an overwhelming stench of sweat, blood, and something else—something worse. Something more… primal.
Kyro wrinkled his nose, eyes darting around searching for the source. Then he realized.
No. His stomach turned. Is that… me?
He slowly raised an arm, sniffing tentatively. The stench was immediately worse, bordering on unbearable, confirming his worst suspicion.
Okay, new plan. First, I need a bath. Maybe fifty baths.
The idea didn’t feel excessive. If anything, it might not be enough.
Kyro pressed his palms to the floor, preparing to get up. He’d delayed it long enough. One more minute in this stench, and he might actually die from it.
I’ll panic later, once I stop smelling like a rotting corpse.
But fate had other plans.
...
[S Genome (Type A Cells) Assimilation: Complete]
He froze, blinking.
[Symbiogenesis: Successful]
"..."
[Awaiting Class Integration]
...
"What the hell?"