A slender young man lay rigid on Punk's experimental platform, his body secured by several enchanted chains. No matter how desperately he struggled, his feeble human strength was utterly powerless against the magical restraints.
This young man was Hult.
Fate had shown him little mercy. As the only "surviving" slave, he had been captured alive—an unfortunate prize delivered straight into the hands of a mage in need of high-quality experimental material. His destiny was now sealed.
A silencing spell gripped his throat, preventing even a whisper of protest. His bloodshot eyes widened in terror as he watched Punk methodically arrange an array of delicate alchemical instruments, each engraved with intricate rune inscriptions.
From the depths of the dungeon came distant, horrific wails. The sound echoed through his mind like a grim premonition of his own fate.
Punk, however, remained completely indifferent.
With a calm, expressionless face, he inspected each tool one by one, carefully checking the magical arrays carved into their surfaces. This experiment was extremely important. His theory regarding soul fragmentation was about to be tested.
Finding Hult had been an unexpected stroke of luck.
When Golem No. 1 discovered him collapsed from hunger in a dark corner, Punk's sharp perception immediately noticed something unusual—extraordinary willpower, remarkable mental resilience, and even a hint of latent stalker talent.
Originally, Punk had intended to crush him like an insect.
But after reconsidering, he chose to bring Hult back—along with Bilan.
Now, thanks to the care of an official mage, Hult's body had been restored to perfect condition. A few apprentice-level potions had easily healed his internal injuries.
Of course, from Hult's perspective, such "treatment" was anything but fortunate.
Standing beside Punk was a slender figure—Bilan.
After her earlier "mistake," her "kind and generous mentor" had not only forgiven her ignorance but had even allowed her to observe the experiment firsthand. Such exceptionally benevolent instructors were extremely rare on the plane of Faerûn.
If one ignored the secondary restraint spell binding her in place.
In truth, Bilan had not been invited to observe the experiment.
She was being conditioned.
Punk had no intention of changing her ideology or personality. Instead, his goal was far simpler—to accustom this trembling coward to blood, pain, and suffering.
His soul-transformation technique was refined, but not yet perfect. Certain instinctive reactions could not be removed through technical methods alone.
If he did not want to accidentally create a golem that feared screams or blood, he needed to erase her weaknesses first.
The White Tower was illuminated by a dozen floating spheres of Dancing Lights. With Punk's current spellcasting ability, these small orbs could burn steadily for months.
Their cold, heatless glow illuminated the experiment platform, casting long shadows from the array of surgical instruments.
Ignoring Hult's desperate, pleading eyes—and the horror reflected in Bilan's gaze—Punk calmly measured and marked the subject's freshly shaved scalp.
With deliberate precision, he picked up a finely crafted alchemical scalpel.
The blade had been enhanced with the enchantment "Lesser Keen Blade."
Under the sterile magical light, its edge gleamed with a cold, merciless brilliance.
It was a tool designed for the precise dissection of living bone.
The most effective way to divide a personality was through memory manipulation. However, Punk lacked complete confidence in directly altering the soul itself.
So he chose a more indirect method—tampering with the brain.
As long as a creature remained biologically alive, the soul still depended on the brain to process information.
The technique was crude and far inferior to direct soul sculpting.
But against an ordinary human?
It was more than sufficient.
There would be no anesthesia.
No numbing spells.
Normally, Punk disliked letting test subjects suffer excessive pain—it was inefficient and distracting.
But today's experiment had a second purpose:
educating Bilan.
Hult would simply have to endure his role as an unwilling instructor.
The scalpel descended.
A clean incision.
Cold steel sliced through flesh and bone. Crimson blood blossomed instantly beneath the blade.
Blood splattered across the gold-tiled platform, pooling beneath the flickering magical light—light that offered neither warmth nor mercy, only the unbearable agony of exposed marrow.
Outside the White Tower, the twin moons Mira and Chikasa slowly sank below the horizon.
Yet upon this blood-stained hill, only the screams of agony echoed endlessly into the coming dawn.
"Where… am I…?"
Hult drifted inside a vast white vortex, weightless and bodiless.
He could no longer feel his limbs.
He could not tell if he was moving or standing still.
Only one thought echoed in his mind:
Something was missing.
Something had been forgotten.
"Hey, look! Isn't that the stupid orphan, Hult?"
A voice suddenly pierced the void.
The white vortex vanished.
In an instant, the world returned.
The air was bitterly cold. Snow covered filthy alleyways. The streets were filled with frozen mud.
It was winter.
He recognized this place.
This was his childhood.
"Wait… yesterday… I tried to steal from that merchant… the guards caught me…"
He raised his bruised hand and immediately felt a sharp stab of pain.
"Hey, Hult! You still owe us protection money! Pay up, or we'll beat you again!"
Two older boys approached—street tyrants, the self-appointed rulers of the local orphans.
They had extorted and bullied him for as long as he could remember.
Normally, Hult would have fallen to his knees, begging for mercy.
But this time…
Something was different.
A strange emotion rose within him.
Anger.
A burning, violent rage surged through his chest, fueled by years of humiliation and abuse.
He had never felt this before.
He should have been afraid.
He knew something about this situation was wrong.
But the rage devoured his doubts.
With a savage roar, he lunged forward.
He slammed the boy to the ground and bit into his throat.
Blood burst forth—hot, thick, metallic—filling his mouth.
For the first time in his miserable life, as he drank his enemy's blood…
The winter no longer felt so cold.
"Excellent. The first phase of the experiment is progressing well."
Back in reality, Hult's body convulsed violently on the experiment table.
Thin alchemical wires were embedded across his scalp, glowing with eerie magical energy. Under the tightening restraints, he thrashed and screamed as his memories were rewritten.
Observing calmly, Punk nodded in satisfaction.
The soul structure remained stable.
No signs of collapse.
The experiment was a success.