Chapter 1: Birth
The lights in the operating room flickered, like an old TV with bad reception.
With every flicker, the reflection of the stainless steel instruments traced cold arcs across the walls.
"Waaaah—"
The infant's cry pierced through the scent of disinfectant, carrying a primal vitality.
The light seemed to stabilize for a moment, as if holding a silent celebration for the birth of this new life.
The nurses moved quickly and methodically, handling the umbilical cord and wiping away the vernix with movements as precise as machines on an assembly line.
On the operating table, the young mother Katherine's pale fingers trembled slightly. Her blonde hair, soaked with sweat, clung to her forehead, and her blue-gray eyes struggled to focus, trying to see the tiny figure wrapped in a hospital blanket held by the nurse.
"It's a boy," a nurse reported mechanically. "Weight: seven pounds, four ounces. Heart rate is normal."
A weak smile tugged at the corners of Katherine's mouth.
This was her first child, born after sixteen hours of labor—
The sterile doors slid open silently.
A tall figure walked in, his white lab coat looking exceptionally crisp on him.
His white hair was meticulously combed back, revealing a broad forehead and a pair of overly bright blue eyes.
Although a surgical mask covered the lower half of his face, the focus in those eyes—a focus that bordered on hunger—caused the atmosphere in the operating room to instantly freeze.
"Dr. Brenner," a nurse greeted in a low voice, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in her tone.
Dr. Martin Brenner nodded and walked straight toward the crying infant.
He reached out his gloved hands and took the swaddled baby from the nurse with exceptional steadiness.
The lights began to flicker again.
In the intermittent light, Brenner carefully examined the infant in his arms.
Sparse golden fuzz, a small face flushed red from crying, flailing fists... His gaze finally settled on the infant's slightly open eyes.
They were unusual eyes; the irises were so pale they almost blended with the whites, shimmering with a faint silver hue under the lights.
"Perfect," Brenner whispered, his voice carrying the excitement of a scientist discovering a rare specimen.
"Doctor?" another nurse spoke up hesitantly. "The mother wishes to—"
"Tell her there were complications during delivery and the child didn't make it." Brenner remained staring at the infant as if admiring a work of art.
Katherine was groggy but remained conscious throughout.
She struggled to see her child, reaching out a trembling hand to touch that soft cheek, but Brenner turned slightly—a movement so subtle it was almost unnoticeable, yet it effectively pulled the baby away.
"She needs rest," Brenner told the nurse. "Administer a sedative."
"No—" Katherine's voice was weak but sharp. "My baby... Andy... where are you taking him?"
Brenner didn't answer. He turned toward the door with the infant in his arms and nodded to the assistant beside him.
A man in a white coat took out a pre-prepared syringe and walked toward Katherine.
"No! Andy! Andy!" Katherine struggled to sit up, but the labor had drained all her strength.
The sting of the needle piercing her skin came, and the cold liquid was pushed into her vein. Her vision began to blur, and she could only watch helplessly as Brenner disappeared behind the door with her child.
The baby was still crying, the sound echoing in the empty corridor before being cut off by the heavy door.
But within that small blanket, a much more complex consciousness was awakening.
He remembered he was supposed to be in algebra class. The teacher was writing equations on the blackboard, the chalk making that familiar scratching sound. The sunlight outside the window was bright, and the shouts from football practice could be heard faintly from the field.
The kid sitting next to him quietly passed him a note—
Then, there was chaos.
A sensation of falling, of tearing, like being stuffed into a container that was too small; limbs were bound, and lungs couldn't expand.
He wanted to scream, but what came out was an infant's cry.
Then he felt another presence—a newborn, pure, untouched consciousness, like a blank sheet of paper, like freshly fallen snow.
Two consciousnesses collided, entangled, and merged within the narrow space of the skull.
Who am I?
A name... he remembered having a name.
But it wasn't "Andy."
Who was Andy?
The child of that crying woman?
I am... Memories dissipated quickly like a receding tide: high school life, the faces of friends, the voices of family... everything became blurred, sinking into the deep sea of consciousness. Only a few fragments floated up: the pronunciation of English words, what the color of a nurse's uniform meant, what an operating room was... Drowsiness surged like a tide, impossible to resist.
An infant's brain wasn't yet fully developed and couldn't carry complex thoughts and memories. A self-preservation mechanism kicked in, sealing away most of the consciousness to wait for the right moment.
Before falling completely into darkness, the last thing he heard was that woman's hoarse cry:
"Andy!"
Then, silence.
When he woke up again, he was lying in a small transparent crib.
He was surrounded by soft, pale blue walls. There were no windows, only fluorescent lights embedded in the ceiling that emitted a constant, unchanging glow. The air smelled of disinfectant mixed with a cloyingly sweet baby powder.
He blinked. His vision was still blurry, only able to distinguish outlines and colors.
Several women in light pink scrubs were moving around; they had name tags pinned to their chests and wore matching caps.
Nurses. They were nurses.
Why did he know this?
A small ID bracelet was fastened to his wrist, making a slight rustling sound with his movements.
A nurse heard the sound and came over to check his diaper, her movements practiced but lacking warmth.
"Number Twelve is very quiet today," the nurse said to her colleague.
"Much better than Number Eleven; that child cried for three hours last night."
English. They were speaking English.
But why did he understand it?
Confusion shrouded him like a fog. He wanted to think, but an infant's brain tired quickly.
Those questions were like heavy stones, weighing him down into sleep.
He fell asleep again.
Time lost its meaning here.
There was no alternation of day and night; only the nurses' scrubs remained the same as they changed shifts.
Feeding, changing diapers, measuring temperature, administering vaccines... everything was done according to a schedule, precise to the minute.
He gradually learned to associate sounds with meanings.
"Bottle" meant food, "bath" meant warm water, and "shot" meant a brief sting.
The nurses would occasionally talk to him, but the content was always simple repetition: "Good boy," "Be quiet," "Time to sleep."
Sometimes, the white-haired man would appear—Dr. Martin Brenner.
He learned the name from the nurses' conversations. The man would always stand outside the crib observing him, holding a clipboard and recording things from time to time.
His gaze was evaluative, like a collector inspecting his collection.
"Pupillary response normal."
"Responds to auditory stimuli."
"Grasp reflex is 15% higher than the standard value."
Once, Brenner examined him personally. Those hands in latex gloves were colder and more precise than the nurses'.
When he used a small penlight to check the infant's eyes, their gazes met briefly.
In those overly bright blue eyes, the infant—or Number Twelve—saw something he couldn't fully understand: curiosity, expectation, calculation, and a near-obsessive focus.
"You will be very special," Brenner whispered, as if to himself. "More special than any of them."
The infant made a gurgling sound, his tiny hand unconsciously grasping Brenner's finger.
Brenner paused for a moment, then smiled.
That was the first time Twelve saw him smile, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.
As the days passed, Twelve learned more.
He learned to eat with a spoon, though initially, most of the food ended up on his bib.
He learned to walk, toddling around the padded room to explore its boundaries. He learned to say simple words: "Milk," "Water," "Hurt."
But he also noticed strange things.
He never saw other children, but occasionally he could hear crying, laughter, and even once, the sound of breaking glass and frantic footsteps from somewhere down the hall.
He wore a plastic hospital bracelet on his wrist with his designation on it: 012.
And the question that haunted him remained: Why did he know things he shouldn't know?
Why did he know what a syringe was for the first time he saw one?
Why did he understand concepts like "gravity," "time," and "temperature"?
Why did fragments of images occasionally flash through his mind—a brown backpack, equations on a blackboard, a boy's smile?
These memory fragments had no context, like scattered puzzle pieces he couldn't assemble into a complete picture. Every time he tried to think deeply, he would get a headache, as if electricity were coursing through his skull.
So, he learned not to dig deeper. He focused on the world before him: this room, the nurses, the occasional visits from Dr. Brenner, and the daily routine.
Until the third day after his fourth birthday.
That day, Dr. Brenner arrived earlier than usual.
He was building a tower with blocks—one of the few toys in the room.
The blocks were made of soft plastic to prevent injury and came in only three basic colors: red, blue, and yellow.
"Twelve," Brenner said as he entered Andy's room, his voice gentle. "Today we are going to a new place."
He only slowly raised his head upon hearing the voice. Brenner wasn't wearing a lab coat today, but a dark gray suit with a burgundy tie.
A door appeared in the wall, wider than usual. Brenner walked in and knelt in front of Andy.
"You've grown," he said, reaching out to pat Twelve's head.
Twelve's blonde hair was shaved very short, almost a crew cut, consistent with Brenner's requirements for ease of cleaning and observation.
Under his confused expression, he was taken to a room and strapped into a dark recliner.
Then, Brenner picked up a device that looked like a pen, but with a tiny needle at the tip.
"This won't hurt too much," he promised. "It's just a mark so everyone knows who you are."
He instinctively wanted to pull away, but Brenner's hand gently but firmly gripped his wrist.
The sensation of the needle piercing his skin was milder than expected, more like a mosquito bite.
But it was followed by a strange burning sensation, as if something were being branded into his skin.
Twelve bit his lower lip and didn't cry out. He had long since learned that crying here wouldn't bring comfort, only extra sedatives.
A few seconds later, Brenner removed the device. On the inside of his slender wrist, three black numbers appeared: 012.
"Now you are an official member," Brenner said with a smile. "Number Twelve."
This was the first time Twelve had stepped out of the room, and the world outside the door made Andy's eyes widen.
The corridor was long, the walls a monotonous beige, with fluorescent lights at regular intervals. Every few yards, there was a heavy metal door with a small observation window and a number: 008, 009, 010... As they passed one door, he caught a glimpse of a girl about his age sitting on the floor, staring at her palm.
Above her palm, a few small marbles were suspended in the air, rotating slowly.
The girl turned her head and met Twelve's gaze.
Her eyes were dark brown, and her gaze was filled with the same curiosity as Andy's.
Seeing this, Twelve wanted to stop, but Brenner gave him a gentle tug.
"There will be time to meet everyone later. For now, we're going to do something special."
In the weeks that followed, Twelve's life changed dramatically.
He was no longer confined to that small room but was allowed to participate in activities with other children at specific times.
The so-called "activity room" was a larger room with more toys, but it still had no windows, and the walls were softly padded to prevent anyone from hurting themselves.
In the days that followed, he began to undergo some special tests.
Initially, they were simple cognitive tests: shape matching, color identification, and memory games.
He always performed very well—so well that the testers exchanged surprised looks.
Then came physical tests: balance, reaction time, and hand-eye coordination.
But the real testing began a month later.
That day, Brenner personally took him to a new lab and then blindfolded him.
"Twelve, try to sense what is in front of you."
Andy, seeing only darkness, was incredibly confused.
Sense? Sense what?
"Close your eyes," Brenner's voice was very soft. "Don't use your eyes to see. Use... another part."
Hearing this, he closed his eyes and focused his attention in the direction of the glass box.
At first, he only heard some animal squeaks and his own breathing.
Then, gradually, he felt something else—
A faint pulse, like a heartbeat, but more complex.
A sense of presence, simple and direct: running, alertness, a craving for food, anxiety about the enclosed space... He opened his eyes and looked at Brenner in surprise. "I... I felt what it was thinking?"
Brenner's eyes lit up. "Tell me."
"It's... hungry, and scared?"
Brenner recorded it quickly, his hand trembling slightly with excitement. "Well done, Twelve. You really are gifted."
The testing continued for several hours. They tried different animals: another white rat, a rabbit, a goldfish.
It was just that Twelve could hardly feel much consciousness from them; they were all too simple, too primal.
They also tried different distances and different barriers.
The results were consistent: 012 could perceive the simple thoughts and emotions of conscious beings within a range of about twenty feet, and the ability could penetrate most non-lead barriers.
"Incredible," Brenner said after the test ended, his hand on Andy's shoulder. "You are different from all of them, Twelve."
Different? Why different?
He wanted to ask, but Brenner had already turned to discuss something with his assistant in a low, excited voice.
That very night, he had his first dream.
In the dream, he was no longer a four-year-old child but a newborn infant. In this dream, someone seemed to be calling him, but he just kept crying.
He struggled to grasp the hand reaching out to him, but then, he woke up.
Andy sat up and, by the light from outside the room, saw his own wrist.
I am Number Twelve.
I am Andy.
This thought appeared clearly in his consciousness for the first time, carrying a dizzying sense of certainty.
[500 Power Stones → +1 Bonus Chapter]
[10 Reviews → +1 Bonus Chapter]
Enjoyed the chapter? A review helps a lot.
P1treon: Soulforger (10+ advance chapters)