The world was silent. Except for the hum. A sterile, constant hum that gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Zyair's eyes snapped open, but nothing felt familiar. Cold metal pressed against his back, and the sharp scent of antiseptic stung his nostrils. His muscles screamed in protest as he forced himself upright, scanning the chamber. Rows of cages stretched infinitely in every direction, each containing… failed experiments. Muted screams echoed from somewhere deeper, mixing with the hiss of leaking Oros-infused fluids.
He tried to remember. Anything. A name, a face. Something. But the past was a void. Only one word burned in his mind: "Academy."
"Academy…?" His voice cracked, foreign even to his own ears.
Instinct kicked in. His hands flexed—and his tails lashed out, cutting through the shadows as if guided by memory itself. The tips glowed faintly, absorbing stray Oros energy from the facility's containment fields. The metal doors shuddered. Sparks erupted.
Voices hissed from the darkness, masked and cruel.
"Subject H-17… Project Leviathan."
"You weren't supposed to survive this long…"
Zyair didn't know the name. He didn't know what it meant. He didn't care. All he knew was movement, survival, and the strange, unrelenting hunger coiling inside him.
He moved. Fast. Fluid. Violent. The first few guards barely had time to register the glint of Chaos Oros in his eyes before they were nothing but ash and scattered limbs.
It was instinct. Pure, destructive instinct. And yet, something deeper stirred within him—an anger he couldn't name, a longing he couldn't remember.
He reached the central chamber. There, strapped to a gurney, were remnants of experiments that had failed worse than him. One even whispered, voice broken by fear:
"…The Leviathan… wakes…"
Zyair's tail swept across the floor, sending the frail creature tumbling. Leviathan…? The word made no sense. He shook his head. He had no idea who—or what—he was.
Alarms blared. Red lights bathed the hall in a cruel, pulsing glow. The facility was coming apart. The Void Covenant's experimental locks and wards failed under the surging Chaos Oros. Walls melted, floors cracked, and the air thickened with raw energy.
And then—freedom.
The northern gates of Willowscar loomed ahead, a bitter wind cutting across his face as he stumbled outside. Snow clung to his hair. The sky was bleeding light—dawn, fragile and cruel.
He didn't know where he was. He didn't know his name. He didn't remember the last five years.
All he knew was hope.
A faint image burned in his mind—a silver pendant, a crest, and the word again: "Academy." That was his goal. Somewhere, it promised answers. Somewhere, it promised purpose.
His three tails twitched, licking the frozen air. Plasma shimmered along their tips. Hunger and power coiled inside him, urging him forward.
Ahead, a narrow road led through the snow. Zyair stumbled, shivering, but kept moving. The world beyond the gates was strange, vast, and merciless. He had nowhere to go. No one to trust. Only the road, the cold, and the faint, unshakable pull toward the Academy.
Somewhere, deep in the shadows, the Void Covenant whispered to itself:
"Leviathan… is awake."
Zyair did not hear it. He never would—at least, not yet.