The relentless hum of the ventilation system filled the chamber, a mechanical lullaby that never ceased. It pumped artificial fog into the enclosure—thick, silvery clouds laced with elemental mana meant to sedate the beast within. The sound was maddening, an incessant drone that scraped at the nerves like claws on glass.
Yet as the haze began to clear from his mind, a dark amusement flickered in the creature's eyes—a sardonic scoff escaping him at the absurdity of it all.
Imprisoned in this clandestine black site, surrounded by purebloods, mutated half-lings, and relics of forgotten experiments, he was caged behind bulletproof glass like some rare, dangerous animal on display.
His past life—Nel's past life—seemed laughably distant now, memories dissolving like mist at dawn. Who he once was felt like a fading dream, barely tethered to reality.
Then, in a single heartbeat, his mind was flooded with visions—fragments of futures not yet lived, stories and languages belonging to another self.
Each image blazed with startling clarity, overwhelming him with the sensation of living an entirely new existence in the span of a breath.
These memories belonged to someone else, another personality lurking within. They were vivid, each scene unfolding with such precision that he found himself breathless, disoriented, and strangely amused by the grotesque comedy of it all.
Nel had died clinging to foolish ideals of compassion—and for what? Weakness. Why live for others if you cannot protect them? Compassion, he realized bitterly, should be wielded like a weapon, not worn like a badge. What use was nobility if it left you powerless to defend what mattered?
A mocking question echoed through his mind: Why was I ever given a body with a fool? Why did he get to live instead of me? The thought simmered, hot and poisonous, until it boiled over in a silent snarl. If given the chance, who wouldn't choose differently?
With a sardonic tilt of his head, he gazed upward, expecting to see stars from memory's embrace. Instead, only the cold clarity of reinforced glass and concrete greeted him.
The ceiling loomed above, visible through the thinning fog with unnatural sharpness—a cruel reminder of his captivity, but also a testament to the strange lucidity now coursing through him.
This was no ordinary fog. Infused with elemental mana, its density was meant to induce peaceful sleep, yet he could see through it as if his senses had been honed to a razor's edge by the very thing designed to dull them.
Even when Nel had been a vestige holder, forced to rely on inferior ingredients, he'd never experienced such clarity. Now, every detail stood out in stark relief—the glint of steel, the shimmer of containment runes, the faint pulse of magic in the air.
He tried to dismiss the fascination, but it gnawed at him. For the first time, he could think and move with purpose. The last seventeen years had been a waking nightmare, but now, armed with glimpses of the future and knowledge of what a vestige could become, he hungered for power. The promise of freedom thrummed in his veins, intoxicating and irresistible.
He didn't want to belittle Nel's hopes—everyone had their own dreams—but Nel's path was not his. He despised the idea of gaining strength for someone else's sake. Even if offered the chance, he would never degrade his essence just to prove he was different from other purebloods. The notion filled him with contempt—a rejection of everything Nel had cherished.
What disturbed him most was Jenny. Through shared memories, he understood why Nel had fallen for her lies, but the emotion itself was alien, repulsive. Compassion? Friends? Companions? These words were hollow, meaningless in the brutal reality of his world.
Nel's emotions remained a mystery, locked away in memories that captured only sights and sounds, never feelings. In this cold, unforgiving place, sentimentality was a luxury he could not afford. Survival demanded ruthlessness; anything less was weakness.
If only Nel could have seen the world through his eyes, perhaps things would have unfolded differently. But it no longer mattered. Nel was gone—silenced forever. Why should his death weigh on a conscience forged in darkness? Why seek vengeance for a ghost? The people Nel had loved or hated had changed, reshaped by time. They were strangers now, undeserving of bloodshed.
Yet, despite the clarity in his mind and the certainty in his heart, his body betrayed him. Phantom pain still gripped his chest—the memory of a heart torn free, agony that refused to fade. He could empathize with Nel's suffering because he, too, trembled beneath its weight. He felt the sting of loss, the ache of betrayal.
But even in Nel's darkest hour, he had clung to hope, reaching for something beyond the pain—a stubborn idealism that lingered, haunting the one who remained.
If there was one thing that could not be denied about Nel, it was his unwavering conviction. He clung to his beliefs with the tenacity of a drowning man grasping at driftwood—a dedicated fool, indeed. And perhaps, in some twisted corner of his heart, the other envied him for that.
As Sinn sifted through the tapestry of shared memories, he found himself ensnared by a particular image—or was it a feeling? It hovered on the edge of consciousness, hazy and elusive, like the remnants of a dream slipping away with the morning light. Yet it lingered, refusing to let go.
It was the day Nel first became a vestige.
The air around Nel had seemed to hum, charged with an energy that defied description. In that moment of awakening, Nel discovered something extraordinary within his soul—a name, etched deep, both empowering and debilitating.
The name was Nelsinn.
Ironically, the very person Sinn loathed was the one who helped Nel uncover the significance of that name. Someone had left it behind, inscribed in their soul like a brand, so they would never forget the names bestowed upon them by parents long vanished.
Parents who were little more than ghosts to Sinn. But for Nel, it was a revelation so profound that it shattered him. Sinn watched as Nel fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. His body convulsed, his mind fractured, and yet his soul… his soul shined. It radiated with a light so pure it was almost blinding.
But Sinn felt nothing.
Watching these memories replay endlessly, like a cruel loop he couldn't escape, Sinn was filled with revulsion. It sickened him that Nel would shed tears for parents who abandoned them, who left them to rot in this hellish existence. How could Nel cry for them? How could he forgive?
Did Nel truly erase from memory the seventeen years they endured like this? Seventeen years of hunger, of fear, of clawing through darkness just to survive another day. So what if someone came and freed Nel? What about Sinn? What about the scars he carried, the wounds that never healed? Why should he cry? Why should he care about a mother and father who left him to perish?
It was unjust. Utterly unjust.
And yet… why did their shared body still weep? This body was repulsive, weak, and needed to change. Even though rage consumed him, even though he despised them, this world, and all it represented—why did tears still fall? What was this torment?
He paused, breath trembling, before continuing.
Was he truly forsaken? Did they genuinely not want him? Or were there circumstances beyond his understanding? The question gnawed at the edges of his sanity, childish yet persistent. His body mourned while his mind remained cold, detached, unwilling to entertain the possibility of hope.
He detested this body. This weakness. Why couldn't he have lived a better life? Why couldn't he have been someone else? Of all the souls in this vast, uncaring world, why did it have to be him?
He craved no power unless it granted him freedom. Freedom from pain, from the endless cycle of questions and doubts. But this world was no paradise. It was a battlefield, a place where strength was the only currency that mattered. If strength was the sole path to dominion, then so be it. He would claim this world as his own.
To hell with rules and laws. To hell with morality and justice. He would ensure his triumph. He would surpass everyone. Anything that dared to obstruct his path or challenge his convictions would be obliterated, erased from existence as if it never was.
His mind grew quiet, the storm of emotions settling into a cold, steely resolve. No longer tormented by the searing pain of memories or the haunting questions of his lineage, he vowed to unearth the truth. Not for them. Not for anyone else. For himself.
"Nelsinn," he whispered, the name tasting bitter and sweet on his tongue.
Then, with a solemn resolve that burned like fire in his chest, he declared:
"My name will be Sinn."