Jayar froze.
"What…?"
The sound came out hoarse, uncertain, but the forest didn't answer. It rippled—or maybe it was only his mind, split between reality and something else. He felt it in his bones: a voice, but not foreign. Not hostile. Not external.
It was his voice.
And yet… not his.
Deeper, older. Weighted with centuries, perhaps with entire lives. A shadow of a version of himself that had existed somewhere, somewhen, in a place now lost. It spoke not in words, but in presence—like a truth carved into his marrow.
The mark seared. Sudden. Violent. The pain was white-hot, unbearable. Jayar collapsed to his knees, palms sinking into the damp soil. He gasped for breath as the world spun, the edges of his vision burning red.
And then it came.
Flashes. Not images but constructs. Diagrams unraveling before his eyes. Mathematics, precise and cruel, written in a language he didn't know but somehow recognized. Geometry folding into impossible fractals, expanding into infinity, collapsing again into points of light. Symbols overlaid themselves over his thoughts—etched into memories, fears, desires. Some felt alien. Others—horrifyingly intimate, as though they had been waiting inside him all along.
Jayar clawed at the ground, teeth gritted. "This is…" he choked, his voice cracking between agony and awe. "…knowledge."
The mark pulsed once.
A heartbeat of crimson light.
Then—nothing.
Silence.
The forest pressed down on him. No wind. No birds. Even the stream nearby seemed to hush itself, as though the world had paused, watching. Jayar's chest heaved, his breath rough, his mind blazing with afterimages.
Slowly, painfully, he lifted his head. His vision cleared. His thoughts did not.
"You're not a weapon," he whispered, voice barely audible, yet certain. "You're a… system."
The silence swallowed the words whole. There was no reply. No voice, no pulsing light, no hidden revelation. The mark had given him only fragments—and left him adrift in the aftermath.
He stayed crouched there for a long moment, letting the forest's silence seep into him. His fingers trembled. Sweat soaked his shirt. But finally, he pushed himself upright, his legs unsteady.
The mark throbbed faintly against his palm, not with pain now but with presence. Watching. Waiting.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice rough but resolute. "Then I'll learn. On my own terms."
Because now he understood: the mark was not a gift. It was a challenge. It would never hand him power. It demanded comprehension. It demanded growth. He would have to earn the right to wield what it contained.
That realization struck deeper than the pain had. And somehow, it steadied him.
Hours later, when the fever in his blood had cooled, he searched the Dome's network for Kiwooin. His console flickered to life, projecting the usual cascading data streams. Jayar expected silence, maybe hidden files—something encrypted, dangerous.
Instead, the screen resolved into something absurd.
Kiwooin. Alive. Smiling. Streaming a live broadcast. Not a secret transmission, not a shadowy ritual. A cycling race. Amateur competitors, cheering crowds, sunlight glinting off spokes as wheels spun across the track.
There he was. The man who had branded him. The one who spoke of clans that rewrote the Nexus. The figure who whispered about power beyond the Dome's control—now laughing freely, waving to the camera as though nothing in the world were heavier than the simple joy of racing.
Jayar blinked. Disbelief cracked into an incredulous laugh.
"Of course," he murmured, shaking his head. "A man living a full life—that's Kiwooin. Not me."
His voice dropped, half-bitter, half in awe. "Not yet."
The laughter faded quickly. He sat in the glow of the projection, watching Kiwooin pedal with effortless grace, as though he'd never spoken of cults or power or marks that burned. The contrast gnawed at him, sharp and merciless.
The mark on his hand pulsed faintly.
Jayar leaned back against the rough bark of a tree, eyes fixed on the screen. A whisper lingered in his mind—not the older voice, not Kiwooin's, but his own, quiet and insistent.
"How?"
The question hung in the night, unanswered.
And Jayar knew he would chase that answer, no matter where it led.
Jayar's fingers had barely touched the keyboard when the terminal flickered.
At first it seemed like nothing more than a technical hiccup, but then the glow of the screen shifted, deepening in shade, like a living creature inhaling, preparing to speak.
The cursor blinked once. Twice.
And then, without command, words began to spill across the display.
Recommendations based on your search:
• Cursed Mark
• Mark of the Ootsoro Clan
• Mark of Orgich
• Second Stage of the Mark
• Mark KL'son
• Mark Klblood
• Non-human compatibility
• Sealed Nexus activation
• Fulchiva Mark (unavailable)
• Mark fusion: irreversible loss of Self — documented cases
• Fragmentation of consciousness at Stage 3
• Mark as a sentient entity
• Bearers erased from registries
• Conversations with the Mark: unverified reports
Jayar froze, his hand still hovering over the keys. He hadn't typed any of those queries. He hadn't asked for any of this. And yet the terminal had answered—as though it already knew what he sought.
It felt wrong.
Not just a malfunction. Not just some quirk of code.
It was as if the system wasn't a system at all.
It was looking at him.
He swallowed, suddenly aware of the stillness of the room, the low hum of the old electronics now sounding like a voice beneath the silence. His reflection wavered faintly in the monitor's glass, pale and uncertain, like a man standing before a mirror that didn't quite belong to him.
"What the hell is this…" he whispered, his throat dry.
His eyes traced the list again, each word hitting with the weight of recognition and dread.
Cursed Mark. That was obvious—he bore it now, etched into his very skin.
But the next froze him. Ootsoro Clan. That name was never spoken lightly. Even in the Dome's deepest archives, references to Ootsoro were fragments, scraps, and rumors. To see it here, written clean and undeniable, was like staring into a ghost's eyes.
Then another—Mark of Orgich.
That was no mere entry. Orgich was a myth, a name from stories told to frighten initiates. A shadow cast by something that had long since disappeared—if it had ever existed at all. And yet here it was, as if fact, side by side with Ootsoro.
Jayar's pulse quickened.
And then—Mark Klblood. He had seen fragments of that name once before, buried in some half-corrupted registry, never explained. To see it spelled clearly now made his stomach turn cold.
His hand scrolled down, almost without his consent.
Non-human compatibility.
Irreversible loss of Self.
Fragmentation of consciousness.
Each phrase felt like a blade drawn across his thoughts. His vision swam. For a moment he wasn't sure if he was still in the room or if the words themselves had pulled him into some deeper, darker corridor of meaning.
And then he saw it:
Mark as a sentient entity.
Conversations with the Mark: unverified reports.
His breath stopped.
It wasn't just a mark. It wasn't just power.
The brand on his skin might speak.
Jayar leaned closer, his eyes wide, his reflection swallowed whole by the black around the text.
This wasn't a random catalogue of data. It wasn't a list generated by some Dome algorithm.
No—this was a map. A system. A record of something that lived beneath the Dome, older and more intricate than any archive had dared admit.
And he had just triggered it.
Jayar leaned back, heart pounding, forcing himself to breathe. His mind raced.
All of it—the Ootsoro, the myths of Orgich, the bloodlines whispered of in hushed voices—they were not separate fragments, scattered across time. They were threads of the same design. A mechanism hidden in plain sight. And by searching for Kiwooin, he had touched it. He had set it in motion.
The monitor glowed silently. Waiting.
Jayar closed his fist, feeling the mark on his hand stir faintly in answer.
The terminal flickered again, as if trying to grab his attention.
One of the entries changed right before his eyes:
• (updated) Mark active. Owner: Jayar Flynn.(unverified)
Jayar's mouth went dry.
Jayar: "They know."
[Sealed Nexus activation]
The system issued the necessary recommendation for Jayar.
System:
[You have activated the Nexus. The seal is unlocked. Progress to the next phase is not possible until full understanding is achieved. It is recommended to explore the mark to reveal the full picture.]
Jayar didn't know what to expect. He glanced at the screen again and typed in the search bar:
"Fulchiva Clan's Mark"
The system responded instantly:
Search Recommendations:
• "Fulchiva Clan's Mark"
• "Monrial Alpha — Quantum Properties"
• "System Integration of the Mark"
• "History and Origin of the Mark"
• "Activation of the Mark: Consequences and Cost"
• "Marks as Keys to Overcoming Barriers"
• "Impact on Bearers"
• "Quantum Marks in Clans: Evolution"
Jayar quickly selected the item "Monrial Alpha — Quantum Properties". The screen became brighter, and this is what he saw:
[Quantum Monrial Alpha is a mark created by the Fulchiva Clan to enhance bearers through integration with quantum fields of reality. It binds the bearer to the space-time continuum, allowing access to hidden knowledge and power. However, the mark also alters the bearer, affecting their perception of time and space. At a certain stage, the mark begins to impact the bearer's mind, turning their perception of the world into quantum. This grants incredible abilities, but it also heavily influences the psyche and can cause the loss of identity.]
Jayar (quietly, his fingers trembling): "This… is something like a connection to reality? Like it could tear apart… the boundaries?"
The screen continued:
[The mark requires the bearer to have high self-awareness. There is a need to understand quantum processes and develop intelligence to maintain control. It cannot be used without undergoing a learning phase, or the consciousness may experience a rollback.]
Jayar felt his heart begin to race again. This was too complex for him to fully understand
Jayar leaned closer to the screen, his voice barely more than a breath.
"Ohh… I need to learn how to deal with this."
As if in response, the system stirred again. New lines of text unfurled across the terminal, sharp and deliberate:
To learn how to use the mark, one must devote time to the study of quantum processes and the mark's influence upon body and mind. Unique abilities may manifest, depending on the bearer's stage of development.
Jayar blinked. The words seemed to pierce directly into him, stripping away his uncertainty. The fog clouding his thoughts thinned, and for the first time he felt clarity. This wasn't raw strength, not merely some weapon to wield. It was a structure—intricate, dangerous, alive.
The mark wasn't just power. It was a system. A living equation written into his very being.
His hands tightened into fists. He understood now: it wasn't enough to use it. He would have to study it, dissect it, bend his mind around its rules before it consumed him. And more than that—he had to learn how the mark would interact with him, with the fragile boundaries of self and memory that held him together.
His voice steadied, hardening into resolve.
"I have to do this. But… how? What do I need to study?"
The screen remained silent. The cursor blinked, indifferent.
Only silence answered him.
But within that silence, Jayar felt it—like standing at the threshold of a door half open. His mind teetered on the edge of something vast, something that pressed from the other side. The sensation wasn't knowledge, not yet, but it was close. Closer than it had ever been.
Jayar leaned closer to the screen, his voice barely more than a breath.
"Ohh… I need to learn how to deal with this."
As if in response, the system stirred again. New lines of text unfurled across the terminal, sharp and deliberate:
To learn how to use the mark, one must devote time to the study of quantum processes and the mark's influence upon body and mind. Unique abilities may manifest, depending on the bearer's stage of development.
Jayar blinked. The words seemed to pierce directly into him, stripping away his uncertainty. The fog clouding his thoughts thinned, and for the first time he felt clarity. This wasn't raw strength, not merely some weapon to wield. It was a structure—intricate, dangerous, alive.
The mark wasn't just power. It was a system. A living equation written into his very being.
His hands tightened into fists. He understood now: it wasn't enough to use it. He would have to study it, dissect it, bend his mind around its rules before it consumed him. And more than that—he had to learn how the mark would interact with him, with the fragile boundaries of self and memory that held him together.
His voice steadied, hardening into resolve.
"I have to do this. But… how? What do I need to study?"
The screen remained silent. The cursor blinked, indifferent.
Only silence answered him.
But within that silence, Jayar felt it—like standing at the threshold of a door half open. His mind teetered on the edge of something vast, something that pressed from the other side. The sensation wasn't knowledge, not yet, but it was close. Closer than it had ever been.
...
"Kayav, I'm going to kill him!" he spat, each word a jagged shard thrown into the air. His hands trembled at his sides, knuckles white as if squeezing the world itself.
Kayav watched him for a long, slow heartbeat, then stepped forward with a practiced calm. He raised a single hand—not in surrender, but as if to steady a fevered pulse.
"Calm down. Don't get excited," he said, his voice level and cool, the kind of voice that tried to hold a storm at bay.