Kyro actually stuck to his plan: clean himself up before doing or thinking about anything else. But it wasn’t easy.

The taxing mental component was one thing, but scrubbing himself raw from head to toe—repeatedly—just to finally get rid of the deadly combination of crusted filth and godawful stench clinging to his skin like tar, while his body creaked every two seconds like an old, broken toy, took over two hours.

Two hours. He was amazed he still had skin left.

Pretty sure I’m now the cleanest person in the entire Ashen District.

The process hadn’t just drained him; it had wiped out two whole months’ worth of his water supply. Thanks to this mess, he'd have to make the dreaded trip to the water reserve much sooner than expected.

Ugh. That was a journey he wasn’t particularly eager to undertake.

“That should do it,” Kyro muttered as he inspected himself in the cracked mirror mounted on the wall. He’d changed into a fresh pair of boxers—safe to say his old ones had been ruined beyond repair.

How did I even end up in my boxers? Oddly enough, that wasn't even close to the strangest thing to happen to him today.

He stepped closer to the mirror, scrutinizing his reflection. His build was lean, wiry—the kind of athletic frame forged not in a gym but through years of scraping and clawing his way through life. His body was mostly the same, save for the irritated red patches of skin where he'd scrubbed too hard. Then there was the wound—a slanted, blackened gash on the left side of his chest.

The knife wound was grotesque. It looked as though someone had doused it in kerosene then set it aflame.

What the hell happened here? Kyro gingerly traced his fingers around the edges.

Strange black streaks radiated from the cut, twisting in jagged arcs like a cursed tattoo etched into his skin. So much for holding out on getting my first ink...

At least, from a distance, it almost looks cool.

The wound hadn’t fully healed. Raw pink flesh was still visible up close, but it had closed enough to keep him from bleeding out.

Kyro stared at the injury, his mind grappling with the surreal reality. I should be dead. Every instinct told him so. Yet, here he was—breathing, conscious, and very much alive. And he didn’t know why.

Did Nia Soren feel guilty and use some weird sorcery to save me?

It was the only explanation he could come up with. Sorcerers were always pulling crazy stunts like this all the time—it was their whole thing. But this... this was a first for Kyro. Then again, today had been full of firsts.

“Though, I have to say, she really did an amazing job covering her tracks,” Kyro muttered, glancing around his small shack for what felt like the hundredth time.

The rough wooden walls were the same—cracked and weathered. His small cot remained rumpled, just as he had left it. The chipped mug still sat precariously on the wobbly table, and his old blanket hung draped over the chair.

All in all, nothing had changed. Nothing had changed, but it should have.

“It’s like she was never here.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

There was no sign of struggle, no blood—no evidence that Nia Soren had been here at all, let alone stabbed him in the chest.

Honestly, if it weren’t for the wound and the voice in my head, I’d almost believe it was all some strange, hyper-realistic dream.

Right. The voice. He’d been saving the best for last.

Kyro shuffled over to the small heap of clothes by his cot. He sifted through them, not that there were many options to choose from, and slowly got dressed. The searing pain he’d woken up to had dulled, but every so often, a sharp jolt would shoot through him, like being shocked by a live wire. He sighed. It would probably be a while before he fully recovered.

Once dressed, Kyro collapsed into his chair. He’d eaten some bread and drank water after washing—not because he was hungry, but to be at his best when confronting this next, more bizarre part.

...

[Awaiting Class Integration]

...

It wasn’t exactly a voice, more like a thought—not a passing thought, but more like a constant, mechanical hum at the edge of his consciousness.

Kyro wasn’t sure where the earlier thoughts, or maybe messages, had gone, but their words still rang fresh in his mind.

“S Genome (Type A Cells) Assimilation: Complete,” the first had said. “Symbiogenesis: Successful,” the second followed.

I have no idea what any of it means.

Apparently, I absorbed some kind of cells? Type A cells? S Genome?

What the hell?

And Symbiogenesis? What even was that?

He wasn’t a genius, but it seemed obvious this all tied back to whatever happened after he blacked out.

He’d tried combing through his memories, but everything after the stabbing was a hazy fog, like trying to recall a dream after waking. Maybe a clue was buried in that murk, but clarity apparently wasn’t a gift bestowed on those on the brink of death.

Either some crazed sorcerer—most likely Soren—used me for some twisted experiment, or I’m dead, and this is some warped afterlife.

Neither theory sounded great. Both seemed equally ridiculous. But Kyro was sure of one thing: something had happened to him. Something beyond the stabbing.

“I am different. I feel different.” He just didn’t know how or what that meant moving forward.

That’s what I need to figure out.

Kyro glanced at the faint light filtering through the cracks in the walls. It was morning. That much was clear. But what day was it? How long had he been unconscious? What was the situation outside?

Too many questions. Far too few answers.

Then another thought hit him—one far more pressing.

Malthus... Damn it.

There was that to deal with too.

Kyro didn’t feel ready to step outside yet. He’d been through a lot. Far more than he understood. And he wasn’t exactly in shape to travel right now. But he didn’t have much choice.

For all I know, I’ve been unconscious for a hundred years and just woke up in a different era.

He snorted at the thought. Forget centuries—he wouldn’t have made it past a week without food or water. Besides, everything looked the same. Too much the same.

Then again, I’ve got someone else’s thoughts rattling around in my head so what do I know?

Kyro closed his eyes, his thoughts drifting back to the messages. The last one lingered in his mind, just out of reach. It was a strange, yet oddly not unpleasant feeling.

...

[Awaiting Class Integration]

...

Wait. If the first two messages disappeared, does that mean this one will too?

No. That can’t be right. The word "Awaiting" suggested it was waiting for something—something called Class Integration.

But what was that?

The messages were clearly clues. But they were maddeningly vague, like puzzle pieces without the guide picture. He had some ideas, of course he had. But jumping to conclusions right now felt dangerous.

He gave the message another mental nudge. Still, nothing.

Argh. It was hard to keep his frustration from boiling over. There was obviously more to it. But what?

Was the message waiting for him to activate this… this integration? If so, how was he supposed to do that? Was it even something he wanted to trigger?

Way too many questions. Almost zero answers.

Whatever, I can’t just grasp at straws forever. Kyro stood and began preparing to go outside.

No doubt, moving around in his condition would be difficult, maybe even dangerous. But sitting here, stewing in his thoughts, was somehow worse.

He needed answers. Real answers.

And the only way to get those was by going out and finding them.