It was a presence—dense, ancient, and vast. Not like the gentle dark of night, nor the hush behind closed eyes. No—this was something far older than memory, deeper than silence. The kind of darkness that stretches endlessly in all directions, swallowing time and form alike. It felt like being consumed by a void beyond thought, where the borders between self and space had disintegrated.
Within that infinite stillness, Reis floated.
He wasn't falling.
He wasn't rising.
There was no gravity here, no horizon, no air to push against. Nothing grounded him. His body felt absent—vanished—leaving behind only a trace of consciousness. A drifting echo, a sliver of awareness adrift in the sea of nothing.
Was he dead? Dreaming? Or trapped in something else entirely?
He didn't know.
He only knew the yearning—a pull, not toward escape, but toward understanding. Meaning. Something buried in the silence.
Then… a voice.
It didn't arrive through ears. It moved through him—like a vibration in his bones.
It wasn't human.
It wasn't alive.
But it knew him. Or perhaps… it had once been part of him.
"Wake up, Reis."
The words broke the stillness like thunder shattering glass.
And in that moment, sensation returned.
He had a body again.
But it was unfamiliar—larger, heavier. Mana throbbed beneath his skin, surging in chaotic pulses of warmth and ice. His veins ached with untamed power. He felt like a container too small for what raged inside.
He tried to blink, but he had no eyes—yet he could see.
The floor beneath him was made of black glass, smooth and endless, and it reflected a sky overhead. But the sky was not a sky.
It was eyes.
Millions of them.
Suspended above him like constellations of judgment—each eye wide, unblinking, ancient. They stared into him, through him. Cold. Unforgiving. Their gaze wasn't just observation—it was remembrance. They weren't watching him. They were recognizing him.
Then—the sky ignited.
From the horizon, a radiant force burst forth—not soft, not warm. It was flame and brilliance intertwined. From within that blaze emerged a colossal avian figure—a magnificent creature of burning white and searing light. Its wings stretched across the horizon, made not of feathers but of fire and raw mana. The very air trembled beneath its arrival.
The darkness retreated in its path.
It wasn't familiar.
It wasn't named.
It was a force—alive with intensity, with pull, with purpose. It gathered the elements of the world into itself—light, heat, energy—and surged forward, unstoppable.
Elemental.
Reis didn't know what it was.
But he knew one thing—it wasn't here to comfort him.
It was here to challenge the dark.
The creature circled above him once, then began its descent, not flying but gliding with deliberate grace. Its eyes, lit with unwavering focus, met his—not harsh, not soft. Just certain.
And as it reached him—
It shattered.
Its blazing form broke apart into countless radiant fragments that didn't fall—but flowed—into him like molten memory.
The light sank into his skin, his veins, his bones.
It didn't burn.
It rewrote.
His chest heaved. His ribs ached with an invisible scream. But no sound came. The silence held him fast.
And then—
The floor changed.
The black glass flickered like a waking screen.
And it began to show visions.
Not memories. Embedded visions.
A sterile white room.
A hand in black gloves forcing a glowing core into his chest.
Not the past—a plan. A design. A sequence constructed and buried within him.
And always—pain. Not of flesh. But of identity.
Then the voice returned—colder, now edged with certainty:
"They didn't fail in planting it, Reis.
They unleashed something they couldn't name."
A crack rang through the space.
The glass underfoot fractured—veins of white racing outward like lightning.
Above, one of the ancient eyes exploded into dust.
Ash began to fall, black and silent.
Then—
Everything collapsed.
The world folded inward.
Darkness reclaimed all.
And in that void, a new voice spoke.
This time… unmistakably human.
Ellen.
"Bring him. He's ready now."
---
He opened his eyes—yet they weren't his.
His awareness returned—but not in the way it should.
He was inside his own body, but not in control. A ghost peering through his own skin, trapped in a shell that no longer obeyed him.
He sat in a metal chair.
Restraints clamped around his limbs.
Tubes pierced his arms, neck, and spine.
Machines hummed, blinking with lifeless rhythm.
Ellen Valeris stood before him, her gaze cold and unwavering.
The same woman who once greeted him outside the orphanage.
No pretense now. No warmth.
Her expression was a blade. Her black coat bore the insignia of the Black Eye like a mark of finality. Her voice was calm, precise.
She turned to her aide and said,
"Increase the dosage. I want to see what he creates… before we begin the dissection."
The word struck like iron.
Dissection.
Not training. Not testing.
Unmaking.
His mind reeled. Muscles spasmed against unyielding bonds. Panic surged through him like fire through dry grass.
Wasn't she the one who offered him a future?
Now she spoke of cutting him apart.
And that's when it began.
The distortion.
Not fear.
Not pain.
Something deeper.
Mana twisted.
Reality buckled.
A shape took form in the air—a hand of energy, born of field, not flesh. Glowing. Pulsing. Alive in ways that thought couldn't explain.
He tried to pull it back.
He failed.
The energy spiraled, compressed, thickened. The field expanded. The machines around him trembled.
"He's losing control," Ellen noted, without emotion.
But she didn't flinch.
She watched.
As the walls creaked.
As the monitors sparked.
As the world tilted.
"I want to see what you're really capable of, Reis," she whispered.
And then—
The field exploded.
A burst of light consumed the chamber. Panels bent and tore. Cables snapped. Alarms failed.
Smoke. Sparks. Silence.
Reis collapsed.
Unconscious.
The machines lay broken.
The air trembled with loose mana.
---
Ellen stepped forward, slow and thoughtful.
Steam curled from his skin.
Her aides stood motionless, waiting.
"Status?" she asked.
One assistant replied, voice shaken:
"Mana output unstable. Neural pathways—nonlinear. We can't classify the structure."
She stared at the boy.
"He crossed the threshold," she muttered.
"And he doesn't even know it."
Another assistant handed her a datapad.
His fingers trembled.
"Neural activity is… evolving. Unrecognizable. He's becoming something else."
Ellen narrowed her gaze.
A shadow flickered behind her eyes.
"Return him to the Black Room."
Her voice was steel.
"He's not ready to wake up."
But even as she said it…
She knew.
He was waking.
And when he did—
She would no longer be the one holding the leash.