"Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us." Oscar Wilde
The room was a sterile shrine of ambition, its white tiles gleaming under the bright white light that seemed to hum with impatience.
At its heart stood a glass cylinder, a monstrous womb of science and sorcery, tangled with pipes that gurgled water and wires pulsing with a blue energy that didn't so much glow as the room itself.
Submerged within, suspended in a viscous liquid, was a young man draped in tattered blue robes, his body was a marionette of wires and tubes.
A breathing mask clung to his face, obscuring all but a mop of dark hair that floated like ink in water. He was less a man than a project, a blank paper for someone's grand delusion.
Across the room, a crystalline shard hovered at the chamber's center, catching the light and throwing it back in fractured rainbows.
It pulsed faintly, as if it knew something the rest of them didn't. On the far side, raised platforms bore intricate magic circles, their lines etched with a precision that border-lined, obsession.
Figures in white robes moved among them, their hands dancing over the sigils, coaxing mana into the air like smoke from a dying fire.
They muttered incantations, half science, half prayer, their faces were masks of focus or fear? Hard to tell which.
Dr. Adam stood before the cylinder, his greyish-brown hair catching the light like ash dusted with frost.
His glasses perched on a nose too sharp for kindness, and his long white coat hung over a simple suit, the name Dr. Adam stitched on the pocket in thread that might've been mocking in its neatness.
He was the kind of man who looked like he'd argue with God and win, not because he was right, but because he'd outlast the debate. His eyes, cold as the tiles, fixed on the figure in the tube.
"Ayla, report," he said, his voice flat, like he was ordering coffee instead of unraveling a soul.
A young woman stepped forward, her short blonde hair catching the light like a warning flare. She wore a coat like his, though hers seemed to fit less like a second skin and more like a borrowed disguise.
In her hand, she held a rhombic crystal that pulsed with a soft glow, impatient to spill its secrets. She raised it, and a projection flickered into existence.
It was a list of clinical details floating in the air like a verdict.
"Subject: R – Infinity," she began, her voice steady but laced with something that might've been pity if she'd let it linger.
"Forced integration of mana at atomic level: success.
Physical side effects: None. However, the memory cortex shows activity during heavy mana utilization. Categorized as normal, given the subject's… history. Attempts to fully erase memories have disrupted mana integration."
She paused, glancing at the cylinder, then pressed on. "Subject's natural regenerative capacity: Unaltered.
All vitals: Functional."
Dr. Adam didn't blink. He stared at the figure in the tube, his lips pursed as if the universe had personally disappointed him.
"Humm," he murmured, the sound less thoughtful than predatory. "Still not enough. We'll continue the trials until that brain is a hollow shell.
No risks. No chances." His gaze flicked to Ayla, who nodded and retreated to her station. Her steps were quick, like she was escaping something heavier than orders.
"For now-" Dr. Adam's voice sharpened, "wake him up."
The researchers at the platforms stirred, their hands moving faster over the magic circles. Mana flared, the air crackling with energy sparks as the sigils glowed.
Inside the cylinder, the young man; Subject – R. His fingers twitched. His brain stirring with memories that made no sense to him nor seem to have any relevance to him.
It started with a voice that echoed in his head, calling out a name he recognized, "Raven!" Was it his own, or someone else's? He didn't know.
The voice boomed through his skull, deep and resonant, like a thunderclap in a void. Darkness enveloped him, thick and absolute, not the kind you stumble through but the kind that swallows you whole.
He had no name, no past, only the echo of that voice and a faint, but sweet laughter that danced at the edges of his mind.
He raised his hands, staring at palms he didn't recognize, their lines unfamiliar, as if they belonged to someone else's story.
Then the darkness fractured. Light bled in, and he stood in a village; a patchwork of wood and stone nestled between sprawling farms and a forest that whispered secrets to anyone who'd listen.
The air was warm, alive with the chatter of people going about their days. Vendors haggling, children shrieking as they chased each other through the dirt.
It was the kind of place where time moved slow, where life felt like it might just keep going forever.
"*#*#*#." A voice, soft as a lullaby, called from behind him. It glitched, the sound warped, but its warmth wrapped around his heart like a hearth.
He turned, and there she was; a little girl with shoulder-length indigo hair and eyes the color of dawn's first blush. (Light, pinkish-orange)
Her smile was a spark, bright enough to banish the dark, and she reached for him, her laughter a melody he swore he'd known forever.
He stepped toward her, but the world lurched. The village dissolved into ash and ruin. Screams replaced laughter, and the air thickened with the copper tang of blood.
Bodies littered the ground; mangled, charred, some still twitching in defiance of death. The farms burned, the forest wept, and chaos reigned, a godless symphony of death and defiance.
His hand felt heavy. He looked down, and his breath caught. The little girl was there, but not as she'd been.
Her indigo hair was matted with soot, her pink eyes hollow, their light snuffed out. Her body was a broken thing, pale and lifeless, a husk where joy had once lived.
He tried to scream her name, but his voice was gone, stolen by the void.
Something jolted him, a shock that ripped through his consciousness. Darkness surged, and when his eyes opened, the world was a blur.
Water pressed against him, heavy and cold, though he didn't shiver. His limbs wouldn't move, pinned by things that held them in place.
Tiny pricks stung his back, wires burrowing into his spine like parasites. He was trapped, not in a dream but in a prison of glass and liquid.
Dr. Adam watched the cylinder, his glasses catching the light as Subject R's eyes flickered beneath the mask.
For the first time, there was no thrashing, no frantic clawing at the glass. The young man's movements were subtle, almost calm, as if the fight had been leached from him.
"Good," Dr. Adam murmured, a smile curling his lips, thin and sharp as a scalpel. "The strain from the memory erasure is fading. You're almost ready, my masterpiece."
Ayla stood at her station, her fingers tight around the rhombic crystal. She didn't look at the cylinder, her gaze fixed on the projection.
Her eyes seemed to see something else. Something Dr. Adam wouldn't notice or wouldn't care to notice.
The other researchers moved in silence, their hands steady but their faces pale, as if they felt the weight of what they were building. Or breaking.
Inside the cylinder, R, or whatever was left of him, floated in silence. The voices in his head had faded, but the girl's face lingered, her hollow eyes a ghost that refused to leave.
He didn't know her name, didn't know his own, but something in his chest burned, a spark that no amount of mana or machinery could snuff out. Not yet.
Dr. Adam turned away from the cylinder, his coat swishing like a judge's robe. "Increase the mana flow," he said, not looking back. "We're close."
The room hummed with power, the magic circles flaring brighter, and the crystal at the center pulsed like a heartbeat.
The darkness behind R's eyes wasn't empty anymore. It churned, a roiling sea of fragments that weren't memories so much as wounds, each one jagged and dripping with pain.
His body floated in the cylinder, a prisoner of glass and liquid, but his mind was a battlefield, replaying atrocities no soul should endure.
His red eyes flickered beneath the mask, glowing like embers in a dying fire, and though his face remained calm, something primal stirred within him.
Rage, confusion, a hunger that didn't yet have a name.
He saw himself on a table, flesh peeled back like pages of a book, white-coated figures hovering with scalpels that gleamed too brightly.
They carved him open, murmuring numbers and theories as his blood pooled beneath him, only for his body to betray him, knitting itself back together.
Muscle wove over bone, skin sealed shut, and the doctors nodded, scribbling notes as if his agony was just data.
Another memory surged. His body crushed under a press, bones splintering, organs bursting into a paste of meat and gore.
He screamed, or tried to, but the pain was drowned by the hum of machinery. Then, impossibly, his body rebuilt itself, flesh crawling back into place, bones snapping together like puzzle pieces, leaving him whole but hollow.
Again and again, the memories came. Fire that charred him to ash, only for his skin to regrow, pink and raw.
Acid that dissolved him to a skeleton, only for muscle to bubble back into being. Each time, the doctors watched, their voices clinical, their eyes greedy.
They took everything; his blood, his pain, his humanity; until there was nothing left to learn. And still, they pushed, as if breaking him was the point.
In the cylinder, R's eyes burned brighter, red as a predator's gaze at dusk. Rage coiled in his chest, not loud or wild but cold, precise, a blade honed by years of torment.
His body remained still, but inside, something was waking up, something that didn't forgive.
Ayla stood at her station, her fingers trembling over the magic circle she controlled. She glanced at the cylinder, and her breath caught.
Those red eyes met hers, glowing through the liquid, not with anger but with a promise; something ancient, something that knew her in ways she didn't want to understand.
Fear clawed up her spine, not rational but instinctual, the kind a rabbit feels when the wolf's shadow falls over it.
The other researchers didn't notice, their hands busy with sigils, their minds blind to the storm brewing in the glass.
Then Ayla's vision warped. Colors dulled, and images flashed before her; her own body, torn and broken, limbs twisted at wrong angles, blood pooling beneath her as those red eyes watched.
She screamed, the sound raw and jagged, tearing through the room's sterile hum. Her hands faltered, the magic circle flickering, its lines fracturing like cracked ice.
The mana surged, uncontrolled, and the circle collapsed and in the cylinder, Subject R's hand twitched. That was enough.
The glass exploded outward, shards glittering like cruel stars as water gushed across the tiled floor. R tore free, the mask still clinging to his face, wires dangling from his spine like leeches.
Alarms wailed, a banshee's cry, but they were too late. The mages on the platforms spun, their hands glowing with mana, spells crackling to life.
They were trained, disciplined, but they weren't ready for him. The first mage hurled a bolt of fire, the air scorching as it struck R's chest.
His robes burned away, his skin blackened, but he didn't stop. Flesh bubbled, pink and new, sealing the wound in seconds.
He lunged, his hand closing around the mage's throat. With a flick of his wrist, he tore the man's head free, blood spraying in a crimson arc, the body collapsing like a puppet with cut strings.
The head rolled across the floor, eyes wide with shock, as if death hadn't expected to lose.
Another mage summoned blades of wind, sharp enough to cleave stone. They slashed across R's torso, opening gashes that spilled blood and entrails.
He staggered, but only for a moment. Muscle knitted, organs slithered back into place, and he was whole again, his red eyes unblinking.
He grabbed the mage by the arm, twisting until bone snapped and flesh tore. The man screamed, but R silenced him, slamming his skull against the platform.
It burst like overripe fruit, brains splattering the tiles, a grotesque mural of pink and red.
The room became a slaughterhouse. A mage tried a binding spell, chains of light coiling around R's limbs.
He roared, the sound muffled by the mask, and flexed, ripping his own skin and shattering the chains. He drove his fist through the mage's chest, ribs cracking like dry twigs, blood gushing as he pulled back, clutching a still-beating heart.
Another mage, desperate, unleashed a torrent of ice, freezing R's legs to the floor. He laughed; a low, guttural sound, and smashed his way free, ice and flesh tearing apart, only to heal in a blink.
He grabbed the mage's face, thumbs pressing into her eyes until they popped, her screams drowning in blood as he crushed her skull between his hands.
One by one, they fell. A mage's lightning seared R's arm to a stump, but it regrew, fingers flexing as he tore the man's spine free, vertebrae scattering like dice.
Another's acid spray melted half his face, exposing bone, but skin crawled back, smooth and unscarred, as he ripped her limbs off, leaving her a twitching torso.
The air was thick with blood, the floor slick with gore, bones crunching underfoot. R moved like a nightmare given form, unstoppable, his body a mockery of their spells.
No wound lasted; no pain slowed him. He was death, and they were paper dolls in his hands.
In minutes, the room was a tomb. Bodies lay mangled; some in pieces, others barely recognizable as human.
Blood coated the walls, dripping from shattered platforms, pooling around the crystal that pulsed weakly, as if ashamed. The alarms had gone silent, replaced by the wet drip of carnage.
The room was sealed, its steel doors locked tight, but Dr. Adam was gone, vanished like a coward who knew the storm was coming.
Ayla huddled in a corner, her body curled tight, her eyes hollow with terror. She stared at R, at those red orbs that burned through the dim light, not with rage but with a cold, endless hunger.
She didn't scream anymore; fear had stolen her voice, leaving only the thud of her heart and the rasp of her breath.
R reached up, fingers closing around the mask. He tore it free, revealing a face that shouldn't have been beautiful but was.
Sharp cheekbones, dark hair plastered to his skin, and a small scar on the side of his lip, strangely untouched by his healing.
It was a mark that didn't belong, a whisper of something human in a beast forged by pain. He yanked the wires from his spine, each one pulling free with a wet pop, the wounds closing instantly, skin smooth as if he'd never been hurt.
He turned, his gaze sliding over Ayla. She flinched, expecting death, but he didn't move toward her.
Those red eyes held no mercy, but no malice either, just indifference, as if she were a speck of dust in a world he'd already burned down.
He stepped toward the steel door, his bare feet leaving bloody prints, and gripped its edge. Metal groaned, then tore like paper, revealing a dark hallway beyond.
R walked away, his steps steady, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. He didn't know his name, didn't know his past, but one face burned in his mind.
A man with glasses. A man who'd built him? Broken him and left him to suffer. Questions churned in his chest, questions he didn't yet have words for, but he'd find that face.
He'd find answers, even if he had to carve them from the world itself. Behind him, Ayla stayed frozen, her breath hitching as the sound of his footsteps faded.
The room was silent now, save for the drip of blood and the faint hum of the crystal, a witness to the massacre that had just begun.
... To be continued!!!