The first scream wasn't his.
Alex knew that immediately.
It tore through his head without warning—raw, wet, animal. His body reacted before his mind did. Muscles locked. Breath hitched. His hand snapped up defensively, blade half-drawn before he realized where he was.
The training yard.
Dirt under his boots. Morning fog clinging low to the ground. A cracked wooden post in front of him.
Silence.
Alex swallowed, forcing his heart to slow.
"…System," he said quietly.
{No hostile entities detected.}
Figures.
He exhaled and resumed his drills.
Simple movements. Knife transitions. Footwork. Nothing complex. Nothing that should trigger anything.
The second it happened again—
Cold.
Metal biting into his wrists.
Not imagined. Remembered.
His knees buckled.
Alex dropped to one knee, breath ripping out of him as if something had punched his lungs from the inside. His vision tunneled.
Chains.
Not the tattooed ones.
Real ones.
Cold iron bands locked around his arms, humming faintly with mana suppression. His body knew the sensation—knew exactly how much pressure before skin broke, how the metal leeched warmth, how it hurt without leaving visible wounds.
Alex gagged.
"—Stop—!"
The voice wasn't his.
Too high. Too desperate.
Someone else screaming through his throat.
His hands slammed into the dirt, fingers clawing as pain flared along invisible circuits inside his body. Mana surged instinctively—
—and vanished.
Gone.
Drained.
Rerouted.
Forced.
Images fragmented behind his eyes.
A stone chamber. Runes etched deep into the floor. Hands—gloved, precise—adjusting restraints. A needle sliding into his arm, burning cold as something thick and wrong flooded his veins.
"Circulate," a voice commanded. Calm. Clinical.
His body obeyed.
Even as it screamed.
Alex collapsed fully, forehead hitting the ground. He tasted blood.
{Recall depth exceeding safe threshold.}
The system's voice cut in—flat, immediate.
{Memory quarantine engaged.}
The images slammed shut.
Not fading.
Severed.
Alex gasped, rolling onto his back, chest heaving as pain echoed through nerves that no longer had a source. His hands trembled violently.
"That—" His voice cracked. "That wasn't imagination."
{Correct.}
"Then why—"
{Access denied.}
Alex laughed weakly. "Of course."
He sat up slowly, wiping sweat from his face with shaking fingers.
The pain had already begun to recede.
Too fast.
Like a wound cauterized before it could bleed.
"That screaming," Alex said hoarsely. "That wasn't me, was it?"
Chaos stirred, heavy and present.
(No,) the dragon said.
Alex closed his eyes.
"So I wasn't alone."
(No.)
His stomach twisted.
"Were there others?"
Chaos was silent for a long moment.
(Yes.)
Alex clenched his fists.
"Did they survive?"
(That knowledge is sealed.)
Alex's jaw tightened. "You keep saying that."
(Because it is true.)
He forced himself to stand, legs unsteady. His body felt… wrong. Not injured. Not tired.
Triggered.
Like muscles flinching from a blow that wasn't coming anymore.
"The system blocked it," Alex said. "On purpose."
Chaos agreed.
(It is not erased.)
Alex looked up. "Then what?"
(Quarantined.)
The word settled heavily.
"Why?"
Chaos's tone sharpened, just slightly.
(Because full recall would destabilize you.)
Alex scoffed. "I'm already destabilized."
(Not enough.)
He turned away, staring at his hands.
"They forced mana through me," he said slowly. "Not like training. Not like circulation drills."
(No.)
"They were testing limits."
(They were manufacturing outcomes.)
Alex swallowed.
"That year… they didn't just hold me."
(No.)
"They used me."
(Yes.)
The air felt colder.
Alex's chest tightened—not with fear, but with a rising, controlled anger.
"And the system knows," he said.
{Affirmative.}
"So why block it?"
{Because your current cognitive state cannot integrate the data without adverse consequences.}
"Like what?"
{Premature behavioral deviation.}
Alex snorted. "You mean I'd do something stupid."
{You would rush.}
Alex closed his eyes.
Chaos's earlier words echoed back.
If I explain, you'll rush. Rushing gets you killed.
"Let me guess," Alex said. "Sixteen?"
The system didn't answer.
But Chaos did.
(Threshold.)
Alex exhaled slowly.
"So my body remembers," he said. "Even if my mind doesn't."
(Yes.)
"And the pain?"
(Conditioning.)
Alex's hands curled into fists.
"They trained me like an animal."
Chaos's presence grew heavier.
(They trained you like a weapon.)
That landed harder.
Alex laughed—short, humorless.
"Well," he said, straightening. "At least they failed."
Chaos didn't respond.
The system spoke instead.
{Stakes reassessed.}
Alex tilted his head. "Up or down?"
{Up.}
Figures.
He picked up his blade again, movements slower now, more deliberate. Every motion carried a faint echo—muscle memory layered over muscle memory, something deeper than technique.
Something carved in.
The pain didn't return.
But the warning remained.
The past wasn't gone.
It was waiting.
And someone—something—had decided Alex wasn't ready to remember yet.
That made the future more dangerous than he'd thought.
And far more urgent.