(Five years since the day the experiments started.)
I never understood how I managed to survive this long.
The first few months had been agony—days measured in needle pricks and the taste of copper in my mouth, nights drowned in fever dreams where my own blood burned me from the inside. But after a while… after enough injections, enough chemical cocktails, and enough screaming until my throat bled, the pain dulled into something different. Not gone—never gone—but changed. It became a constant background hum, a reminder that my body wasn't my own anymore.
I could feel it altering me, piece by piece.
The first year it was small changes—a slight shift in my vision, muscles twitching at odd moments, skin prickling under the surface as though something moved beneath it. By the second year, I stopped counting the days. By the third, I'd learned that other "test subjects" rarely lasted more than a month before their hearts failed or their minds broke. I'd even envied them sometimes. At least they didn't have to stay in this place.
I lost track of how many died around me. The cells always smelled faintly of blood and antiseptic. Some nights I would wake to the sound of bodies being dragged away.
A couple of days ago, the Duke—the nobleman who owned this hell—visited me in person. That never happened before. He looked at me the way a hunter looks at a rare beast, his lips curling in something between satisfaction and curiosity.
"You've survived longer than any of them," he told me. "Remarkable. I've decided to give you something… special. Your last injection."
His voice had been calm, but there was an edge to it—anticipation. He didn't say if it was mercy or simply another trial, but some stubborn spark in me wanted to believe him. That maybe, if this was the end, I would be free at last.
Now—
Leather straps cut into my wrists and ankles as I lay stretched across the cold metal table. The Duke stood beside me, turning a metal injector over in his hands. Its glass chamber swirled with a dark, viscous fluid that seemed to pulse faintly, almost alive.
"I hope this works," he murmured to himself. "You've lived so long… Perhaps you can handle the blood of this primordial."
My breath caught. Primordial blood? My mind reeled. That was the stuff of legends—ancient beings whose power shaped continents. Drinking their blood was said to grant impossible strength… or destroy you outright. More often the latter. How could anyone even get it?
Before I could speak, he stepped closer, pressing the injector to my arm. The needle was poised above my skin when the entire lab shook with a deafening boom.
The double doors exploded inward, splintering into shards.
"Who dares barge into my lab?!" The Duke roared.
A voice answered, calm but edged with authority.
"Duke Vermillion, you are under arrest for theft from the royal treasury. Return the primordial blood, or the King himself will pass judgment."
The Duke's head snapped toward the intruder, and his lips twisted into a cruel smile. "Hahaha… Marquis Draig. You're too late!"
He spun back toward me, plunging the injector straight into my chest before I could even gasp. The needle bit deep, stabbing into my heart. The liquid surged into me like molten ice, flooding my veins. My vision blurred. My limbs turned heavy. Somewhere far away, I heard the Duke laughing.
Finally… I'll be free from this hell. My thoughts slurred as my body went limp. My last sight was of a tall man with brown hair, his eyes shadowed with something like grief. I tried to smile for him.
"Thank you," I whispered.
And then, darkness.
(Marquis Draig's POV)
When the king had called me into the audience chamber that morning, I hadn't expected my day to spiral into this.
The orders were clear enough: arrest Duke Vermillion for stealing a vial of primordial blood from the royal vaults. The King had added, almost offhandedly, that the Duke had been conducting "inhuman experiments" for years. That alone should have been reason to shut him down ages ago, but the king's tone was… dismissive. As if the deaths were merely inconvenient.
I bit back the urge to argue then. This wasn't the time.
By noon, I stood at the gates of Vermillion's mansion. The building loomed like a predator watching its prey—tall, dark, and silent. Beside me, my wife, Stacy, adjusted her gloves, eyes narrowing.
"You clear the mansion," I told her. "I'm going straight to the basement. If he still has the blood, he'll be there."
"Will do, honey," she replied, a faint smile flickering across her face. Her voice was steady, but I knew she understood the urgency.
We breached the front doors without ceremony. I took the left corridor, descending the winding stone steps two at a time. The basement air was cold and damp, laced with the metallic tang of blood. Rounding the corner into the laboratory, I froze.
The Duke stood over a table. A child—no more than ten—lay strapped to it, skin pale, silver eyes dull with exhaustion. She was breathing, barely. The Duke's hands cradled an injector filled with swirling black-red fluid.
"Who dares barge into my lab?!" He barked, whirling toward me.
"Duke, you are under arrest for stealing from the royals," I said evenly. "The King will be far less lenient if you force my hand."
His grin widened. "Too late, Marquis Draig!" And before I could reach him, he slammed the needle into the child's chest.
I lunged, rage burning in my veins, and my blade flashed. His head hit the floor before his body collapsed. There was no place in this world for men like him.
Turning to the child, I saw her chest rising shallowly, her silver gaze locking with mine. She smiled—a small, tired thing—and breathed, "Thank you," before her body went still.
"No…" My stomach dropped. "No! I was too slow!"
I kicked the Duke's corpse with enough force to send it crashing through the stone wall. Stacy's voice cut through my haze.
"Honey, you almost hit me with that," she said, her tone sharp.
"Huh? Stacy—sorry. I lost myself."
Her eyes swept the room. "What happened? Why is he dead? Weren't we ordered to arrest him?"
"I tried to stop him from injecting her… but I was too late." I gestured to the table. "She's gone."
Stacy's expression softened, and she stepped forward to wrap her arms around me. "Honey, you can't save everyone."
I barely had time to feel the weight of her words before Stacy stiffened. "Dean… what's happening to her?"
I turned back—and froze. Black liquid was seeping from the girl's skin, pooling beneath her. It shimmered unnaturally before surging upward, encasing the table. Then it ignited—not with a normal flame, but with a fire that seemed to eat at the air itself. Sinister. Hungry. Threads of crimson and shadow writhed within it, and every few seconds, arcs of matching lightning snapped through the blaze.
The temperature dropped sharply, my breath fogging. Instinct took over. I grabbed Stacy and pulled her back, drawing my weapon.
The flames began to withdraw, crawling back into her flesh until only her right arm burned with slow, constant motion—black-red fire licking at skin that did not blister. Strange markings—tattoos that writhed faintly—crept along her forearm. Cursed. I knew it instantly.
Her left arm was different. Lightning crackled across it, the same dark hue as the fire, but frozen in place like glass.
"Why would a dead person be cursed?" I muttered.
"Dean… she's breathing again." Stacy's voice trembled, but there was awe in it too.
I stepped closer, scanning her. "So she is. Whatever those curses are, they're powerful. Let's get her to the palace. Someone needs to examine her."
From there, events moved quickly—though the king's reaction in the throne room was anything but satisfactory.
"What do you mean you permitted him to do the experiments?!" My voice echoed off the marble pillars. "Over a hundred children are dead because of your inaction!"
The king's gaze was cold. "Marquis Draig, remember your place. The Duke promised to create a weapon to defend the kingdom. I allowed him the freedom to work. I never ordered him to use treasury resources. As for the children—they were orphans. No one will miss them. Now leave."
"That," came another voice, "is where you are wrong."
The nobles shifted as Marquis Anlit stepped forward. A moment later, the crown prince himself entered.
"Grandfather," the prince said, his voice steady, "it is time you step down."
The king's face darkened. "This is not your concern."
"I am the crown prince. It is exactly my concern." The prince turned to me. "Marquis Draig, tell me everything."
I did. Stacy's evidence sealed the matter. The prince nodded. "That will suffice. We will open a trial. My mother will support it. Marquis—take the child. Train her. If she truly carries primordial blood, the kingdom may need her one day."
The trial ended with the king's execution. The prince took the throne, and his mother was named adviser—though she spent more time doting on her twins than governing. Life moved on. But the child remained.
(Hospital)
I knew Stacy wouldn't take this well.
"He wants you to make her a weapon?" she demanded, pacing the room. "Dean, she just endured years of torture. And you want to train her immediately?"
"It's not my choice," I said. "We don't know when the next war will—"
"Don't you dare," she snapped, stepping close. "If you think I'll let you turn her into a weapon, we're done. I'll take her myself."
I rubbed my temples. "Then what do you suggest?"
"Let me live with her at the border mansion. I'll help her adjust. I'm retiring as your vice-captain."
I hesitated, then nodded. "Fine."
"What about our daughter?"
"You know she's a daddy's girl," Stacy said with a faint smile.
"That's true."
"I'll leave tomorrow," she said, already heading for the door. "I need to pack."
And just like that, she was gone.