The echo of his steps faded into a silence that was not just due to the simple absence of sound, but something deeper... more ancient. The black stone door, carved with impossible patterns and with no visible frame, had opened with a guttural whisper when Kael raised both Daedalus Orbs. There was no explosion of magic, no tremor—just that muffled, wet sound, as if the entrails of something alive had accepted him.
In front of him, the threshold revealed a corridor that did not simply belong to the rest of Knossos. It was older. Purer… and much more unsettling.
The walls were made of smooth black metal, polished like a dark mirror. Each section was covered with unknown inscriptions, not carved with tools, but as if they had grown out of the stone itself. Some symbols glowed faintly, others simply vibrated with an almost imperceptible pulse, as if they were breathing. Each one seemed to have a rhythm… a heartbeat.
Kael felt the air shift. Denser. More charged.
He gripped both Daedalus Orbs. They were hot. Not like metal in the sun, but like a fever. They vibrated to the corridor's rhythm, as if they were part of the architecture, of its rhythm… of its memory.
He took the first step.
The ground was soft. Not rough or dusty, but smooth like obsidian, as if no one had stepped on it in centuries. But each of his steps produced a deep, hollow sound that traveled far before fading… and somehow, returned.
He passed under an arch of pure stone. The runes at the entrance lit up red at the contact of his presence. They didn't explode. They didn't attack. They simply recognized him.
Then he saw it.
At the end of the corridor, the room opened with a magnitude that took his breath away. It was impossible to measure with the eyes, and not due to lack of light—the place was illuminated by lines of energy that ran along the walls, pillars, and ceiling like living veins—but because his mind rejected the scale.
In the center, suspended above a pedestal whose base was fused into the very ground, the Core of Knossos.
It wasn't a machine. It wasn't a magic stone. Nor a crystal. Not entirely, at least.
It was a kind of heart.
A colossal organ, made from an unknown alloy, with fragments of crystal that throbbed gently to the rhythm of a muffled pulse. The energy it radiated wasn't ordinary magic. It had no color or shape.
Kael came to a sudden stop.
The pressure was immense. Not on his body… but on his mind.
Every corner of the place seemed to be watching him, observing. Not with eyes… but with attention. The entire Knossos was "alive," and for the first time… it recognized him.
Kael could feel its "gaze" in every small movement he made.
There were dormant mechanisms in the walls—gears the size of houses, black metal pistons, hydraulic towers that extended upward and downward, all motionless… for now. But they weren't rusted. They were resting. Waiting.
Kael said nothing.
He couldn't.
It was as if speaking would be an offense. As if every sound not part of the pulse of the place was forbidden. Every thought not belonging to Knossos… was an intruder.
And even so, he advanced.
Not to explore it.
Not to understand it.
But because the core was calling him.
And in that moment, Kael—who normally analyzed every detail, every symbol, every pattern—paid no attention to the inscriptions, nor to the mechanisms, nor to the design of the room.
He simply walked, guided by an invisible thread.
Because in front of him, at the top of that organic altar, the core pulsed.And with every beat… his soul seemed to beat with it.
The altar where the colossal core floated had no stairs or ramps. It was suspended like an unreachable promise. However, when Kael approached, the ground beneath his feet curved gently upward, like a root awakening to allow him passage. The metal moved, with the sound of shifting mechanisms, creating a ramp.
Kael didn't stop to analyze it. Not this time. Not when he felt his pulse quicken in response to the invisible heartbeat of the core. His body moved on its own.
He ascended.
Each step brought him closer to that impossible thing. That heart suspended in metal and crystal which, by all logic, should not beat. And yet… it did.
It wasn't an organic beat, not blood being pumped. It was something deeper, more primal. The heartbeat of an ancient will, encapsulated in circuits, gears, and forgotten magic. Something that was not alive… but refused to die.
The air changed.
It became thick, saturated with pressure and meaning. Each breath cost him more than the last. The edges of his vision rippled as if the world itself hesitated to maintain its form so near a place where time, logic, and reason bent. As if reality itself could not endure something so old… so vast… so important.
And then, it happened.
An imperceptible shift at first. A vibration, a slight pulse from the suspended core. Lights began to emerge from the pedestal. They were not aggressive or threatening. They were soft, warm, like the reflection of a memory slowly waking upon recognizing a familiar presence —but they did not react to him, not directly— but to the orbs he carried in his hands.
The crystals scattered throughout the room —crystals Kael hadn't even noticed before— began to glow. They didn't float. They were embedded in the walls, camouflaged by layers of metal that now retracted with organic motion, like eyelids opening after a long slumber.
And then, an image.
A figure was projected from one of the nearest crystals. It was tall, hooded, wrapped in ancient robes that seemed to float over a body made of mist. Its face could not be seen, but a pair of red eyes burned beneath the hood like embers from an extinguished bonfire.
Its voice was not a voice. Not human. Not divine. It was a recording that seemed to come from a soul that had already decided the weight it would impose upon those who bore its lineage.
"To you… who bears my bloodline…" —the figure said, its tone deep, calm, without emotion— "If you are here… it is because the impulse in your blood… has finally awakened. The final inheritance of the Daedalus lineage drew you here."
Kael felt a chill run down his back.
"Here lies the core of my creation. The seed. The origin. Here… it all began."
One by one, the room's crystals began to activate. Each displayed a different image —ancient recordings, sealed memories. Impossible views of Knossos from unknown angles. Maps that drew and erased themselves. Diagrams of impossible gears. Arcane runes floating in the air.
And among those visions… people.
Children. Men. Women.
Building.
Digging.
Crawling through stones. Carrying metal beams. Carving symbols with bloodied hands.
Some sang. Others cried. And all of them… worked. As if something compelled them. As if something stronger than will dictated them to continue, step by step, shaping Knossos.
Kael couldn't look away. The atmosphere was dense, almost sacred. Each image unfolding before him was like a fragment of a story not written in ink, but in sweat, bone, and sacrifice.
Then, another image.
Staffs.
Artifacts carved with unknown runes. Their use…
Hypnotize. Control. Subjugate.
Monsters from the original Dungeon, subdued by the will of these objects, were forced to carry stones, dig tunnels, raise structures. They weren't allies. They weren't workers. They were tools.
Forced to build a work that seemed to have no end.
"This structure…" —the figure continued— "was not conceived as a prison. Nor as a weapon. No. It was… my dream. My attempt to surpass the original Dungeon."
Kael felt his heart beat faster.
"An incomplete work. A fragment of something greater. But still… the beginning of everything."
And then, the figure slowly raised an incorporeal hand.
"I didn't do it for glory. Nor by imposition. Nor because someone asked me to. I did it… because that's how my desire was born. From the moment I descended into the Dungeon for the first time, I knew I had to surpass it. Not destroy it. Surpass it. Create something that equaled it in greatness… and surpassed it. To prove that mortals… can also build eternities."
His voice, for the first time, showed something close to emotion.
"But I knew I wouldn't have time. That I wasn't eternal. That my flesh would rot before seeing the end of my work. And that's why… I did it."
The crystals glowed faintly. As if they were listening.
"I took my blood. My heritage. My children… and all who carried my bloodline. I marked them with my obsession. With my impulse. I gave them not a life… but a need. The need to continue. To build. To perfect. To never stop."
A pause. Dense. Painful.
But not regretful.
"That's why… if you are here… it's because you also carry that fire within. Even if you don't understand it. Even if you don't want it."
Kael clenched his fists.
The room was alive. But not like the Dungeon. Not with biological life. But with a will engraved in fire. With the determination of a man who had condemned all his blood… to a dream that might never be completed.
The crystals blinked one last time.
One by one, as if they had fulfilled their purpose, they began to shut off. The light that enveloped the room faded with a whisper. It wasn't abrupt. It wasn't violent. It was… natural. Like the closing of eyes that had nothing more to show.
The projected figure faded, leaving behind a trail of energy that dissipated like dust in the wind.
And then, silence returned.
But it wasn't the same silence that had greeted him.
This one was denser. Heavier. Fuller.
As if the words spoken hadn't completely left. As if they remained suspended in the air, repeating themselves in the corners of the room again and again, with a voiceless echo.
Kael stood still for a few seconds. Staring at the place where the figure had been. The core still floated in the center, undisturbed, pulsing with its strange inner glow. It no longer shone with intensity. But it still beat. As if breathing in dreams.
As if it were waiting for him.
Kael didn't get any closer. He pressed his lips together, and then looked away.
That's when he noticed it.
One side of the chamber, almost hidden by a semicircular structure —like a natural extension of the core— revealed something he hadn't seen before. An opening. Small. Barely visible. As if the wall itself had silently retracted while he was hypnotized by the projection.
A room.
Smaller.
Darker.
Kael frowned, hesitating for a moment. Then he turned his head one last time toward the core. His gaze crossed with the pulsating heart created by Daedalus. He said nothing. But in his chest, the emotion was clear —Disgust… and a slight hint of respect.
"An eternal dream... or a curse in disguise?" —he whispered to himself.
And then, he headed toward the side entrance.
Each step in that direction felt heavier. As if the very air resisted. But it didn't stop him. It only warned.
The corridor was narrow. Barely two meters long, with black walls etched with smooth lines that seemed to guide him, like the arteries of a sleeping creature. There was no light, but Kael didn't need it. He could see clearly even in absolute darkness.
The passage opened into a circular room. Not as vast as the central core, but still imposing. A space hidden from any gaze, yet carefully preserved by time. It was a chamber that breathed history… and death.
What Kael found inside left him breathless.
No traps. No mechanisms. Just… a workshop.
A secret sanctuary.
At first glance, it looked like an abandoned workspace. But every object, every surface, screamed otherwise. It was an intimate place. Personal. As if the very architect of Knossos had used it until his last breath.
The walls were covered in marks, engravings, and equations that curved like veins of knowledge. In the center, a metal table full of tools stood like a technical altar —worn chisels, tiny crystals, vials with dried sediment, corroded tubes, and rolled-up blueprints covered in dust that crackled like old paper when moved by the slightest breeze.
Kael approached, intrigued. Some diagrams were written in a language he didn't recognize —obsessive strokes, like technical runes winding around impossible figures. Even for him, they weren't easy to understand. The symbols seemed to shift if he looked at them too long. As if they didn't want to be understood.
But his attention was stolen almost immediately.
At the back of the room… was a figure.
Seated.
Motionless.
A skeleton.
Covered by robes that must once have been noble, now tattered, eaten away by humidity and the passage of countless years. The body, reduced to dry bones, rested on a simple black stone throne. It sat upright, as if even death had not broken its resolve.
Kael stopped. Something inside him tensed.
He knew instantly.
"Daedalus…"
The creator of Knossos.
The atmosphere was frozen. As if time itself had stopped in that place. To ensure that no one would desecrate the tomb of the legendary architect.
Kael approached respectfully. He touched nothing. Only observed.
The skeleton looked… at peace. There were no marks of struggle. No signs of desperation. As if he had known his body would die, but his work… would continue.
And it did.
Through his descendants.
Through Dix.
Through Knossos.
"Is this what you wanted...?" —he whispered, voice hoarse— "For someone else to finish your dream? For someone else to get lost in it… like you did?"
He knew those words wouldn't reach any ears. Daedalus's soul had left long ago. But even so, something inside him needed to say it. As if the dead could still listen when words came with truth.
The walls flickered.
It was faint. An imperceptible glow, as if Knossos —or what remained of its creator's consciousness— had heard him. Not as a spirit. But as an echo. A memory. A legacy.
Kael stepped back. Not out of fear. But out of respect.
He looked around one last time —the scattered blueprints, the tools, the skeleton of a man who dared to dream of surpassing the gods.
And then… he turned away.
He took nothing. Stole no knowledge. Profaned nothing.
He only carried with him the memory. And the weight.
But he didn't return the way he came.
As he moved away from the builder's chamber, he noticed one of the side tunnels, hidden behind a half-closed panel, led to another narrower room. He opened it carefully… and what he saw inside chilled his blood.
It was a laboratory.
A more clinical room. More sinister. Filled with surgical tools, rusted trays, sealed jars, and dried blood stains stuck to the floor. The stench wasn't ancient—instead, it was recent. Traces of death still lingered… of things that never should have been.
At the center of the room… a metal stretcher. Old. Cold. Unsettlingly clean.
And on it… a figure lay motionless, wrapped beneath a white sheet that didn't quite hide its silhouette. It was perfectly placed. Too perfectly.
Kael stopped.
The air around him felt stagnant. The silence was so dense that he could hear the beating of his own heart echoing through the metallic walls.
He couldn't look away. Something about its shape disturbed him in a way that words could not explain. It had human proportions, yes… at least in appearance. A torso. Two arms. Two legs. A head. Everything in its place. But there was something more. Something unsettling.
A perfect symmetry. Or rather… too perfect. As if someone had tried to replicate the human form using mathematical molds and metal instead of flesh and bone. The curves were smooth, measured, geometric. There were no imperfections. No flaws. Every contour beneath the sheet held an artificial elegance that chilled the blood.
An attempt to replicate life… without understanding its essence.
And even without evidence. Without having touched it. Without even having seen a single fragment of what lay beneath the cloth…
A name pushed its way into his mind.
Not as a thought.
As a sentence.
Dix Perdix.
Only him.
Only someone like him could have made something like this.
Kael felt his chest tighten, as if an invisible hand had clenched around his heart. His throat dried. Everything in this place—the tools, the documents, the air—smelled of Dix. Not his body, but his madness. His need to create and control. His hollow ambition disguised as purpose.
There was no doubt. Daedalus could have been many things—a genius, obsessive, even a broken and mad man… but not this. Never this. He built to transcend. Not to possess. Not to dehumanize. He never meddled in these things.
But this…
This was Dix.
A reflection of his rotted soul. An extension of his diseased mind. A legacy not of lands or wealth… but of desperation and madness.
This laboratory… this stretcher… were his throne and his altar. He didn't experiment to learn.
He experimented to play god.
Kael didn't move yet. He didn't approach. He didn't lift the sheet. But he knew he would.
Very soon.
Because he needed to know what was beneath. Because something deep within him already sensed it.
And whatever was waiting for him there…
Was going to change everything.
But he didn't rush. First, he had to figure out what was here in the first place.
His instinct screamed at him to approach, to uncover what was beneath that blood-stained sheet… but his mind knew he needed understanding first. He needed context. To know what this was. What purpose it served. What Dix had been trying to create.
So he turned on his heel and made his way to the right corner of the room. An overflowing desk, surrounded by shelves, awaited him. The piles of documents were stacked without order or logic. Thick folders tied with cords, loose sheets, ink-stained pages, and a smell of old paper that filled the air.
Kael began to sort through them.
Each one bore the seal of what he already feared.
Dix Perdix.
Each page seemed to whisper his name. Handwritten reports in jagged, almost sick strokes. Transcriptions of orders. Test records. All signed or with direct references to him. A confirmation more brutal than any word—this laboratory wasn't a standard Knossos facility. No.
It was his sanctuary.
The personal den of a madman.
Many of the documents were technical reports. Information collected by Dix's subordinates: dates, locations, names of victims, biological analyses, resistance charts. A cruel sequence of data that spoke more of violence than science.
There were reports on the capture of Xenos, many with details noted with excessive precision. Failures in the adaptation of magical staves. Physical and mental reactions of the creatures to issued commands. Pain thresholds. Response times. Psychological break percentages.
Each sheet was a dagger to the soul.
Kael understood what he was reading before finishing the first batch of papers.
The magical staves inherited by Daedalus's descendants—originally designed to manipulate ordinary monsters—didn't work on Xenos. Not as expected. They were different. They were more than monsters.
They were conscious.
They were free.
And that freedom could not be tamed.
Dix, in response, redesigned them.
He created a new generation of staves. More complex. Darker. More inhuman. Artifacts fused with forgotten techniques and broken spells. Arcane formulas of domination combined with mental engravings of dissociation. They didn't just aim to control the will.
They aimed to erase identity.
Not to turn Xenos into slaves… but into soulless dolls.
Into empty puppets.
Kael clenched his teeth. Closed his eyes. He felt a bitter heat rise along his neck. His pulse pounded in his temples. His whole body burned with a rage that could no longer be called cold or calculated.
But he kept going.
Because he had to.
On the lower shelves, he found scattered mentions of Evilus. Fragments, loose lines, coded notes. Nothing direct or extensive, but enough to trace a pattern. There were operational orders, instructions for relocating members, proposals to settle permanently within Knossos, ideas to forge alliances with minor families and underworld influences.
And among all that… a note. Handwritten.
Dry. Cold. Cynical.
"The Loki Familia continues to interfere. Relocate before they suspect."
Kael lowered the document with a tremble in his fingers.
Evilus… still lived. He was one of the few who knew.
Like a sleeping plague. Changing name, face, form. Waiting. Watching. Adapting.
The war against them wasn't over. It had been a pause. A breath. A mistake.
And then… his eyes fell on something different.
A solitary folder.
Separated from the rest, as if no one wanted to touch it. Its cover was intact. The ink, fresh. The paper, without a single speck of dust or sign of wear. It didn't have the old scent of the other documents. It hadn't been forgotten. Someone had left it there not long ago.
Kael took it in both hands, feeling a strange weight in his fingers. The title, written in clear, neat, deliberate handwriting, seemed almost innocent in its neutrality.
"Project Marionette — Status: Incomplete. Continuing the experiment is not recommended."
He remained still.
He read the line once. Twice. Three times.
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, as if even the walls held their breath. He didn't know exactly what the project was about… but something in those words made him tremble more than anything else he had read so far.
More than the reports on the magical staves.
More than the relocation orders for Evilus.
More than the inhuman experiments on the Xenos.
There was something… personal in that document. Something different.
Kael opened the folder. And each line was a punch to the gut. Cold. Precise. Repugnant. The "Project Marionette" wasn't a simple control experiment. It wasn't about dominating another's mind or breaking an enemy's will.
It was about transferring a curse.
Or at least, an attempt.
Dix, chained by the cursed legacy of the Daedalus bloodline—bound by his lineage to eternally build and expand the Knossos—had dedicated most of his life to finding a way out. He tried everything—arcane rituals, alchemical formulas, runic surgeries, cursed seals, and even the darkest arts his ancestor had hidden. Each attempt consumed him a bit more. And yet… he failed.
Again and again.
Apparently, in his desperation, he had managed only a single breakthrough—to slightly reduce the uncontrollable impulse that drove him to keep building. Just that. A small breath in the middle of the flood. A momentary truce. But it wasn't enough.
It didn't free him. It didn't save him.
So, cornered by his own bloodline, he came to a single conclusion.
If he couldn't destroy the curse… then he had to pass it on to someone else.
Not redeem himself. Not be liberated. Transfer it.
As if the weight of centuries of obsession, blood, and madness could be stripped away like a filthy garment… and placed on someone else's shoulders.
But he couldn't just pass it to anyone. The recipient had to meet impossible requirements—have a direct bond to his blood, but not carry the same curse. They had to be a descendant of Daedalus… without being a descendant of Daedalus. Possess the essence… without the damnation.
And thus the project was born.
A magical doll. A chimera forged with forbidden techniques, arcane materials, and invaluable components. A soulless body, built to host a consciousness. A perfect creation, made with an obsession as sickening as it was desperate.
And the core of it all… the key element.
Barca Perdix.
Dix had scavenged every trace of the Daedalus bloodline in his body. Organs. Bones. Enormous amounts of blood preserved through ancient seals. And he had even been collecting his own blood, for years, preparing for when the time came to execute the project.
All to create a vessel.
One that could absorb the curse. That could contain what he no longer wanted to bear. To place the burden on another, the curse that was consuming him.
But even with all his cruelty, even with the help of Evilus experts—something failed.
Kael read the test reports —failed attempts to transfer souls, incomprehensible procedures with enchantments and arcane runes. At some point, they had used an orphaned girl —her name wasn't specified, only a subject number— and apparently, after much effort, they had managed to complete the transfer.
But something… didn't work.
…The "living" doll did not wake up. It fell into a state of complete coma. No heartbeat. No consciousness. An empty shell.
Dix was furious.
Everything indicated that the process had been a success. There was no margin for error. Every detail, every part of the artificial body had been forged from the most sacred —and cursed— material he possessed.
The remains of his half-brother.
The metal organs weren't imitations. They were transmutations. Exact recreations, molded from real fragments —hardened tissue, nerves embalmed in enchantments, bones fused with Mithril, Adamantite, and countless forbidden and priceless materials. The heart, a blood-red crystalline gem, had been made using Barca's real heart as its core. Every fiber had a purpose. Every structure obeyed the impulse to replicate —or rather perpetuate— the Daedalus inheritance.
Even without the blood, the doll should have responded.
Moved a finger. Vibrated. Trembled. Emitted a sound. Anything.
But nothing happened.
And that, for Dix, was humiliation.
Not just because of the failure. But because he didn't understand why it had failed. The soul transfer —though brutal and unethical— had been completed. The orphan girl's soul, stripped of everything, had been forced into the body of metal and runes. But the result was… absolute silence.
Dix didn't understand.
And that ignorance led him to anger.
He knew the next step was to inject the blood of his lineage —Daedalus's blood, his own, and his brother's— into the doll to fully activate the resonance between body and soul. But he didn't dare.
It was too risky.
Not because he cared about the girl's life, or feared something going wrong with the soul. No. His fear was more mundane. More petty.
The blood.
Daedalus's blood was limited. Irreplaceable.
Despite having several jars full, the collection process had been hard, painful, slow. For years, he had drained his own body in small quantities. He had even extracted —almost obsessively— every possible drop from his brother's corpse when he killed him.
He had plenty, yes.
But it was not infinite.
And if the procedure failed… all that blood would be lost.
So he stopped the experiment. He froze it.
Abandoned the doll.
Left its perfect body, dormant, covered in inert runes and a trapped soul, locked in a room without light, without warmth, without meaning.
In the very room Kael now stood.
The project that was supposed to free him from the curse, that was meant to transfer his damnation to another artificial being crafted with the very heritage of his bloodline… had stalled.
And then, as he did every time his impatience overwhelmed him, Dix lashed out at everything around him.
He struck his subordinates. Abused the emissaries of Evilus. Called them useless, parasites, ignorant of true magic. Cursed them for not understanding what he was trying to achieve. For not being able to explain why the doll didn't react. For not being able to tell him what was missing.
So… he diverted his attention.
He looked away from the abyss he had dug himself.
He abandoned the research.
And returned to war.
He redoubled his efforts against the Loki Familia. Intensified the persecution of the Xenos. Reorganized his spy network, infiltrated deeper into Orario's underworld alleys. Ordered the mass production of new control staves.
He poured his time, his rage, his frustration… into the only thing that could yield immediate results —combat.
And Project Marionette… was left behind.
Not because he considered it a total failure —not entirely— from time to time he returned to this room. He reviewed previous reports. Jotted down observations in the margins. Sometimes he even brought new jars of blood. The document Kael held was evidence of the last time Dix had returned. One more attempt. One filled with doubts. With accumulated frustration.
But there was something Dix couldn't endure.
Seeing his most ambitious work… stagnant.
Locked in that doll with life, but no reaction. No movement. No purpose. Each visit was a cruel reminder of the years he had invested. Of the blood he had spilled. Of the lines he had crossed. That despite everything… he had not succeeded.
Kael kept reading.
The last page was stained in one corner. As if it had been gripped too tightly. As if the ink had mixed with something else. Blood? Rage? Defeat?
And at the end… there was no conclusion.
No seal, no signature, no technical closing.
Just a line.
A phrase scrawled furiously in the bottom margin of the page, written in faster, tighter, almost trembling handwriting.
"This is not failure. It is ignorance disguised as failure."
A bitter sentence. A silent scream. Self-deception… or the seed of a deeper truth.
Kael closed the document slowly.
The air around him was no longer just stagnant.
It was heavy.
He clenched his teeth.
He couldn't avoid it anymore.
The mixture of revulsion and intrigue pushed him. That curiosity, born from doubt, from the obsession seeping through every line of the report, dragged him toward the center of the room.
Toward the table.
He took a step. Then another.
Every sound, every echo of his steps resonated with a different gravity, as if the room could feel him. As if it knew what he was about to do.
He stopped in front of it. The metal stretcher had a dull shine, aged by time and the emotions deposited upon it.
And on the stretcher… the white sheet.
It wasn't truly white. Not completely. It was stained red at the edges, dried and oxidized blood. There was a terrible solemnity in its stillness.
Kael crouched slightly.
His hand trembled as it extended.
He touched the sheet.
First, he felt the cold. Then the rigid texture. He closed his eyes for just an instant, held his breath… and then, pulled it away.
The sound was almost imperceptible. Fabric sliding over a dead surface.
And as it was revealed… he saw it.
It was… a doll.
But not just any doll. Not a wooden puppet made for theater with invisible strings, nor a high-tech combat automaton. No, it was something far more unsettling.
It was a body. Not human, but not simply mechanical either. It was a form created with an almost unnatural precision, as if it had been designed with a single absolute purpose… and without room for error.
It had no defined face. No sex. No name. Its surface was entirely metallic, smooth like glass but hard as steel, without pores or imperfections, with segmented plates that vaguely imitated the human silhouette without delving into the details of reality.
The torso, the limbs, even the head were perfectly sculpted, as if a mad sculptor had wanted to give humanity to a statue. And yet, it didn't seem incomplete. It felt… deliberate.
And among those plates, carved with cruel elegance, were the runes.
Arcane inscriptions that ran along the entire body, like a second nervous system etched in symbols. They extended across the arms, chest, neck, legs. Some glowed with a faint gleam, others pulsed slowly, as if breathing, and a few seemed extinguished… asleep, but not dead.
Kael observed them as if each stroke contained a different story. A spell. A scream.
The air around him had grown heavier, as if even space itself knew that what lay on that stretcher was not normal.
He took another step, not averting his gaze from the "face" without eyes. Because that's what was there—two clean, deep slots where eyes should have been.
And Kael knew instantly. He didn't need to measure, didn't need to confirm.
The slots matched perfectly with the Daedalus Orbs he carried. Was she made for them? Or were they made for her?
A shiver ran down his spine. The doll's chest was open—literally. The front plates of the torso were slid to the sides, revealing her interior.
And what Kael found there was as fascinating as it was disturbing. Finely connected gears joined what appeared to be metallic organs. Silver tubes ran through the interior like empty arteries. Translucent capsules contained dark, dense liquids.
Everything was precise, symmetrical, harmonious… and terrifying. At the center of that biomechanical system, right where the heart should be, a red gem shone, embedded like an artificial heart. It didn't beat… but something inside it seemed to move.
Kael swallowed. His pulse pounded.
But then he smelled it.
The air changed. It was no longer just cold and dense. There was another scent. Coppery. Metallic. Familiar.
He turned his head and saw it.
At one side of the room, almost aligned like an offering, were dozens of jars. Large. Medium. Some protected with magical seals that still glowed. Others simply closed with glass stoppers or hardened wax seals.
All contained the same thing—blood. Dark, dense, almost black. Preserved with utmost care. And yet, Kael felt it instantly—it was dead. Without vital energy.
But his body recognized it.
That blood… wasn't from just anyone. It was Dix's. Or rather, from the Daedalus bloodline. He knew it by instinct. Not by sight. Not by smell.
But by an internal resonance. He didn't feel hunger. He didn't feel desire. Just a deep discomfort. It was old blood, stolen, distilled, desecrated.
Dix had collected it obsessively for years. Part his. Part from the corpse of his half-brother. Part from those who, years ago, had also carried the same curse.
Perhaps buried descendants who were unearthed to extract the last of what their blood could offer. It was abominable.
And also logical. If he wanted to rid himself of his damnation, he needed to replicate the traits of his lineage. To the last drop.
Kael slowly turned back to the doll.
The large "D" on her forehead glowed faintly, like a final vestige of the will of the one who created her. Was it the signature of her creator? Or just another condition the doll needed to fulfill?
And he understood.
With his whole being.
What lay before him was not just a doll. It was an experiment. A prison. A body with no other purpose than… to receive a curse. It was a desperate, brutal, sick attempt to transmit a legacy… not of power, but of damnation.
Everything. Every document, every blueprint, every spell carved into the walls of this laboratory—all of it converged here. In this metallic figure, without identity, without will, without freedom.
Everything Dix was, everything he inherited, everything he couldn't reject… was meant to end here. If not in him… then in her.
And Kael felt it. Deep in his chest. It wasn't just a creation. It wasn't a machine. It wasn't a mistake. It was a cage. A marionette with strings still asleep, waiting for someone—anyone—to pull them so her function could begin. A prison, built to house a soul that couldn't resist.
A soul… awaiting its sentence.
Kael stood motionless for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the metallic body before him. Then, without fully understanding why, without having a clear reason beyond a sensation tangled in his gut, he stepped forward. Extended his hand. Carefully placed one orb into the left eye socket. Then the other. They fit perfectly.
A dense silence fell over the room.
He waited.
Nothing.
The doll didn't react. The orbs glowed briefly… and then went dark again. The body remained motionless, inert. Just as Dix's report had said.
Kael's shoulders slumped, a shadow of disappointment crossing his expression. He had held out hope—a vague, absurd hope—that something would happen. A spark. A movement. A sign. But nothing came.
He reached for the first orb, ready to remove it. He still needed them. Knossos had not yet revealed all its secrets. And then… he stopped.
An idea, absurd and wild, crept into his mind. An intuition. A feeling he couldn't ignore.
What was this thing missing?
Why was it still asleep?
Then he understood.
There was no vital energy.
Not in the body. Not in the jars. Not in the core that glowed faintly like a heart trapped under glass.
Kael had seen that energy before. He had felt it flowing in Marie, in Ranye. In himself when he used his abilities, when he drank blood, when he touched something truly alive. That spark. That primal fire that neither alchemy nor magic could replicate.
And that doll… didn't have it.
Not a trace.
Not in the metal organs that mimicked biology with grotesque precision. Not in the crystal heart embedded in her chest. Not in the complex enchantments etched across her body.
Everything was perfectly designed, everything was in place… except for the essential.
Kael stood in silence, staring at the motionless figure. Then, for the first time, he thought of injecting his own energy into her.
But that was the real problem.
He didn't possess vital energy. Not the white, pure, luminous energy he had returned to Marie days ago. Inside Kael, something different stirred. Dark. Deep. Alive, yes… but strange. As if it were a shadow with hunger, a will without form that shared his soul but not its origin.
What would happen if he used it?
What effect would it have?
Would it awaken the doll… or corrupt her entirely?
He shook his head. He didn't fully understand what that energy was. Sometimes it felt like an extension of himself. Other times… like something that was just using him as a vessel. There was no guarantee. And he didn't have much. Using it was a risk.
And yet… his instinct told him to do it.
And so far, it had never failed him.
He remembered Dix's notes. The project was ready. Only one step remained. A risky step. A leap of faith.
Dix hadn't dared to take it. Because if he failed… he would lose everything.
The blood.
The only component that couldn't be replaced. The blood of the Daedalus bloodline. Slowly extracted. Rationed. Collected over years. His. His dead half-brother's. Ancestors whose corpses were shamelessly desecrated. It was all here. In the aligned jars, preserved with enchantments.
But without vital energy. Cold. Mute. Incomplete.
Kael clenched his teeth.
If it failed, he would lose it all. He would never be able to try again. It was a finite resource. Irreplaceable.
But… what good would it do to leave it there?
It had no purpose. No value.
He couldn't even absorb it. It was like dry mud. Like a soundless echo. It didn't strengthen him. It didn't nourish him. It was blood only in appearance. Empty inside.
So, with silent determination, he approached the jars.
He opened one.
The smell hit immediately. Strong. Rancid. Like oxidized metal mixed with something older. Something he couldn't identify.
Kael endured it. Didn't even blink.
One by one, he uncorked the rest. The room filled with that thick aroma. Heavy. Repulsive. Nothing like the intoxicating sweetness of Marie's blood… or the vibrant intensity of Ranye's.
This was… like liquid corpse.
But still, Kael didn't stop.
He extended a hand.
And then, his energy flowed.
Thin. Dark. A shadow slipping across his skin like a second blood. From his fingers, slender lines extended, touching the surface of the jars.
The contact was immediate.
And so was the change.
The blood, which before had seemed dead, reacted. Vibrated. Stirred. As if a spark had shot through it from within.
Kael felt it.
Not just saw it. Felt it.
As if, in that moment, all that blood connected with him. As if the centuries of obsession. The cursed generations. The Daedalus bloodline's curse itself… reacted.
Kael closed his eyes.
And the blood… obeyed him.
It flowed.
Rose into the air, as if responding to a silent command. A sphere formed above the doll. Red. Dense. Massive. Fed by the jars that gradually emptied.
And when everything was ready…
When not a single drop remained outside…
The blood fell.
And with it… the awakening began.