They say the river flows east of Sylarfall like a silver vein carved into the world's wrist—beautiful, serene, eternal.
But beneath it... the world bleeds.
I woke to pain. Not sudden. Not sharp. No—it was already there, as if I had woken into the middle of my own death. My breath wheezed through cracked lips and the hole in my throat. Blood crusted my eyes shut. My limbs were stone. I couldn't move—not that I wanted to. I was tied to the slab again, leather straps biting deep into my skin. The cold beneath me was metal, rusted and soaked through with the ghosts of other screams.
My name is... Zarek. I think. I chose it, didn't I?
The door hissed open.
Three figures stepped inside, each draped in white lab coats stained with the blood of yesterday. Their steps echoed like drums to an execution.
The first one grinned, swinging a black leather bag like a priest might carry scripture. "Well, if it isn't the boy who named himself," he said, his voice wet with mockery. "Tell me, did you get that little name from the soldiers? Was it whispered into your ear by a dying friend?"
The second man chuckled, wiping his bloodied fingers on a soiled tissue. "Probably a name he still remembers from his past. Looks like the beatings didn't do a proper reset."
The third man said nothing. He just stood in the corner, arms folded, eyes heavy. There was no cruelty in his stare—only a dull, suffocating guilt. Like someone forced to drown kittens for a living.
They didn't wait long. They never did.
Man 1 pulled out a long needle filled with something glowing red—mana in liquid form. It pulsed like a heartbeat, angry and molten. "We'll try this again," he said, sliding the needle into my thigh. The instant it pierced, it felt like lava eating me alive. My veins turned to rivers of fire. I screamed—my voice rasping like broken glass scraping metal.
Then came the torch.
Man 2 grinned as he lit it, the flame dancing in his eyes like he was a child lighting birthday candles. But instead of cake, it was my chest. My skin blistered, peeled, blackened. I thrashed, but the straps held me down.
Bones cracked. Fingers snapped. A scalpel tore through my arm like paper.
They never asked questions first. They liked to warm up.
Eventually, Man 1 leaned in close. His breath smelled of mint and meat. "Tell me the name you gave yourself," he said softly, "and maybe—just maybe—I'll go easy on you."
My mouth was a graveyard of shattered teeth and blood, but I forced the sound out. "Zz... Za... Zarek."
That's when Man 2 stabbed his pen into my mouth.
The ink burst with my blood. He yanked the pen back and smiled like it was a game. "Wrong answer," he said, opening the door. He whistled.
A Dog Varn slithered in.
Its eyes were pale, lips curled over dagger-teeth. Saliva dripped onto the floor like acid, sizzling against the tiles. Without a command, it lunged.
It bit into my leg—deep.
Pain exploded through me. Hot. White. Endless.
I screamed again—no, roared.
Blood gushed like a fountain from my thigh, painting the wall behind me. I felt the bone crack. I felt the muscle tear. I felt myself breaking again.
Man 3 stepped forward, finally moving.
He touched the strange metal device on his wrist—a rune-infused watch. A hologram flickered to life, displaying my profile.
"12 years," he said, voice distant. "An Ordeal. No mana core."
He looked at me, as if disappointed. "Too bad, boy. We're not going to stop until you awaken it."
They kept going. And going. And going.
Time stopped being a thing. Only pain remained.
The next time I woke, I couldn't scream.
I couldn't even move.
I lay there, a shell. A ruin. My right arm was gone. I didn't know when. I didn't care. I had no strength left to cry. My body was a husk—skin drawn so tightly over bone, I could hear it creak when I breathed. My chest rose only because of the machine—a thick tube drilled into my throat, forcing life in and out like I was a puppet made of dying flesh.
Black mana pooled around me. The machines flickered, glitching with each pulse. My veins throbbed with wrongness.
Then, the door opened.
Slowly.
A man entered.
His coat was white. Too white. Too clean. He smiled like he had been waiting for this moment for years. A crackling hum came from his lips—a broken hymn, half-sung, half-muttered.
He knelt beside me. Brushed the blood-caked strands of hair from my face.
"Don't cry," he whispered.
His voice was calm. Gentle. Kind.
I feared it more than the screams.
"Shh… No more weeping, no more questions. Your tears—they insult the heavens. They disgrace the divine mission etched into your marrow. You were chosen, child. You should be grateful."
He rose slowly. His hands folded behind his back. A preacher. A priest. A monster.
"We all want peace, don't we? Safety. Warmth. A full stomach and a soft bed. But peace is not given freely—it is bought. With blood. With suffering. With the bones of boys like you stacked like altars to a better world."
"This is not cruelty. No, cruelty is random. This—this is sacred. Designed. Measured. Beautiful."
He spun once, gesturing to the ceiling like a prophet revealing truth.
"Do you feel the weight in the air? That is the breath of revelation, my child. You are not here by accident. You are not meaningless. You are a sacrifice—yes—but not a wasted one. Your agony is the ink we use to rewrite history. Your screams are the lullabies of an age not yet born."
His voice began to shake with joy.
"Do you think gods were forged in comfort? No. They were tempered in flame. You see this body of yours? This feeble, fragile, twitching sack of flesh? It is raw ore. And we—we—we are the hammers of divinity. We will beat and twist and reshape you until what remains is not a boy, but a god."
"You fear the pain? Good. That means you're still human. But not for long. The moment will come—oh yes, it will—when your cries turn to silence, when your eyes burn with fire not your own, when the old you dies screaming and the new you rises with black wings and endless hunger."
He leaned closer.
"And that—that—will be your rebirth."
"You are a vessel. A bridge. Through your torment, we awaken the oldest truths. The mana that breaks men. The power that whispers madness. The darkness that sings."
"So don't cry. Not today. Not now. Your pain is not meaningless. It is proof that you were worthy to be broken. That you were seen by the stars. And when the world above burns in purity's flame, when all the weak are purged and the strong ascend—you, child, will be remembered. Not for who you were, but for what we turned you into."
His lips brushed my ear.
"The others? They screamed. They begged. They failed. But I—I—I have faith in you."
"So don't cry."
"Smile. You are almost free."
He took one long breath, deep and slow, as if releasing the weight of a holy sermon.
Then, without looking back, he stepped to the door. "Continue, gentlemen. Until his mana core opens, don't stop. Call for me the moment you see it—until then... show him hell."
The door closed with a final hiss and locked from the outside. His footsteps faded into silence.
And then—
I screamed.
It wasn't a sound. It was everything.
It tore out of me like my soul wanted out. Like every nerve had caught fire again, and every piece of me wanted to vanish into the void. They didn't wait. They were already moving, shadows with tools in their hands and hunger in their eyes.
There was no emotion left in the room. No cruelty, no joy, no mercy. Just the sound of flesh breaking. Of magic boiling. Of breath shattering like glass.
I wasn't a boy. I wasn't a name. I was the sound of suffering. I was the scream that never ended.