The blade was already cutting when the moment continued, its edge pressing deeper into his arm with steady, deliberate force that did not slow or hesitate as it moved. The pain did not arrive as a distant awareness or a gradual realization. It struck immediately and spread just as quickly, a sharp, invasive sensation that forced his body to react even though it could not move.
His arm tried to jerk away.
The response came in full, muscles tightening, tendons pulling, the instinct to twist and recoil firing without restraint, but nothing followed through into motion. The force holding him down absorbed it completely, pressing him flat against the surface as the reaction was cut off before it could become anything more than strain. His shoulder tightened, his chest pulled inward, and his entire body attempted to shift against the restraint, but the pressure did not yield.
The movement never happened.
The pain remained.
Blood followed immediately, gathering along the edge of the cut and spreading outward in uneven lines that quickly lost shape as more of it pushed free. It did not fall cleanly. It broke apart, striking the surface beneath him, the side of the table, and then his face as it scattered. Warmth hit his cheek, then his lips, then the corner of his eye, and when he blinked it only smeared further, distorting his vision without clearing it.
His breathing collapsed under it, the air catching in his throat before forcing its way through in short, uneven bursts that never formed into sound. His jaw strained against the invisible hold that kept it shut, the pressure preventing even the smallest release as his chest rose harder with each attempt to pull in air. Tears formed despite it, gathering along the edges of his eyes before sliding downward, cutting thin paths through the blood as they moved across his face.
The shaman did not pause.
Her hand adjusted slightly as she guided the blade, maintaining the same steady pressure as she worked through the resistance beneath the surface. The movement was controlled, deliberate, and unbroken, as though the reaction of the body beneath her hand was expected and already accounted for.
"You see," she said, her voice calm and measured, as if she were explaining something routine rather than actively cutting into him, "the structure is not entirely unsuitable."
She shifted the angle of the blade slightly, widening the opening with careful precision. "There are limitations," she continued, her tone unchanged, "but those can be corrected with proper modification."
The light that still rested over his body revealed more than it should have, the translucent layer making visible what lay beneath the surface as the golden lines continued to pulse through him. They branched outward in a network that responded to each beat of his heart, the rhythm accelerating as the reaction intensified.
He could see it.
He could feel it.
Each pulse pushed harder than the last, the movement traveling through him in a way that made it impossible to ignore.
Beneath it, the silver structure of his bones remained fixed, holding everything in place even as the surrounding layers were disturbed. Deeper still, the muted shapes of his organs shifted in slow, uneven motion that did not match the pace of everything else, their movement steady even as everything around them accelerated.
The shaman leaned closer, her gaze narrowing as she followed the lines of light, her free hand hovering just above the opening as if measuring alignment before acting. "There is a tendency toward collapse when exposed too quickly," she said, her voice lowering slightly as her focus sharpened.
"But that can be managed," she added, pressing lightly against his arm, "if the integration is controlled."
The pressure of her hand did not move him, but something shifted beneath it, a deeper response that traveled along the visible lines and into something less defined. His breathing faltered again, the rhythm breaking just enough to register before forcing itself forward once more, shallow and incomplete.
She reached for a narrower instrument and continued the work without pause, refining the exposed structure with small, deliberate movements that followed a clear pattern. "The proportions are inconsistent," she said, her tone steady as she worked. "That will interfere with proper connection."
Her fingers pressed along the length of his arm, aligning it with something only she could fully perceive, each adjustment subtle but intentional. The movement did not change his position, but it altered something internally, a shift that did not belong to the surface.
She reached for the black arm.
Lifted it.
Held it above his own.
For a moment, she did not move.
Her head tilted slightly as she compared the two, her attention fixed on the differences in structure, in length, in the way the limb held itself even without support. Its proportions extended further than his own, reaching down in a way that suggested a different range of motion, a different purpose entirely.
"There will need to be correction," she said, adjusting her grip slightly as she lowered it partway. "The base structure is insufficient."
She did not attach it immediately.
Instead, she brought it closer in stages, lowering it, stopping, adjusting, then lowering it again, her other hand moving along his arm to make small corrections that did not move the surface but altered something beneath it. The delay stretched, not from hesitation, but from precision, each movement building toward something that had already been decided.
When the limb finally touched, the sensation did not come all at once.
It began as a faint shift, something that did not settle into a recognizable form, a presence that lingered without fully developing. It felt like contact, but not pressure, like something occupying space without anchoring into it.
Then it deepened.
The contact moved inward, displacing something beneath the surface in a way that did not follow any natural structure. The absence of weight made it worse, not better, because nothing about it settled into place.
The shaman adjusted immediately, her fingers pressing along the connection point, aligning, correcting, guiding the process forward. "There is instability," she said quietly, her tone sharpening with interest as she observed the reaction.
She pressed again.
The sensation shifted.
Then the heat began.
It started deep within him, far from where the blade had been working, and spread outward in a steady, invasive motion that did not follow the same paths as the golden lines. It moved independently, pushing through him without slowing, without adjusting, as if resistance did not apply to it.
His body reacted again.
His muscles tightened.
His chest pulled inward.
His back tried to arch against the surface beneath him, the instinct to escape firing without restraint, but the force holding him in place did not yield. The movement stopped before it could happen, leaving only the strain behind as the sensation continued to build.
The heat spread deeper.
Into his chest.
Into his shoulder.
Into his spine.
The shaman leaned closer, her expression sharpening as she observed the change, her hands moving more quickly now as she adjusted the integration with small, rapid corrections. "Stronger than expected," she said, her voice still controlled, but edged with attention. "The integration is accelerating."
She pressed down along the connection point.
Something gave.
The heat surged.
And then the sound cut through it.
Ding.
It did not belong to the room or the procedure, existing separately from both, sharp and clear in a way that forced itself into his awareness. Another followed, then another, each one interrupting the sensation for a fraction of a second before being buried beneath it again.
[Ding!]
[??? Physique has absorbed ??? from ???]
[Ding!]
The words appeared too quickly to fully register, breaking apart as more replaced them.
The heat surged again.
Stronger.
It spread through him without direction, no longer confined to any structure.
[Ding!]
[Experience gained]
[Ding!]
[Level up!]
The messages overlapped, repeating, collapsing into one another as they appeared faster than he could follow them.
His breathing failed again, each inhale shallow, incomplete, never filling his chest before the next one forced its way in.
The shaman did not stop, her movements remaining precise and controlled as she continued to guide the process forward. "It is responding," she said, her voice steady as she observed the change. "The structure is adapting."
The sounds continued, faster now, layering over one another until they blurred into something continuous.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
They filled his perception, overwhelming everything else as the heat reached its peak.
His vision narrowed as the edges darkened, the center holding for a moment longer as everything inside him tightened and began to give way.
The last thing he saw clearly was the shaman leaning closer, her expression fixed in focused interest as she continued her work without hesitation.
Then everything went dark.