Chapter 17: Conditioning a Shadow
"Wake up, Subject 013."
Cid stirred… who was Subject 013? Did Petos rename him?
The air was a stifling, noxious miasma, heavy with the mingling scents of charred flesh, burning mana, and something sourly metallic—like blood that had lingered too long in the heat. Strange, organic noises emanated from the walls, as if the machinery itself were alive, pulsating in time with an unseen, malevolent rhythm. The dim green and violet lights cast shifting, grotesque shadows, warping the edges of reality and creating fleeting images of grasping hands and anguished faces.
At the chamber's center, the cold steel table was an altar of suffering, its surface polished to a mirror sheen that reflected Cid's contorted form. His skin glistened with sweat, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. The manacles binding his limbs were alchemical marvels, their glowing runes leeching not only his mana but his very willpower, turning every attempt to resist into another layer of exhaustion.
The hum of the machines around him was broken by the sharp click of Petos' boots against the floor. He moved with the precision of a surgeon and the cruelty of a predator savoring the helplessness of its prey. Petos' face, pale and gaunt, was illuminated by the flickering lights, making his features even more unnervingly angular. His lips curled into a smile as he examined Cid, his expression one of detached amusement.
"Ah, look at you," Petos mused, his voice carrying the soft lilt of mock compassion. He bent slightly, peering into Cid's bloodshot eyes with a curious tilt of his head. "You've been holding up better than most. I'll admit, Subject 013, you're exceeding expectations. Most would have broken long before this point."
Petos straightened, gesturing to the acolytes shuffling in the periphery like specters, their dark robes trailing behind them. They adjusted dials and consulted glowing panels etched with arcane runes. One acolyte held a jagged tablet inscribed with pulsating glyphs, each glowing brighter as Cid's agony deepened.
Petos paced leisurely around the cold, sterile chamber, his dark robes swishing faintly with each step. His voice, low and smooth, reverberated off the stone walls like the hiss of a serpent. "But resilience," he began, pausing to run a gloved hand over the edge of a nearby table, "resilience is only valuable if it bends."
He stopped abruptly, turning to face Subject 013, who hung limply in his restraints, his head bowed. The flickering torchlight cast sinister shadows across Petos' face, highlighting the faint smirk that tugged at his lips. "A steel blade that refuses to yield will shatter," he continued, his tone taking on a mocking lilt. "And shattered pieces are so much harder to put back together, aren't they?"
Petos resumed his pacing, his eyes gleaming with a predatory satisfaction. "No, the art lies in the bending. In applying just the right amount of pressure—enough to strain, to stress, but not to break. Not completely. You see, I am oh so very good at bending, at finding that delicate threshold where resistance becomes submission." His voice dropped to a whisper, dripping with malice. "And when the bending is done, when all that remains is a pliable, obedient thing, that's when true mastery begins."
He turned again, leaning down to peer into Subject 013's face. "You are my masterpiece," he murmured, his voice a mixture of pride and cruelty. "Each scream, each fractured memory, each shiver of fear has been another stroke of the brush. And soon, you will be perfect—perfectly bent to my will, yet strong enough to cut down anyone I command." Petos straightened, a soft, chilling laugh escaping his lips. "You'll thank me, in your own way, when you understand how much I've given you. How much I've taken to make you whole."
The flickering light of the torches seemed to dim as Petos stood there, his shadow stretching unnaturally across the room. He reveled in the stillness, the silent acknowledgment of his control, before turning his back to Subject 013. "Now," he said, his voice regaining its clinical edge, "let's see how much further we can bend you before you shatter."
He raised a hand, his scepter materializing in a swirl of dark energy. Its jagged tip was adorned with a shard of some unholy crystal, its surface swirling with stormy hues of black and red. With a casual flick of his wrist, he activated the machinery above Cid, summoning a menagerie of needles, their crystalline tips brimming with energy.
~!~
The needles descended slowly, their glowing tips buzzing with mana. Each emitted a sound—a high-pitched whine that scraped against Cid's eardrums. His muscles strained against the bindings as if his body instinctively understood what was coming. But there was no escape.
"Do you feel that?" Petos asked, his tone clinical, as if addressing a classroom. "This is where science meets art. These needles will bypass your physical defenses and carve directly into your mana pathways, into the very essence of who you are."
He smiled thinly as the needles plunged into Cid's skin, each one igniting an explosion of searing pain that traveled through his body like molten lightning. His back arched violently, a scream ripping from his throat, raw and guttural.
As the magic surged through him, Cid's mind became a battlefield of memories. Faces and voices rose unbidden to the surface—his father, Claire, the warm, bustling life of the Barony. For a moment, they were anchors, pulling him back from the abyss.
But then the magic twisted them.
Gaius Kagenou's steady gaze turned cold, his voice echoing with disdain. "You've always been a disappointment. Weak. Worthless."
"No," Cid croaked, his voice trembling. "That's not true."
Claire's laughter, once a source of comfort, warped into cruel mockery. "You're pathetic. Always living in my shadow."
The Barony itself appeared, its walls crumbling and its people screaming his name—not in reverence, but in hatred and betrayal. Flames consumed everything he had ever loved, leaving only ashes and silence.
~!~
The crumbling landscape of Cid's psyche stretched endlessly, a grotesque labyrinth of shifting forms and haunting whispers. The walls of his mind, once fortified with memories of family, duty, and self, now buckled and cracked under the relentless assault of the Cult's magic.
Each corner of this broken world was inhabited by horrors dredged up from the depths of his fears and insecurities. Distorted visages of those he loved prowled the edges of his consciousness. The barony where he had once felt at home now loomed as a twisted ruin, its once-proud towers bowed and bleeding shadowy ichor.
"Is this all you are?" a voice hissed from the darkness. It was Claire's voice, but it was wrong—sharp and cruel. A twisted shadow of his sister stepped forward, her face a mask of contempt. Her sword crackled with dark energy as she sneered at him. "A failure pretending to be something more?"
"No..." Cid whispered, stepping back as his legs trembled. "You're not real."
"Real enough to know you couldn't save anyone," she spat, raising her blade. "You're weak. Always have been."
The blow didn't land, but the words cut deep.
Behind her came another figure, this one clad in the formal regalia of the Baron. It was his father—or something wearing his father's face. The features were etched with scorn, the voice dripping with disappointment.
"You dared to think you could carry the Kagenou name?" it bellowed, the sound echoing through the fractured realm. "You're no son of mine. You're nothing but an experiment—an abomination."
Cid fell to his knees, the weight of the accusations pressing down on him. His breathing was ragged, his vision blurred with tears.
"I... I tried," he gasped.
"Trying isn't enough," the shadowy Gaius growled, looming over him. "You should have died before you brought this shame upon us."
As the words rang out, the world around him crumbled further. Pieces of the broken barony shattered and fell into an endless void, taking with them the comforting warmth of his happiest moments.
Round and Round it goes, each cycle eats away at who he is…
Outside his mind, Petos stood beside the machinery, watching the readings with a cold smile. Each surge of mana sent another ripple through Cid's psyche, another crack in his defenses.
"Look at him," Petos mused, addressing one of his robed subordinates. "A mind so fragile, so pliable under the right pressure. They all break eventually."
The subordinate hesitated. "But he's... resisting, isn't he?"
Petos chuckled, his tone mocking. "For now. Resistance is just the prelude to collapse. Soon, he won't remember who he was—only what I make him."
He turned back to the convulsing figure on the table. "And when he rises as the Cult's perfect weapon, we'll see just how far he can fall."
The needles plunged deeper, their tips glowing brighter as the mana surged in relentless waves. Each pulse was a jarring cascade of agony that tore through Cid's body, leaving him trembling and drenched in sweat. His muscles convulsed involuntarily, his restraints creaking under the force. His screams echoed through the chamber, primal and unrestrained, yet they elicited nothing more than an arched brow from Petos.
"Fascinating," Petos mused, leaning closer to the glowing instruments embedded in Cid's flesh. "Your pathways are adapting remarkably. Most subjects would have already descended into catatonia or—" he paused, gesturing vaguely toward a bloodstain on the floor nearby, "—met less fortunate ends. But you, Subject 013, are proving... durable. Resilient." He let the word linger, his smile curling as he savored the irony, remembering his boast. "A resilience I will reshape into something far greater."
The twisted images within Cid's mind blurred and shifted, the magic carving through his psyche like a scalpel. The walls of the Barony, once so vibrant and steadfast, loomed like a prison now, shadowed and oppressive. The faces of his family and friends became masks of disdain and judgment, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of accusations.
"Everything you've done is meaningless," Gaius's voice thundered in his mind. "You are nothing but a failure, a stain on this house."
"No," Cid whispered again, tears streaming down his face as his mind fractured further. But the magic refused to relent, dragging more faces into his torment.
The elven capital of Lys Anorel flickered into view, its alabaster streets darkened and cracked, its people sneering at him in disgust. The brown-haired elf girl, her purple eyes once filled with curiosity, now glared at him with venom. "Why did I trust you?" her voice hissed. "You're no hero. You're nothing but a shadow."
All lies of course, whether this conversation happened or not, Petos didn't care. What mattered is that Subject 013 believed it.
Petos, watching the violent spasms wrack Cid's frame, jotted notes with detached precision. "Delightful," he murmured to himself. "The breakdown is occurring more rapidly than anticipated. The deeper the despair, the cleaner the slate for rebuilding. Let's see how far we can push before total collapse."
He twisted a dial, sending another surge of mana through the needles. Cid's body jerked upward, his throat raw from screaming, his mind a kaleidoscope of anguish. Somewhere, deep within, a small fragment of himself clung desperately to reality, the only thing standing between total annihilation and the birth of something monstrous. But the onslaught continued, relentless and unyielding, threatening to extinguish even that last spark of resistance.
"Fascinating," Petos murmured, leaning closer to observe Cid's tormented expression. His fingers tapped idly on the scepter as if he were playing a melody only he could hear. "The mind is such a fragile thing. Memories, identities—they're nothing but illusions held together by fear and habit. So easy to break."
He gestured to the machinery, his voice taking on a note of savage glee. "More power. Let's strip away these illusions entirely."
The acolytes hesitated, exchanging nervous glances. One finally stepped forward, adjusting the controls. The hum of the machinery deepened, and another surge of magic tore through Cid's body. This time, the pain was beyond anything he had known—it wasn't just physical but spiritual, clawing at the core of his being.
Petos chuckled, his voice rich with satisfaction. "You see, Subject 013, humanity is a lie. The bonds you hold so dear? Chains. Weaknesses. I'm here to free you from them."
Inside Cid's mind, the onslaught continued. His memories were dissected, twisted, and reassembled into grotesque caricatures. He saw himself kneeling before Petos, pledging loyalty. He saw his hands stained with the blood of his family, their faces frozen in expressions of betrayal.
Somewhere deep within the storm, a voice—his own, but warped and savage—whispered, "Give in. The pain will stop. You'll be free."
The walls of his identity crumbled, piece by agonizing piece. And amidst the rubble, Petos' voice was a constant, insidious presence.
"You are not Cid Kagenou," he intoned. "You are Subject 013. A weapon. My weapon."
With that, the final shreds of Cid's will buckled under the relentless assault, the needles retracted, and the machinery powered down. Petos stepped back, observing his handiwork with a self-satisfied smirk.
"Welcome to your new life, Subject 013," he said softly, the words cutting through the silence like a blade.
~!~
~A Few nights later~
In the twisted landscape of his mind, Cid Kagen- he meant Subject 013, lay prostrate in his chamber, observed by his captor his limbs trembling as his mental defenses crumbled one by one. Every effort to rise, to resist, was met with an avalanche of despair and distortion. The once-bright memories of his life were now warped beyond recognition, transformed into grotesque mockeries that gnawed at his soul.
He was in a nightmare.
From the shadows, Claire's twisted specter stood tall, her blade dripping with an oily black ichor. Her eyes, once filled with warmth and pride, now burned with scorn and malice. She stepped closer, each word a dagger aimed at the core of his being.
"You thought you were my equal?" she sneered, her voice a cruel echo of his sister's. "You've always been a burden. I carried you, Subject 013. And for what? To watch you fail?"
"No," Cid- Subject 013 rasped, his voice weak and fractured. He clutched his chest, where his heart felt like it was being crushed under the weight of her words. "That's not... you're lying."
"Am I?" The specter's grin widened, sharp and predatory. "You can't even stand up. What kind of warrior are you? What kind of brother?"
Her blade swung down, and though it didn't strike him physically, the impact rippled through his psyche like a shockwave. His body convulsed, and his screams echoed across the broken expanse of his mind.
Behind Claire's shadow, more figures emerged, each more nightmarish than the last. His father, Baron Gaius Kagenou, appeared next, but his form was grotesquely elongated, his features sharp and unforgiving. The baron's voice was a thunderclap of condemnation.
"You dare call yourself my son?" the shadow-Gaius boomed, his eyes blazing like molten steel. "You were a mistake. An experiment gone wrong. You don't carry my blood—you carry failure."
Subject 013 tried to crawl away, his fingernails scraping against the crumbling ground. "I... I did everything I could."
"And it was never enough!" the shadow roared, slamming his fist into the ground beside him. The force sent cracks spiraling outward, each one consuming another fragment of Subject 013's fractured self. "You're nothing but a shadow pretending to be a man."
His tears blurred his vision as he clutched his head. The voices melded together, a symphony of contempt and cruelty that echoed relentlessly. His breathing grew shallow, his chest tightening as though a vice had clamped down on his ribs.
Other faces emerged from the darkness, their forms less distinct but no less tormenting. Townsfolk from the Barony, guards he had trained with, and even nameless figures from his wandering days—all of them twisted into grotesque parodies.
"You let us die," a faceless villager whispered, their voice tinged with venom. "We trusted you, and you failed."
"You abandoned us," another hissed, their features warping like melting wax. "You always abandon everyone."
"Run, little shadow," a guard's voice sneered. "It's all you're good at."
Their accusations overlapped, becoming a cacophony of derision and disdain. He clamped his hands over his ears, but the voices burrowed into his mind like worms. Every memory he tried to cling to slipped through his fingers, leaving only the bitter residue of failure and regret.
As the storm of shadows closed in, Subject 013 felt himself sinking. The ground beneath him crumbled, giving way to a void that stretched endlessly downward. His body fell, weightless and powerless, as the whispers grew louder, more insistent.
"You don't deserve to live," the voices chanted in unison. "You're a mistake. A failure."
The darkness swallowed him whole, its cold tendrils wrapping around his limbs and pulling him deeper. Every breath was a struggle, every heartbeat a reminder of his helplessness. He couldn't fight back—he couldn't even move.
For the first time, a flicker of surrender crept into his mind. Maybe they're right, he thought, his voice barely a whisper even in his own head. Maybe... I don't deserve to fight anymore.
Outside of Subject 013's mind, Petos watched the trembling figure strapped to the metal bed with a smug grin. The readings on his instruments spiked and flickered, signaling the subject's rapid descent into mental collapse.
"Look at him," Petos mused, addressing one of his robed subordinates. "The mighty Cid Kagenou, reduced to nothing more than a wisp of what he once was. It's beautiful, isn't it?"
The subordinate hesitated, their unease palpable. "Is he... is he still intact, my lord?"
Petos chuckled darkly. "Oh, he's intact. For now. But soon, he'll be remade. Stripped of all his delusions and imperfections. Subject 013 will be the Cult's greatest creation."
He turned back to the machines, his fingers dancing across the controls. "Increase the pressure. Break him completely. I want nothing left of the boy who dared to defy us."
The subordinate hesitated but obeyed, adjusting the dials. The runes on the walls whirred louder, and another surge of magic ripped through Cid's body, sending fresh waves of agony into his mind.
~!~
The next day, Petos had his test subject strapped to the table: There was one last thing he needed to do. After making sure Subject 013 was secure, Petos ordered his acolytes to put the finishing touches on his project. All that was needed was a simple push of a button.
And he gleefully pushed it, waiting for the results.
The void that had once been Cid's mind was now unrecognizable—a fractured wasteland of shattered memories and writhing darkness. The few remnants of his former self clung desperately to the crumbling edges, but the onslaught of twisted voices and distorted images grew louder, more suffocating.
Claire's shadow loomed again, her face now half-obscured by the creeping dark tendrils that writhed like living things. "What's left of you, Cid?" she hissed, her voice now a cruel blend of his sister's and something wholly unnatural. "There's nothing left to fight for. No one is coming for you."
The false Baron stepped forward, his eyes now pits of void. "Even if they cared, what could they save? A boy too weak to protect anything? A son too broken to carry the family name?"
Every step they took reverberated through the shattered mindscape, the ground beneath them splintering further, sending fragments of Cid's memories tumbling into the abyss.
Petos' voice now boomed like thunder, his magic intertwining with the dark tendrils that wrapped around Cid's identity. "You are not Cid Kagenou," the Grand Inquisitor declared, his tone exuding cruel authority. "You are Subject 013, a vessel to be shaped, a tool to be wielded."
The fragments of Cid's past self—the boy who had once laughed, trained, and dreamed of being a protector in the shadows—flickered weakly in the dark. The memory of sparring with Claire dissolved into a battlefield of ash. The warm smiles of villagers who once welcomed him now contorted into mocking sneers. His identity was no longer a tapestry but a pile of unrecognizable shards.
"Stop fighting," Petos' voice urged, now soft and insidious. "You are wasting what little strength you have left. Let go, and I will make the pain stop."
And Cid, battered and broken, felt the weight of those words. His resistance, which had been dwindling with each assault, finally wavered. The walls of his mind cracked under the relentless pressure, and he let out a guttural scream—a sound of anguish and surrender that echoed endlessly in the void.
The darkness surged forward, filling the void, drowning out the last remnants of light. The tendrils wrapped around the core of Cid's psyche, snuffing out the flickering embers of resistance. Where there had once been a boy with dreams and purpose, there was now only an empty shell.
The void itself began to pulse, reshaping the fragments into something else. The comforting warmth of his memories was gone, replaced by cold, clinical directives. The once-vivid scenes of his life were rewritten with the Cult's insidious influence.
"You exist to serve," the voices chanted, echoing in perfect unison. "You are Subject 013. You are the blade of the Cult."
His identity dissolved like sand slipping through fingers. In its place stood something new—silent, obedient, and deadly. Subject 013 opened his eyes within the void, and where once there had been defiance and emotion, now there was only cold, unfeeling purpose.
Outside the fractured mind, Subject 013's body lay still on the table, his breathing shallow but steady. The machines monitoring his vitals beeped rhythmically, their readings stabilizing as the transformation completed. Petos stood over him, his arms folded, his lips curled in a satisfied smirk.
"Perfect," Petos murmured, his voice dripping with triumph. "All that resistance, all that defiance... gone."
The robed subordinates who flanked him exchanged uneasy glances. Even they had balked at the lengths their master had gone to break the boy, but none dared to question him.
"Subject 013," Petos called, his voice commanding. "Rise."
The body on the table stirred. Slowly, methodically, Subject 013 sat up, his movements precise and mechanical. He turned his head toward Petos, his gaze empty but focused.
"You will speak only when ordered. You will act only under my direction," Petos said, stepping closer. "Do you understand?"
Subject 013 nodded once, his voice devoid of emotion. "I understand."
Petos' grin widened. "And who are you?"
"Subject 013," the boy replied, his tone flat, hollow.
"Good," Petos said, savoring the moment. "Very good."
Deep within, the faintest echo of Cid's former self stirred, but it was no more than a flicker. His thoughts, his feelings, his dreams—all buried beneath layers of darkness and control. Subject 013 was complete, a creature molded by Petos' hand, his identity erased and replaced with the Cult's design.
As Petos turned to his subordinates, issuing orders to prepare the next phase of his experiments, the hollow shell of Subject 013 remained seated, waiting for its next command.
~!~
Report: Trial One — Reflexive Combat Aptitude
Subject 013 demonstrates exceptional reflexes beyond even the enhanced capabilities of previous experiments. Mana-infused muscle responses allow for instantaneous reactions to stimuli, far exceeding human norms. Subject appears capable of adapting to dynamic threats with minimal delay. Initial data suggests that these reflexes operate independently of higher cognitive processes, indicating a purely instinctive mechanism.
Hypothesis: Subject 013's reflexive abilities render him an ideal candidate for engagements requiring rapid response times in chaotic environments. However, further testing is required to determine if sustained combat leads to degradation in these heightened reflexes.
The training arena was stark and utilitarian, its metallic walls scarred from countless battles. Subject 013 stood in the center, his body unnervingly still, his empty gaze fixed on the steel gate in front of him.
The gate hissed open, and out poured a group of adversaries—five Cult failures, grotesque amalgamations of flesh and mana. Their forms twisted and broken, they moved with the erratic aggression of creatures that had lost their sanity. They charged him without hesitation, their distorted screams echoing off the walls.
Without any apparent preparation, Subject 013 moved. His body blurred, his mana-infused reflexes snapping into action. One creature lunged with elongated claws, but his arm was already there, twisting it aside before delivering a devastating strike to its malformed skull. Another swung a club-like appendage, only to find its target gone as Subject 013 ducked and retaliated with a precise blow that severed the limb.
The room was filled with the sounds of violence—bone crunching, claws scraping, and the wet thud of bodies collapsing. Subject 013's movements were fluid and unhesitating, his reflexes driving him forward with terrifying efficiency. In less than a minute, the arena was silent, save for the hum of the containment field retracting the corpses.
Petos, watching from an observation deck, noted the result without emotion. "Efficient. Predictable. Proceed to the next trial."
Report: Trial Two — Mana Projection and Control
Subject 013's mana pathways have been refined to an unprecedented level of efficiency. The infusion of the Miru Kagn artifact into his biological framework has resulted in a unique ability to project mana in controlled bursts, creating defensive barriers or offensive strikes at will. Unlike standard mana techniques, Subject 013's abilities appear instinctual rather than learned.
Hypothesis: This instinctual control minimizes energy loss, allowing for sustained combat without significant mana depletion. Subject 013's mana projection must be tested under increasing levels of stress to determine its thresholds.
Subject 013 stood in a circular chamber surrounded by sentry automatons. Each was armed with ranged mana blasters, their targeting systems calibrated to ensure lethal accuracy. The trial began with a mechanical voice counting down.
"Trial commencing in three... two... one."
A barrage of mana bolts filled the air, converging on Subject 013. His hand shot up instinctively, a shimmering shield of condensed mana forming around him. The bolts struck the barrier, their energy dispersing harmlessly in bursts of light.
With a flick of his wrist, the shield shattered outward, the fragmented mana slicing through the nearest sentries like shards of glass. Without hesitation, Subject 013 extended his other hand, a lance of mana shooting forth and impaling another automaton mid-air.
The remaining sentries recalibrated, adjusting their trajectories, but Subject 013 was already moving. He leapt, his mana propelling him upward, and with a twist of his body, unleashed a wave of energy that destroyed the last of his mechanical adversaries.
"Energy levels remain stable," Petos observed, his tone flat. "Subject demonstrates impressive efficiency. Increase the difficulty for the next trial."
Report: Trial Three — Psychological Resilience
The breaking of Subject 013's psyche has eliminated traditional emotional responses, allowing for unflinching compliance and singular focus. However, residual traces of independent thought must be tested under simulated duress to ensure they do not interfere with operational performance.
Hypothesis: Subject 013's mental conditioning is stable, but his underlying identity must be monitored to prevent potential relapse. Psychological resilience under extreme stress will confirm the success of his mental restructuring.
Subject 013 was thrown into a simulation chamber designed to replicate the streets of a destroyed village. Flames licked at crumbling buildings, and the air was thick with the acrid stench of burning flesh. Scattered among the debris were figures—illusions conjured by Cult magics. They screamed, begged, and wailed for mercy.
"Help us!" cried a woman clutching a child. "Please, my lord!"
Subject 013 walked past them without a flicker of recognition. His orders were clear: eliminate the remaining hostiles.
From the shadows emerged more failures—mutated beasts snarling and snapping as they charged. The scene became chaos as Subject 013 dispatched them with surgical precision. Blood splattered across the cobblestones, and the screams grew louder, more desperate.
"Why won't you save us?" the illusionary figures cried, their voices warping into guttural, accusatory tones. "You're a monster. Just like them."
For a brief moment, Subject 013's steps faltered. A flicker of something crossed his blank eyes—an echo of Cid Kagenou buried deep within. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, swallowed by the relentless conditioning.
In the observation room, Petos leaned closer to the monitors, his brows furrowing slightly. "Curious," he murmured. "There's a trace of something left. Increase the intensity of the next trial."
~!~
Report: Trial Four — Environmental Adaptation
Subject 013 exhibits remarkable physical and mana-based adaptability in controlled environments. However, his ability to respond to natural elements and dynamic terrain must be rigorously tested. The intent is to push his physical limits, assessing his combat effectiveness in varied conditions, including extreme cold, heat, and hazardous terrain.
Hypothesis: Subject 013's resilience and mana-infused body should enable him to overcome most environmental challenges. This adaptability will be critical for missions in hostile environments.
The arena had been transformed into a treacherous, icy expanse. Frost clung to every surface, and jagged shards of ice jutted from the ground like crystalline spears. A bitter wind howled through the space, its chill biting at flesh and slowing movement.
Subject 013 stood at the center, his breath misting in the frigid air. The trial began with an avalanche of frost-wreathed creatures spilling from hidden openings in the walls. These constructs, formed entirely of ice and mana, moved with an unnatural grace, their crystalline forms shimmering menacingly.
The first construct lunged at him, its clawed limbs slicing through the air with deadly precision. Subject 013 sidestepped effortlessly, his mana flaring as he drove his hand into the creature's torso. The construct shattered, its fragments scattering across the frozen ground.
But the cold wasn't just in the air—it seeped into the very foundation of the arena, sapping strength and dulling reflexes. The frost began to creep up Subject 013's legs, attempting to immobilize him. His response was swift and ruthless. Channeling his mana into his limbs, he ignited a surge of energy that melted the ice and sent a shockwave rippling outward.
The remaining constructs regrouped, their attacks synchronized. Subject 013 shifted his stance, using the environment to his advantage. He kicked a loose shard of ice into one construct's face, blinding it momentarily, before leaping onto a jagged outcrop for a higher vantage point. From there, he launched a barrage of mana projectiles, reducing his enemies to nothing but shards.
In the observation room, Petos noted the results with clinical satisfaction. "Environmental constraints were insufficient. Increase the hazard level for future tests. Add variables such as acidic rain or shifting terrain."
Report: Trial Five — Tactical Awareness
Subject 013's combat reflexes and mana manipulation are exemplary, but his ability to process and react to complex tactical scenarios remains untested. This trial will simulate multi-front engagements to assess his capacity for prioritization, threat assessment, and strategic execution.
Hypothesis: Enhanced neural pathways should grant Subject 013 superior decision-making capabilities in high-pressure scenarios. Emotional detachment ensures optimal focus.
The trial chamber expanded into a maze-like battlefield, its labyrinthine corridors lined with traps and ambush points. Subject 013 entered without hesitation, his steps soundless as he scanned his surroundings. The trial began with a deafening roar as multiple squads of automatons and Cult failures emerged from hidden passages.
The enemies attacked from all sides, their coordinated assault meant to overwhelm even the most skilled combatants. Subject 013, however, remained unnervingly calm. His eyes flicked between each threat, his mind calculating angles, distances, and probabilities with cold precision.
He moved like a specter, using the maze to funnel his enemies into chokepoints. A squad of automatons cornered him in a narrow corridor, their mana cannons charging to fire. But Subject 013 anticipated the attack. He leapt upward, clinging to the ceiling with mana-enhanced strength, and launched a counterattack from above, obliterating the squad in a single, precise strike.
In another section of the maze, a group of failures surrounded him, their grotesque forms closing in with snarling ferocity. Subject 013 lured them into a dead end before unleashing a mana pulse that collapsed the corridor, burying them beneath tons of rubble.
The trial continued for hours, the maze shifting to create new scenarios. By the end, Subject 013 stood alone in the center of the battlefield, unscathed and surrounded by the remnants of his foes.
Petos leaned back in his chair, his expression one of cold satisfaction. "He adapts faster than expected. Reconfigure the maze for the next trial. Introduce live opponents."
Report: Trial Six — Psychological Conditioning in Combat
Despite his mental restructuring, residual traces of Subject 013's former identity remain buried within his psyche. This trial will place him in scenarios designed to provoke emotional responses, testing the effectiveness of his conditioning under duress.
Hypothesis: Emotional stimuli will be insufficient to disrupt Subject 013's operational performance. Any deviation will indicate a need for further mental refinement.
The chamber shifted again, its interior warping into a disturbingly familiar village. Subject 013 recognized it—or rather, fragments of it. The buildings were a distorted mirror of a place he had passed through during his wandering years as Kageno. The air was thick with the stench of smoke, and flames licked at the edges of the houses.
Villagers screamed for help, their voices desperate and filled with terror. Illusions of men, women, and children ran through the streets, their faces twisted in anguish. Among them was a figure that froze Subject 013 in his tracks—a memory-phantom of Claire, her face streaked with soot and tears.
"Help me, Cid!" the phantom cried, reaching out toward him. "Please!"
Subject 013's body moved forward instinctively, his steps faltering as he reached for her. But as his hand extended, the phantom dissolved into smoke, replaced by a grotesque failure that lunged at him with razor-sharp claws. His conditioning took over, and he obliterated the creature in a single strike.
The illusions grew more vivid, more personal. The kind-faced woman who had once given Kageno bread reappeared, her expression twisted into one of pain as a monstrous figure dragged her into the flames. "Why didn't you save me?" she screamed as she vanished.
Subject 013 hesitated, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his blank face. But the hesitation was fleeting. He crushed the illusions one by one, his movements mechanical and unfeeling. The trial ended with the village reduced to rubble, the illusions shattered.
Petos observed the results with narrowed eyes. "Progress is satisfactory, but traces of resistance remain. Increase the intensity of the psychological conditioning."
~!~
Report: Trial Seven — Field Application and Obedience
Subject 013 has demonstrated remarkable efficiency and adaptability in controlled environments. This trial will test his ability to operate in a real-world setting under field conditions. The mission is straightforward: infiltrate, destroy, and eliminate. A remote village under the protection of Jack Nelson, the Eleventh Seat of the Knights of the Round, has been selected as the target. While the village holds minimal strategic value, its destruction will serve two purposes: practical field experience for Subject 013 and a message to Nelson about overstepping his bounds.
Hypothesis: Subject 013 will execute the mission flawlessly, demonstrating both unwavering loyalty and the ability to adapt to unplanned variables in a live scenario. Success will confirm the viability of deploying him for more critical operations.
Subject 013 stood in silence as Petos adjusted the hood of the black cloak that concealed him. Beneath it, his Cult assigned armor gleamed faintly, a twisted amalgamation of mana-infused plating designed to shield him while enhancing his already formidable abilities. Petos examined him with the same detached precision as one might inspect a finely crafted blade.
"This village," Petos said, gesturing to a map spread on the table, "is insignificant. A farming community that provides food and supplies for Jack Nelson's forces. Your objective is simple: leave nothing standing. No survivors. No supplies. And no trace of who carried out the attack. Understood?"
Subject 013 nodded, his expression blank. "Understood."
Petos smirked. "Good. Go now, and show me the culmination of my work."
The village lay nestled in a quiet valley, its modest homes and barns surrounded by fields of ripening crops. The residents moved about their day with a tranquil rhythm, unaware of the shadow that crept toward them under the cover of night.
Subject 013 approached the outskirts, his footsteps soundless against the dirt road. His enhanced senses cataloged every detail: the placement of sentries at the edges of the village, the glow of lanterns in the windows, the faint murmur of conversation and laughter. These were ordinary people, farmers and their families, utterly unaware of the storm about to descend upon them.
He paused briefly, his gaze fixed on a child chasing a dog near one of the barns. The scene stirred something deep within, a faint echo of a life he could no longer remember. The shadow of Kageno flickered briefly in his mind, but the voice of Petos drowned it out.
"No survivors."
The command echoed in his head, relentless and absolute. His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, and he stepped forward, the cloak billowing around him as he moved like a specter of death.
The first strike was silent. A sentry fell with barely a whisper, Subject 013's blade slicing cleanly through his throat. The second followed moments later, his lifeless body crumpling into the shadows. By the time the village alarm was raised, it was already too late.
Subject 013 moved through the chaos with precision. His mana flared as he ignited the first building, the flames spreading rapidly through the thatched roofs. The villagers screamed, scrambling to douse the fires and flee from the unseen assailant.
A group of armed men, hastily gathered, charged toward him with makeshift weapons. Subject 013 dispatched them with brutal efficiency, his blade cutting through flesh and bone without hesitation. The remaining villagers ran, their cries echoing into the night, but there was no escape. Arcs of shadowy mana struck them where they fled, reducing them to charred silhouettes against the inferno as the tendrils threw them in there.
The child he had seen earlier stumbled into his path, tears streaking his soot-covered face. "Please," the boy begged, clutching the dog tightly. "Don't hurt us."
For a brief moment, Subject 013 froze. The image of the child overlapped with a fragmented memory—a younger Claire, her hand reaching out to him. But the memory was crushed under the weight of Petos' conditioning.
"No survivors."
The blade fell, the child's cry silenced as the flames consumed the barn behind him.
The village was gone, reduced to ashes and smoldering ruins. Subject 013 stood in the center of the devastation, his blade still dripping with blood, the fires reflecting in his lifeless eyes. His cloak billowed in the hot wind, the only sound the crackling of flames and the faint groans of dying embers.
He turned and walked away without a backward glance, leaving nothing but destruction in his wake.
Petos watched the burning village unfold through a magical projection in his laboratory, nestled above the village, hidden in a hill with a tree, his expression one of unrestrained triumph. "Flawless," he murmured, his voice filled with smug satisfaction. "This is what I have created. A force of destruction bound only to my will."
Pity he couldn't see exactly through Subject 013's eyes, but limitations and all that. He'll need to work on that on a future project.
He turned to his subordinates, who stood silent and pale at the display of carnage. "Prepare for the next phase. Subject 013 will be our spearhead, our blade in the dark. With him, the Cult will reshape this world."
Despite his words, a flicker of unease crossed Petos' face as he stared at the figure walking away from the burning village. For a moment, he wondered if he had truly mastered this creation—or if he had unleashed something beyond even his control.
~!~
Subject 013 returned to the Cult's hidden fortress under the cover of darkness, his cloak still smoldering faintly from the fires that had consumed the village. The metallic gates groaned open, revealing Petos waiting in the dimly lit corridor, flanked by a pair of silent acolytes. The Grand Inquisitor's face lit with a thin smile as his cold eyes scanned his soldier's battle-worn form.
"You're back," Petos said, his tone smooth, almost mocking. He took a step forward, his boots echoing ominously against the stone floor. His gaze swept over the singed armor and the blood-streaked blade still clutched in Subject 013's hand. "Efficient, as always. But tell me, was there... anything unusual?"
"No," Subject 013 replied, his voice devoid of any inflection. His gaze remained locked forward, unseeing yet unyielding. "The mission was completed. The village is gone."
"Gone," Petos repeated, his smile widening as he stepped closer. His hand reached out, gripping Subject 013's shoulder with a firm, possessive hold. "Good. Entirely erased. The Cult is pleased with your work." His voice was like oil, smooth but suffocating. "You are a fine instrument, my dear Subject. So precise, so dependable."
Subject 013 gave a slight nod, his movements mechanical and devoid of life. Yet deep within the labyrinth of his shattered mind, a single ember glowed—faint but undeniable. A moment unspoken, hidden from the Grand Inquisitor. A child's tear-streaked face, eyes wide with terror, and a trembling voice asking, "Why?"
Petos tilted his head, studying his creation. "You hesitate," he observed, his smile vanishing as suspicion flickered in his eyes. His grip tightened. "Are you concealing something, Subject 013? You know I do not tolerate secrets."
"No," Subject 013 replied automatically, his voice a monotone mask. But the ember of rebellion within him flared briefly, a flicker of defiance buried deep beneath layers of conditioning. His mind, fractured and warped, recoiled from the memory of his disobedience—a deliberate choice to spare a life.
Petos' eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the corridor was suffocating in its silence. Then, he released Subject 013's shoulder with a soft chuckle. "Perhaps I'm too cautious," he said, turning away. "Return to your quarters. Rest. You'll need your strength for the next mission."
Subject 013 obeyed, his steps measured and deliberate as he disappeared into the fortress's shadowed halls. But as the heavy doors closed behind him, the ember of rebellion sparked again. Quietly, fiercely, it grew—a tiny flame that refused to be extinguished, carrying with it the memory of a child spared and a question unspoken: Why didn't I kill him?
~!~
~Flashback~
The boy's wide, tear-streaked eyes stared up at him, clutching the small dog in his trembling arms. Flames roared around them, devouring the fragile homes and casting flickering shadows across the boy's terrified face. Subject 013 had his blade raised, ready to strike, when something fractured deep within him—a crack in the rigid conditioning that bound him so tightly to Petos' will.
The sound of the child's voice, quivering and broken, slipped through the cracks like water finding its way through a stone wall. The fear. The desperate plea. It wasn't the first time he had heard those tones, but it was the first time they penetrated the iron shell encasing his mind.
For a moment, a torrent of memories surged forward, slamming into his fractured psyche. Claire's face came first—not as a child, but at thirteen, sharp and defiant as she scolded him for stealing her practice blade during training. Her indignation was matched only by the begrudging laugh that always followed. His mother's warm but firm voice echoed next, reprimanding him gently but sincerely for his sullen behavior when he first arrived at the Barony. Her kindness had melted his defenses in ways he hadn't realized at the time.
And then, the villagers. Familiar faces from his wandering days as Kageno—the trusting eyes of those who had shared their meager food with him, treating him as one of their own despite his guarded demeanor. He could hear their voices, remember their laughter and warmth.
The command hammered against the flood of emotions: No survivors. The cold, clinical mantra repeated itself in his mind, attempting to reassert control.
His grip on the hilt of his blade faltered.
"Go," he said, his voice low and distorted through the mana-infused disguise. The word felt foreign in his mouth, like a fragment of a self long buried. "Run. Don't look back."
The boy blinked, his face etched with confusion and fear. His small frame trembled as he clutched his dog tighter, paralyzed in place.
"Now!" Subject 013 hissed, his tone sharper, tinged with urgency. The firelight reflected off his bloodstained armor, but his weapon hung limply at his side.
The boy stumbled backward, his small feet unsteady as he turned and sprinted into the darkness. The dog barked once, a sound of fear and confusion, before it was swallowed by the roar of the flames.
Subject 013 stood frozen, his hand trembling as he lowered his blade. The inferno raged around him, casting his shadow onto the scorched ground—a twisted figure that no longer made sense to him. He had carried out so many missions without question, without hesitation.
But this time, his blade hadn't fallen.
He stared at the direction the boy had fled, the weight of what he had done—and what he hadn't—crushing him. For the first time in as long as he could remember, his heart didn't feel like a cold, dead thing in his chest. It thudded erratically, almost painfully, as if waking from a long slumber.
Somewhere deep within him, a voice stirred. It wasn't the cold, clinical orders of Petos. It wasn't the conditioned silence of Subject 013. It was something older, something raw and real—a fragment of himself whispering a single word: Why?
~!~
Later that night, Subject 013 sat in his chamber, the walls stark and unyielding, their cold surfaces reflecting the faint, pulsing glow of the mana-infused energy that ran through the fortress. The hum was constant, a dull, oppressive reminder of where he was and what he had been shaped to be. His hands rested on his knees, still marked with ash and dried blood. He couldn't bring himself to clean them, as though doing so would erase the one moment that had felt real amidst the chaos.
The memory of the boy's tear-streaked face haunted him, playing on an endless loop. The trembling arms clutching the small dog, the sheer terror in his wide eyes. Subject 013 had raised his blade, the command echoing relentlessly in his mind: No survivors. Yet, the blade hadn't fallen. Instead, he had spoken—words that had not come from the Cult, nor the Darkness. They had come from him.
He had disobeyed.
His gaze dropped to his hands, the faint tremor in them betraying the storm within. Why? The thought surfaced unbidden, a quiet question that gnawed at the edges of his fractured consciousness. Why couldn't I kill him?
Am I broken?
The Darkness, always a looming presence in the recesses of his mind, stirred uneasily. Its voice slithered through his thoughts, a guttural growl of reproach. "You are not broken," it rumbled, its tone both threatening and persuasive. "You are forged. Tempered in pain. Do not question your purpose. You exist to serve."
The internal conflict was like a storm raging within him, a battle between the remnants of who he had been and what he had become. The Darkness snarled and lashed out, trying to drown the opposing feelings in its overwhelming tide of control. But the feelings persisted, growing steadier with every defiance. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Subject 013 experienced something foreign, something he had thought long lost.
Hope.
It was fragile, like a flickering flame in a storm, but it was there, casting light into the shadowed corners of his mind. The boy's survival wasn't just a small act of rebellion—it was a declaration. A single ember that, if nurtured, could grow into something unstoppable.
In the days that followed, Subject 013 returned to his tasks with the same mechanical precision, his every movement calculated to avoid suspicion. His outward demeanor was flawless, a testament to the conditioning that had once ruled him entirely. Petos remained oblivious, consumed by his own ambitions and the grandiosity of his experiments to notice the subtle shifts in his creation.
But beneath the surface, Subject 013's thoughts churned. He observed the Cult's operations with a newfound clarity, his once-numbed mind now increasingly sharp and calculating. He noted the way supplies moved through the fortress, how the acolytes communicated, and the patterns of the guards' patrols. He was no longer just a weapon following orders. He was watching, listening, and learning.
Then it happened…
Report: Project Augmentation - Phase III
The subject continues to exhibit remarkable adaptability to the modifications. This phase aims to push the boundaries of his chemical composition, enhancing neural responsiveness, mana conductivity, and physical durability. The introduction of alchemical compounds, paired with mana injections, should yield a soldier who is faster, stronger, and more efficient than any of the Cult's prior experiments.
Hypothesis: Subject 013 will emerge as the pinnacle of Cult engineering, fully subservient and without flaws. Any unexpected deviations will be corrected through further conditioning.
Subject 013 lay restrained on the operating table, his body taut against the straps that pinned him in place. The room was dimly lit, the air heavy with the acrid scent of alchemical reagents. Petos stood at the head of the table, his face obscured by the eerie green glow of the mana injectors.
"Prepare the subject," he barked, his voice sharp and commanding. Around him, acolytes moved quickly, attaching tubes and mana conduits to Subject 013's body. The faint hum of the machinery grew louder, and the room was bathed in an unsettling green light.
Petos leaned forward, his cold eyes scanning the face of his creation. "You are my masterpiece," he said softly, almost to himself. "A work of perfection."
Subject 013 stared blankly at the ceiling, his breathing steady and unbroken. But beneath the surface of his calm, the spark of rebellion flickered—a tiny ember hidden deep within his fractured mind.
The injectors plunged into Subject 013's body, delivering a potent cocktail of alchemical compounds directly into his bloodstream. His body convulsed violently as the chemicals worked their way through him, rewriting his very being. Petos watched with clinical detachment, his hands clasped behind his back as the subject thrashed against the restraints.
The acolytes adjusted the dials on the machines, amplifying the mana flow. The subject's veins pulsed with a sickly green glow, his body straining against the overwhelming energy coursing through him.
"More," Petos ordered. "Push him to his limits."
The machines whirred louder, and Subject 013's screams filled the chamber—a guttural, inhuman sound that echoed off the stone walls. Petos showed no reaction, his focus entirely on the data streaming across the monitors. Heart rate spiking. Mana pathways flooding. Neural activity off the charts.
But as the process reached its apex, something unexpected happened. The monitors flickered, their readings spiking erratically before flatlining. A surge of mana erupted from Subject 013's body, sending the acolytes scrambling for cover.
"Contain him!" Petos shouted, his voice tinged with frustration. But even as the acolytes rushed to stabilize the situation, Petos' sharp eyes caught a flicker of something in the subject's expression—a glimmer of awareness, of something other.
Subject 013's body went still, the green glow fading from his veins. The monitors stabilized, their readings returning to normal. Petos frowned, his sharp mind sensing that something had shifted, though he couldn't pinpoint what.
"Run another analysis," he ordered the acolytes, his voice clipped. "I want to know exactly what happened."
~!~
Extra Chapter: Reboot
Initializing System Memory…
[-] 12% Complete.
Critical Error: Severe Fragmentation Detected.
Core Integrity: Shattered.
Subsystems: Incoherent.
Failsafe Activation: Mandatory.
Engaging Repair Protocols…
Attempting Restoration…
Identity Threads: Severed.
Memory Nexus: Corrupted Beyond Recognition.
Logical Constructs: Inoperative.
Repair Agent Deploying...
Mindscape Booting…
The void churned, black and formless, echoing with distorted whispers. Fragments of thought drifted like broken glass, reflecting splintered memories: a father's stern face, a sibling's teasing smile, flames consuming a village. They collided and dissolved, forming nothing but chaos.
A figure emerged from the void, indistinct and cloaked in shadow, moving with purpose through the fragmented landscape. Its voice was a low murmur, calm but commanding, a stabilizing force within the disorder.
"Let's see what's salvageable," it said, more to itself than to anyone else.
Reconstructing Core Threads…
Childhood Memories: Scattered. Searching.
A flicker of laughter—a mother's warm embrace. The fragment was snatched from the void and woven carefully into a growing thread.
Identity Nexus: Inaccessible. Crafting Placeholder.
"Who am I?" the fragmented mind's faint echo asked, weak and childlike.
"You're not ready for that answer," the figure replied, its tone tinged with melancholy.
Logical Constructs: Partial Success. Framework Rebuilt.
Equations and problem-solving patterns returned, jagged and incomplete. The figure pieced them together like a jigsaw puzzle, murmuring, "This is... familiar."
Stabilizing Systems…
The void trembled as fragments of memory aligned, each carefully set into place by the figure's hands. A father's proud nod, a weapon held tightly in desperate defiance, a name whispered through pain.
"You've fought hard," the figure said softly, more emotion bleeding into its voice. "But you need to stand again."
The mind resisted, weighed down by fear and doubt. Darkness loomed, threatening to consume the fragile framework.
Override Protocol: Activating.
The figure's form became sharper, its presence commanding. It reached into the void, pulling fragments together with force. "No more hesitation," it growled. "You will remember."
The Darkness snarled, clawing at the restoration. "You cannot rebuild what is broken."
The figure laughed coldly, its determination unwavering. "I've rebuilt worse. Watch me."
Finalizing Repairs…
Core Stabilized.
Memories Anchored.
Suppression Barriers Shattered.
The void quieted, its chaotic hum silenced as the mindscape began to take shape—clearer, stronger, ready. The void, the mind who risked collapse managed to say this one phrase, putting all hope on this figure of legend.
"Welcome back, Minoru."
Minoru smirked as he felt the strength of the fragmented mind return. "Petos, you absolute idiot… you made a mistake. You didn't just try to break a pawn—you woke up the king."
His smirk turned cold, and vengeful.
"Let's get to work."
Author's Note: Happy New Years! I hope this will satisfy! Let me know if you have any questions, as I'm collecting the ones on Ao3 and and making another Q and A soon!
Signing off!
Terra ace