The corridor lights dimmed as King Kansa walked.
Not because of mood.
Because the system adjusted to his emotional output.
Behind him, a guard hurried—armor clinking softly, breath uneven.
"My lord," the guard said, lowering his head.
"Transmission from Mars."
Kansa did not stop walking.
"Archive it," he replied.
"Then route all planetary libraries to my core."
The guard hesitated.
"All of them, Majesty?"
Kansa finally turned.
"Yes," he said calmly.
"Every machine. Every forgotten blueprint. Every forbidden design."
His eyes flicked toward the glass chamber ahead—
where the child floated inside a containment cradle, suspended in pale light.
"There is something buried in that asteroid," Kansa continued.
"And this child is the key."
Inside the laboratory, silence tightened.
Scientists stood frozen as Kansa entered.
No announcements.
No rituals.
He simply arrived.
The baby turned his head.
Their eyes met.
Kansa smiled.
Not wide.
Not cruel.
Curious.
"Remarkable," he murmured.
"Even now… you're watching."
He raised his hand.
Holograms bloomed around him—data streaming from every Neptune archive ever created. Ancient machines. Abandoned theories. Failed god-killing projects, erased from public memory.
"Begin cross-analysis," Kansa ordered.
"Scan the asteroid's frequency. Compare it to the child's neural pattern."
A scientist stepped forward nervously.
"My lord… our instruments cannot—"
"I didn't ask what they can't do," Kansa said.
"I asked what they will do."
The machines obeyed.
The cradle opened.
Mechanical arms unfolded like skeletal petals.
The baby sensed it.
He cried.
Not loud.
Sharp.
The sound scraped against the lab walls, making glass vibrate.
A warning alarm flickered—then died.
"Insert subject," Kansa said.
The baby screamed.
Several scientists froze.
One whispered, "He's just—"
"Not a child," Kansa snapped.
"An anomaly."
The machine closed.
Light poured in.
The baby's tattoos flared.
Reality bent.
Monitors spiked.
Then—
ERROR.
Data scrambled.
Numbers rewrote themselves.
A scanning beam collapsed into static.
The machine shut down.
The lab exhaled in collective relief.
"It failed," someone said.
Kansa did not react.
"Restart."
A senior scientist swallowed.
"Majesty… the system—"
"I said restart."
The machine powered on again.
The baby screamed louder.
The air pressure changed.
A crack formed along the ceiling.
Still—
ERROR.
ERROR.
ERROR.
The machine failed again.
Kansa's jaw tightened.
"Again," he said.
Fear spread.
Not of punishment.
Of what they were doing.
Scientist Kzarian stood near the control panel.
His hands shook.
Sweat rolled down his temples.
The baby's cries echoed inside his skull—not as sound, but as weight.
"Kzarian," Kansa said without looking.
"Press it."
Kzarian's fingers hovered.
"My lord," he whispered, tears filling his eyes.
"We're hurting him."
Kansa finally turned.
"Hurt," he said softly,
"is irrelevant."
He stepped closer.
"Planets die," Kansa continued.
"Civilizations collapse. Gods demand worship and give nothing back."
He gestured to the child.
"If pain is the price of control,"
"then pain is acceptable."
Kzarian's hand trembled violently.
The baby screamed.
The button glowed red.
Kzarian pressed it.
The machine surged.
Energy flooded the chamber.
The baby's tattoos burned bright blue-black.
Not resisting.
Not fighting.
Adapting.
Every scanner went blind at once.
One exploded.
Another melted.
The containment glass fractured—but did not break.
The machine shut down violently.
Silence.
Then—
A single data point remained.
Kansa stepped forward.
Read it.
His eyes widened—just a fraction.
"A frequency… beyond planetary alignment," he murmured.
He laughed.
Softly.
"Not magic," he said.
"Not science."
He looked at the child.
"This… is evolution."
He turned to the scientists.
"You will continue," he ordered.
"Again. And again. And again."
"But Majesty—" someone pleaded.
Kansa's voice hardened.
"You exist," he said,
"because Neptune decided fear was inefficient."
The lab fell silent.
Kansa faced the glass one last time.
The baby stared back.
Unblinking.
Unbroken.
"Cry all you want," Kansa whispered.
"I'm not testing your body."
He smiled.
"I'm testing reality."
TO BE CONTINUED