Three years had passed since Arc killed Strom .In that time, he hadn't seen the outside world—not once. He was kept under strict observation by Dr. Hibino, not as a prisoner, but as a subject. And strangely, most of the experiments didn't involve dissecting what he already was—they were focused on what he could become.
He was placed in specialized classes, taught the fundamentals of mechanics, systems engineering, material science, even cultural history. At first, it seemed trivial—pointless, even. But over time, it became clear: they wanted him to be self-sufficient. To think, design, and build for himself. Not just a weapon—but a creator of his own arsenal.
The physical regimen was brutal. Every day began and ended in the training arena, his body pushed to the brink. Recovery augments were used strategically—applied by handpicked specialists who could accelerate muscle and tissue regeneration. Pain became routine. Growth became law.
He wasn't just being studied.He was being forged.
He was supposedly eleven years old.
But Arc had long since stopped developing according to the charts.
By the time he was seven, his mental processing rivaled that of a teenager—capable of critical reasoning, tactical breakdowns, and absorbing information at a frightening pace. The augmentations didn't just push his mind; they ignored every biological boundary laid down by normal growth patterns.
At eleven, his body told a different story. He stood five-foot-six, carrying the compact mass of a seasoned fighter. His physique was deceptively lean, built with an efficiency that made it clear—every gram of weight served a purpose. No wasted muscle. No bloated bulk. Power, precision, and flexibility fused by design.
He weighed in at a solid 100 kilograms—though most of it wasn't just raw mass. The alkanite running through his veins made his cell density higher than human norms. His diet, rich in high-protein compounds and synthetic Ura strains, optimized every strand of muscle tissue, every recovery cycle.
His hair had darkened since his early tests—from a neutral brown to a charcoal black, with only a faint earthy undertone in the light. His eyes had changed too—sharper, always calculating, carrying the subtle intensity of someone who knew they were built for more. Faint scars ran down his arms from past experiments, reminders of tests that had pushed his limits—sometimes past the line of safety.
Some of the staff had started calling him Vitruvian—a nod to the old ideal of the perfect form. But Arc wasn't born perfect. He was made to surpass it.
And the irony?He hadn't even scratched the surface of what he was truly built for.
But there was something else—something the staff couldn't explain, no matter how many scans they ran or procedures they attempted.
Two dark lines had formed beneath his eyes, trailing subtly along the contours of his lower sockets. At first, they thought it was bruising. Then pigmentation. Then some residual side effect of neural stress.
But it wasn't.
They tried to laser them off. The skin healed instantly. Tried to cut it out—same result. The tissue reformed before the instruments could even finish their motion, seamless and stubborn. The lines weren't just part of him. They were woven in, like a signature etched into his DNA.
What disturbed them most wasn't that they couldn't remove them.
It was that they looked... intentional.
The marks gave his face an unnatural symmetry, a quiet gravity. They framed his gaze in a way that made eye contact feel heavy—regal, almost ancient. As if something older than Arc looked out through those eyes.
And though no one said it aloud, more than a few personnel had stopped referring to him as a child.
He wasn't.
Not anymore.
By now, Arc had become numb to the facility's daily horrors. The walls, once sterile and clinical, had become galleries of desensitization. He was exposed to every form of psychological degradation—graphic dissections, ritualistic executions, augmented neurosurgery, soul-scanning simulations designed to strip the mind bare.
He watched them all. And never blinked.
The staff couldn't agree if he was too far gone to be affected… or if he had never truly reacted at all. His emotional profile had flatlined into something unreadable. Silent. Present. Silver eyes empty of expression—unless Dr. Hibino took direct control. Then, his posture would sharpen. Breathing, mechanical. Gaze, locked forward. All signs of the embedded behavioral override working flawlessly.
It was acceptable.
Because next month, his biome trials would begin. He was not special. Not a miracle.
Just another investment.
Another asset, like Strom had been. Like the Ashen One still was. Like the failed prototypes now buried in the lower sublevels.
The difference? He hadn't failed yet.
And he knew it.
It was useless to resist.
He knew it. Every breath he took in that facility echoed with the cold truth—he was still weak. Still infantile in his metamorphosis. Compared to the elite forces of the Amaterasu, he was nothing more than a promising embryo. A half-born blade still being sharpened.
But he understood why he was here.
He was made to be a vessel. A breathing shell to house something far greater—and far more monstrous. Day by day, step by step, he inched closer to becoming the mortal cradle of their so-called deity:
Evaltol. The Herald of Energy.
The guiding god-entity of the Amaterasu cult. And he wasn't the only one. Far from it.
As he moved through the cold, clinical corridors of the main facility, he caught glimpses of the others—hundreds of them. Each subject selected for their rare augments, brutal potential, or unique flaws. Hatred. Beauty. Deformity. Rage. Anything that might be forged into something divine.
This place wasn't a laboratory.
It was a slaughterhouse for souls.
And every one of them had a timer ticking down. A silent countdown to death... or eternal servitude.
He remembered the day they marked him—held down against the sterile table, no anesthesia, no sedation, no mercy. The whine of the focused laser burned into his skin, etching their symbol deep into the small of his back. He didn't scream. Not because it didn't hurt—because he refused to give them the satisfaction.
The mark was seared into him now. Flesh-grown and permanent.
A sun. But not one meant to warm.
Its rays formed by rigid, ninety-degree parallel lines. Its core, a perfect circle inside another—eerily resembling the ancient universal icon for power. On.
It wasn't a symbol of hope. It was a mark of control.
A reminder: You were made to be switched on.
Not to think.
Not to feel.
Only to serve.