"Lie down," Vegapunk said, his voice echoing softly through the sterile chamber as the anesthesia mask descended toward my face.
"When you wake up… you'll never be cold again."
The mask sealed over my mouth and nose, snug and inescapable. Cool air rushed in with a faint hiss, carrying a sharp, artificial scent that burned slightly in my lungs.
I tried to speak—some final comment, some joke—but my tongue felt heavy.
Then the world slipped.
Not into darkness.
Into heat.
---
Red flooded everything.
Not the color—the feeling.
It wrapped around me, thick and suffocating, as if I'd been submerged in molten air. My sense of direction vanished first. Then sound. Then time itself began to unravel, stretching and folding until it meant nothing.
Somewhere far away, metal sang.
The faint clink of instruments echoed through the haze, followed by the constant hum of machines pushed far past any normal safety threshold. Vegapunk's voice drifted in and out, layered with excitement, calculation, and something dangerously close to joy.
"…Unbelievable… no, no—adjust the flow—ah, yes, that's it…"
The Trust Skill burned quietly in the background.
30x focus.
30x clarity.
30x obsession held together by belief.
Vegapunk wasn't just performing surgery.
He was building something.
---
Pain arrived without warning.
Not gradual. Not merciful.
A white-hot spike tore through my right arm, so sharp that my consciousness snapped violently back into place. My body tried to jerk, muscles screaming for escape, but unseen restraints held me down with absolute authority.
My vision blurred, lights fracturing into harsh halos above me.
"—Stay still," Vegapunk murmured, calm and precise. "This part decides whether you live."
I felt silver needles sink deep into my flesh.
They didn't stab.
They threaded.
Winding through muscle fibers, embedding something foreign and deliberate inside me, like wires being woven into cloth. Pressure crushed inward, then expanded outward as my bones were reinforced layer by layer—ceramic-tech bonding with living structure, heat-resistant frameworks locking into place.
I smelled something burning.
Not metal.
Flesh.
My flesh.
I tried to scream.
No sound came out.
The anesthesia dragged me under again, heavy and relentless.
---
I drifted after that.
In and out.
Each time I surfaced, the pain felt different—not worse, not better—sharper. More precise. As if my nerves weren't being damaged, but rewritten with purpose.
I heard the hiss of liquid moving through tubes, felt the cold bite of it spreading through my veins.
"Green Blood—stable concentration—good—very good—"
Vegapunk's hands never shook.
Not once.
The Trust Skill anchored him, forcing impossible focus where madness would normally bloom. His mind ran faster than the machines surrounding us, calculating, correcting, adapting in real time.
"…Lunarian Lineage Factor integrating… remarkable compatibility…"
Lunarian.
Fire.
Heat without decay.
A body that refused to yield.
I felt it sink into my marrow—not injected, not forced—
accepted.
My right arm burned constantly now, but it wasn't pain anymore. It was pressure. Like something coiled beneath my skin, compressed and waiting.
Thump.
Thump.
A rhythm began to form.
Not my heartbeat.
Another one.
Time stopped behaving.
Minutes stretched into eternities. Eternities collapsed into seconds. My awareness flickered like a dying signal, but Vegapunk never slowed.
He worked.
And worked.
And worked.
Fifteen hours.
A procedure that should've taken months—years—compressed into a single, impossible stretch of obsession and genius.
---
When silence finally came, it felt unreal.
The machines powered down one by one, their hum fading into nothing. Lights dimmed, harsh white softening into something almost gentle. The pressure in my arm stabilized, settling into a deep, constant presence.
A clock ticked.
Once.
20:00:00
Done.
---
I woke up gasping.
Air tore into my lungs like I'd been underwater for too long, burning as it filled my chest. My vision swam, white and unfocused, before slowly pulling itself back together into the sterile glow of the operating room.
My right arm felt… wrong.
Heavy.
Dense.
Wrapped in thick, heat-resistant bandages that radiated faint warmth—not heat, not pain—presence. As if the limb carried its own gravity.
I sat up slowly, every movement measured.
The weight wasn't exhaustion.
It was containment.
Beneath the layers of gauze, something pulsed.
Thump.
Thump.
A dull, rhythmic pressure echoed from my wrist to my shoulder.
Like a second heart had been installed inside my arm.
I swallowed.
Vegapunk stood nearby, exhausted. Sweat soaked his coat, hair wild, glasses cracked—but his eyes shone with unmistakable pride.
"It's done," he whispered.
I flexed my fingers.
The air shimmered.
Not visibly. Subtly.
Like reality itself hesitated.
"…What did you do to me?" I asked quietly.
Vegapunk smiled—not manic, not unstable—
Satisfied.
"The weapon," he said simply, "is you."
I looked down at my arm again.
I didn't feel stronger.
I felt… dangerous.
Not in a loud way.
In the quiet, irreversible way.
---
My gaze drifted to the faint system timer hovering at the edge of my vision.
[Trust Skill — Remaining Time: 04:00:00]
Four hours.
Four hours before the skill faded.
Four hours before the world's smartest man realized what he had truly created.
I stood.
The floor beneath my feet creaked softly.
Vegapunk watched me now, thoughtful rather than excited.
"…You'll need time to adapt," he said. "Don't activate it fully yet. Your body—"
"I know," I interrupted gently.
I rolled my shoulder once.
The pressure responded instantly.
Obedient.
Contained.
"Doctor," I said, meeting his gaze. "Thank you."
Vegapunk chuckled tiredly. "Heh. Try not to burn the world down."
I gave a crooked smile. "No promises."
I turned toward the exit.
Four hours.
Enough time to leave.
Enough time to survive.
As the doors slid shut behind me, I exhaled slowly.
"...Bruhh."