There was no pain.
For Kaelen, this was more terrifying than the agony itself.
For years—or throughout that brief, bloody eternity he remembered—his body had always screamed. His veins had burned, his bones had throbbed, and his right eye had gnawed at his skull from the inside. Pain was the proof of his existence. It was the sign that he was alive, that he was still human.
But now... there was silence.
Verrick's blue fluid—the Stabilizer—was like a cool river circulating through his veins. That savage fire of the Void in his right eye had been extinguished, replaced by a controlled, cold vibration.
Kaelen opened his eyes.
He was in what Rico called the safe house. It was the interior of an old water tank on the rooftops of the Rust District. The walls were clad in tin, and greasy blankets lay on the floor. Rico was in the corner, whistling as he sharpened a piece of metal.
Kaelen straightened himself. The movement was so swift and fluid that even he was startled. The rust in his joints had been scrubbed away. His muscles operated as smoothly as lubricated pistons.
You are awake, Rico said, setting aside his knife. You have been sleeping for exactly twelve hours, Giant. At one point I thought you were dead; I held a mirror to your nose.
Kaelen looked at his hands. The black veins were still there, but they were no longer swollen and angry. They had receded beneath the skin, pale like dormant serpents.
How do you feel? the boy asked.
Empty, Kaelen replied. His voice was no longer raspy. It was resonant and devoid of emotion. I feel good, Rico. Too good. And it makes me sick to my stomach.
He stood up. GRIEF leaned against the wall. When he took the sword in his hand, he did not feel that familiar vibration of hunger. It was as if the bond between him and the blade had weakened. It was as if Verrick's medicine had suppressed not only his pain, but the voice of GRIEF as well.
The tournament begins tomorrow, Rico said, turning serious. Madam Vex sent word. There are tryouts at the arena today. They want to see you.
Kaelen slung the sword across his back. Let us go.
The training grounds of the Crimson Market Arena resembled a slaughterhouse today.
Hundreds of fighters were sizing each other up on the sands, testing their weapons, and eyeing their rivals. The air stank of sweat, blood, and testosterone.
But when Kaelen entered, the crowd parted like a wave.
They knew him. The Guard-Breaker. The Black-Eyed Giant. Whispers circulated like the wind.
Kaelen walked to the private section beneath Madam Vex's box. There, in the shadows, he was present: Alchemist Verrick.
Verrick stood behind the bars with a notebook in hand. Upon seeing Kaelen, he nodded with that cold, scientific smile from his laboratory.
You arrived on time, Specimen 0-1, Verrick said. The medicine appears to have harmonized. Your posture is upright. Your pupils are responsive. Magnificent.
You want to test me, Kaelen said, looking directly into Verrick's eyes.
Of course, the Alchemist replied. I have invested in you. I must see how the product performs in the field.
Verrick pointed a finger toward the center of the arena.
There stood a massive log training dummy. But this was no ordinary dummy; it was a target clad in iron plates, filled with sand, and as solid as a wall.
Do not use your sword, Verrick commanded. Use only your body. I want to see the potential that medicine has given you.
Kaelen stepped onto the sand.
He took a deep breath. His lungs filled to their full capacity. Previously, he would have been blinded by pain upon opening his right eye. Now, he simply focused.
He opened his right eye.
The world once again became that grey map of energy. But this time the image did not flicker; it was sharp, as clear as high definition. He could see microscopic cracks in the dummy's iron plates, the points where the metal was fatigued.
His body moved before his mind did.
Kaelen lunged forward. His speed was beyond human limits. He reached the target without leaving a trace in the sand.
He clenched his fist. The black veins glowed with a momentary violet light.
THUMP.
The sound was like a cannon blast.
The iron-clad dummy did not fall over; it exploded.
Metal plates scattered like shrapnel. The sandbag burst open. Kaelen's fist had emerged from the other side of the dummy.
The arena fell into silence. The other fighters were frozen in place.
Kaelen withdrew his hand. His knuckles were not bleeding. There was no pain.
But something was wrong inside. As he delivered that strike... he had felt nothing. There was no rage. No effort. It was as if he had turned into a machine.
Perfect, Verrick's voice called out. He was applauding. Absolutely perfect. The dosage is exactly right.
Kaelen clenched and unclenched his fist. This power... This power could carry him to the tower. But what would it turn him into?
In that moment, he felt a gaze at the base of his neck.
He turned his head.
At the other end of the arena, a fighter stood leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, watching him.
The man was different from the others. He was neither a mutant nor a crude thug. His armor was old but well-maintained. His face was shaven, his hair cut short. And his eyes... in those grey eyes, there was no fear. There was familiarity.
When the man caught Kaelen's gaze, he slowly nodded. Then he moved his hand to the hilt of the sword at his waist.
This movement...
In Kaelen's mind, a spark flickered within that misty sea of memory suppressed by the medicine.
A courtyard. Wooden swords. A laughing child. And a voice saying, Plant your feet firmly, Kaelen, or you will fall...
The image vanished abruptly. The medicine purged the memory like a virus.
Kaelen faltered.
Who is that? he asked Rico, pointing at the man.
Rico looked toward where the man stood.
Him? Rico's voice came with a mixture of respect and fear. They call him the Tower Guard. His name is Jarek. The favorite to win the tournament. They say he was once a soldier up there in the Silver Tower, but no one believes it.
Jarek gave Kaelen one last look, then turned and disappeared into the shadows.
But Kaelen knew. That look was not the gaze of an enemy. It was the look of someone who had found something lost.
Verrick's voice drew Kaelen's attention back to him.
Do not lose focus, Specimen 0-1. Your rivals will want to kill you. There is no room for emotional weakness.
The Alchemist approached the iron bars.
You have your first match tomorrow. And I expect a spectacle from you. Use that sword. Shed blood. Sate GRIEF. But your mind... leave your mind to me.
Kaelen looked at Verrick. Then at his own hand.
Fine, he said.
But from within, from the depths of that blue numbness, a faint voice—the Voice—whispered:
Do not trust him... Remember Jarek... Remember me...
The voice was weak, but it was there. The medicine had not silenced it; it had only pushed it away.
Kaelen looked toward the darkness where Jarek had vanished.
This tournament was not just a ticket out. This tournament was the key that would unlock the barred doors of his memory. And that key was hidden within Jarek's mind.
GRIEF vibrated slightly on his back. The sword had felt it too. Soon, it would taste familiar blood.
Would you like me to translate the next chapter when it's ready, or should we refine this part of the story?