A boy of about sixteen trudged under the blazing sun, his body clothed in rags so torn they barely clung to him. Iron chains clinked around his wrists and ankles, binding his movements and biting into his skin.
Across his shoulders lay a heavy beam, the kind that could crush a weaker person, yet he carried it like all the others around him — thousands of laborers, each just as broken, just as weary.
The heat was merciless. The ground itself seemed alive, searing their bare feet as they marched through dust and despair. Around them, half-finished structures loomed like the bones of some dying beast — the birth of a city built on suffering.
The boy stumbled. His vision blurred, lips cracked and dry from thirst. After a few more steps, his strength gave out, and he collapsed face-first into the dirt.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then came the sting.
A guard's shadow loomed over him. Without a word, the man's whip lashed through the air.
CRACK!
The sound tore through the workers like thunder.
"Get up, rat!" the guard barked. Another strike. Another. The boy's back seared with pain.
And then—
---
"Pash! Pash—wake up!"
The voice was urgent, soft yet commanding — familiar. Feminine.
Pash gasped, eyes flying open as the dream vanished. His breath came in short bursts, heart hammering in his chest.
The smell hit him first — the sharp sting of antiseptic and disinfectant flooding his nostrils.
He blinked rapidly against the bright light overhead. It stabbed at his eyes until they adjusted, revealing a pristine white ceiling. Then the rest of the room came into focus: white walls, a single glass window, and medical equipment humming gently nearby.
A heart monitor beeped in rhythm beside him. He was lying in a hospital bed.
For a moment, Pash just stared, dazed — yawning like someone waking from a century-long sleep. His mind was foggy, caught between dream and waking.
Then, suddenly—
"Doctor Philips, I can't find that file from yesterday!" a voice rang out from the hallway.
"What? I swear I left it under the desk!" came another, irritated.
Thud. Screech. Buzz.
More sounds flooded his ears at once — footsteps, doors, conversations, even the faint hum of electricity in the walls.
Each sound felt amplified tenfold. His head throbbed. His ears rang painfully.
"Ugh… make… it… STOP!" Pash screamed, dropping to his knees. His teeth elongated slightly as his voice echoed through the ward, shaking the walls. The outburst carried power — something primal and raw.
Then, just as suddenly, silence.
The sounds faded. The ringing stopped.
Moments later, hurried footsteps approached.
"Pash! Oh, Pash…"
The voice was warm, trembling — one he could never mistake.
"Mom?" he whispered, still half-dazed. "Nef…?"
His mother burst into the room and ran straight to him. "Oh, Pash, my baby! I don't know what I would have done if—if I'd lost you!" Her voice broke as she threw her arms around him. Tears streamed freely, soaking through his hospital gown.
He smiled faintly, returning the embrace, his voice calm despite her sobs. "Shh… I understand. Don't cry, Mom. I'm fine."
She only cried harder, her shoulders shaking.
Then little arms joined the embrace — his younger sister, Nefri. Her face was red from crying, but she smiled through the tears.
The three of them stayed like that for a long time, holding onto one another as though afraid the moment would vanish.
Finally, Pash spoke. "I'm alive… right?"
His mother laughed softly through her tears. "Yes, you most certainly are."
"Where's Dad?" he asked, noticing the empty room beyond them.
"He was here when you were brought in," she said quietly. "But duty called. He had to return to the frontlines. It's been… two weeks since the first attack."
Pash froze. "Two weeks?"
Nefri giggled. "Yeah, Brother Bast had a beauty sleep!"
His face twisted in disbelief, which only made her laugh harder. Even their mother chuckled, her relief finally softening into joy as she watched her two children tease each other.
"I couldn't have wished for anything more," she whispered under her breath.
After a moment, Nefri tilted her head curiously. "Brother Bast?" she said again, squinting at him.
"Yes?" Pash replied, puzzled.
"You look… different."
"Huh?" he blinked.
"She's right," his mother added, still staring. "You look… taller. And—handsome."
Pash frowned, confused, and then bolted toward the mirror.
"Careful! You just woke up!" his mother warned.
But he didn't listen. In seconds, he stood before the mirror—and froze.
"Whoa…"
The reflection staring back didn't look like the same boy. His jawline was sharper, more refined. His hair was thicker, darker, and somehow more alive, catching light in a silken wave. His once-brown eyes now glowed a deep, mysterious violet.
His body was taller — much taller. He stood at least six foot five now, towering over his sister. Muscles that hadn't existed before now rippled beneath his skin.
He ran a hand down his chest and blinked. "My abs…"
Without thinking, he tore off the hospital shirt and gasped.
Where once had been four faint abs were now eight chiseled ridges of muscle, each defined and solid. His skin held a faint luminescent glow, like moonlight filtered through water — not human, yet not alien either.
"Awesome," he whispered, eyes wide.
Then he laughed — loud, wild, unrestrained. "Hahaha! Let's see who's more beautiful now!"
He thought of Caoimhe — her teasing words echoing in his memory: You look like a wimp, Pash. Too skinny, like someone dying from diarrhea.
"Well," he muttered with a grin, flexing his arm, "we'll see who's laughing next time."
"Nice tattoos," Nefri said suddenly, breaking his self-admiration.
"Thanks," he replied absentmindedly—then paused. "Wait… what?"
He looked down again.
There, stretching from his left wrist, were intricate lines — black and silver patterns that wound up his arm like living ink. They circled his elbow, twisting into geometric shapes, then spread across his shoulder. The design branched like a tree, snaking across his back until it covered half of it.
It wasn't crude or rough like an ordinary tattoo. It shimmered faintly, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat — as though it was his skin.
"Shit…" he breathed.
The patterns seemed ancient, sacred — the kind of markings whispered about in myths, said to appear only when bloodlines awakened.
He raised his arm, watching the faint glow dance beneath his skin. A strange warmth filled him — not pain, not fear. Something deeper.
"Pash?" his mother said softly, worried.
He looked at her, smiling faintly. "I'm fine, Mom. Just… different."
Nefri tugged at his hand, tracing the lines curiously. "It's beautiful," she said with a small smile.
Pash stared into the mirror again. His reflection looked back — taller, stronger, eyes burning with quiet determination.
Somehow, he knew this was only the beginning.
He didn't know what had changed him. The explosion? The Scryvian's power? The cube?But deep in his gut, he could feel it — something ancient, awake inside him now.
Whatever it was, it wasn't going back to sleep.
*******