Trinatha twitched in his sleep, cold sweat slicking his skin. Shards of memory struck him in flashes—the Emperor's golden claws
cutting through him, his body splitting apart yet refusing to fall. Over and over, the sensation returned in his dreams, slicing him apart again.
His breath hitched.
Then—
His eyes flew open.
But this wasn't the world he knew.
Everything around him was black—a void without end. Yet beneath his feet, something rippled: white, concentric circles stretching
outward with each movement, like standing atop a vast, dark lake where each step sent vibrations through an invisible surface.
Ahead of him, faint but constant, was a white glow.
Trinatha narrowed his eyes. What is that? An exit?
He stepped forward, cautious, the glow growing brighter, clearer.
It wasn't an exit.
It was a figure—seated, cross-legged. A humanoid shape bathed in a radiant white light, limbs and head formed but featureless. The
glow concealed any detail, yet it felt... familiar? No, not familiar—fundamental.
Then, its head turned.
No face, no eyes—yet Trinatha felt its gaze pierce
through him.
The figure spoke.
Its voice was not truly heard. It was a blend of vibrations, high and low, garbled yet perfectly understood, as though the
meaning was implanted directly into Trinatha's mind.
> "W̙͘e̬͠l̸͚l̸ ̟͡w̶ę͇l͝ḻ͘... y̸̢͉ou̵̹̩ ̢̗̻fiį̦͠n̷̮a͝ͅlḻ̟͜y̵͓͉ ͏͍są͎w͍̤͡ ̺͝m̢̬e."
The tone wasn't malicious—but it was far from comforting. Something ancient stirred beneath those warped syllables, something
impossibly old yet... young?
Before Trinatha could respond, the glow pulsed—just once—and the world blinked out.
---
He gasped awake, bolting upright.
White lights above, metal shelves to the side—a modest but fully-equipped infirmary.
He felt the tug of a drip line, a translucent IV
snaking into his left forearm.
He looked around, chest heaving, before instinctively checking his torso.
Trinatha sat up fully, his breaths steadying. The chill on his skin made him aware of his attire—his legs clad in loose, green
scrub pants. His upper body was wrapped diagonally in tight black bandages,
layering across his torso like a crisscrossed shield.
He tapped the bandages with his fingers—a metallic clink echoed faintly.
His brows furrowed. Metal? But it feels like fabric... He pressed again, slid his hand across. The bandages were three-layered,
flexible when he moved yet heavy with presence.
A sensation nagged in his mind—a slow, subtle tug. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing inward.
His psychic senses stirred.
"Something's draining me..."
His eyes snapped open.
"It's not stamina. It feels strange but... I somehow know that it's my psychic powers... It's siphoning them, slowly."
He stared at his bandaged torso. Why? And... how am I even alive?
Trinatha pulled the IV needle out from his forearm with a wince, swung his legs over the bed, and stood. His body felt whole—too
whole.
Near the bed was a clipboard, tucked neatly into a metal tray. He picked it up, scanning the notes scribbled across it.
His eyes skimmed faster and faster as comprehension sank in.
"Patient suffered sharp-force incised injuries resulting in complete transection of the
torso—complete bisection of body components from superficial to spinal
structures. All cuts preserved in linear arrangement by subject's unknown
psychic exertion. Artificial containment bandages applied to sustain
physiological cohesion. Vascular, neural, musculoskeletal, and visceral
alignment remain uninterrupted under subject's own control."
Trinatha's fingers tightened on the clipboard.
"So... when I was cut, I... held myself together? Down to the blood vessels... the nerves... the bones... the organs... I forced
them to move and flow like they weren't cut?"
A shiver shot down his spine. It was terrifying to imagine—but the thrill of it overtook him.
Without realizing, he smirked uncontrollably, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grin that bordered on psychotic glee.
"This is a miracle within miracles. Something like this... should not be possible."
His mind rewound to that moment—the frozen air, the immobile Emperor, the halt of time.
"Perhaps... that helped me too. That gave me the window to stabilize everything."
His smirk faded into contemplation, staring down at the black bandages again. The cold, metallic hum beneath his skin reminded him
he wasn't entirely in control yet.
"But who put these on me... and why this constant drain?"
Trinatha stood still, lost in the chaos of his
memory—the slashing claws, the suffocating air, the shadowed figure, and...
Lakshman.
The thought struck like a jolt of lightning.
"Where's Lakshman? He was with me... but when the Emperor attacked, he wasn't there. Why? Where did he go? Is he okay?"
A sharp clank of a door opening broke his thoughts.
Trinatha snapped his head towards the sound, his
posture instantly guarded.
A woman had entered—mid 30s, dressed in a sharp, clean nurse's uniform. She paused at the sight of him already standing upright,
staring sharply at her.
She muttered under her breath, almost incredulously,
"He's really awake."
Then she quickly turned back toward the door and shouted into the hallway,
"SOMEONE! THE PATIENT'S AWAKE!"
She stepped further in, gathering her composure, and addressed Trinatha with a polite firmness.
"Please... sit down. Someone will be with you shortly."
Trinatha remained standing, eyes locked on her, his body tensed just enough to react to anything sudden.
The nurse hesitated, noticing his distrust.
"Okay... um... is there anything you're feeling uncomfortable about? Any tingling
sensation? Pain anywhere? Or... any problems with your vision or hearing or—oh
wait," she caught herself, "If you couldn't hear me, I guess asking is
pointless."
She awkwardly gestured—pointing to her ears, then at Trinatha, giving a thumbs up, silently asking "Can you hear me?"
Trinatha's posture softened, his caution loosening. The woman's sincerity wasn't something he could ignore.
"Yeah," he replied. "I can hear you."
He glanced down at his own torso, then back up at her.
"And no... nothing feels off with my body other than knowing I was sliced clean in four places and now wrapped up in this...
weird black stuff."
He tapped the bandages again, the metallic ring soft but distinct.
"What is this thing? How is it keeping me... together like this? And... where even is this place?"
The nurse raised her brows, eyes darting to the black wrapping as if re-evaluating his condition with fresh eyes.
The nurse motioned toward the bed.
"Please, sit," she said, her tone firm but not unkind.
Trinatha reluctantly complied, the faint metallic clink from his wrappings sounding each time he moved.
"It's… an old body reconstruction and stabilizer prototype," she began. "It attaches itself to your wounds, analyses your
original anatomy, and then begins the process of rebuilding you exactly as you
were. But since it's only a prototype, it has… well, let's call them quirks."
Her eyes flicked briefly to the black bands across his torso. "The first thing it does is… take a big chunk of your psychic fuel. That
initial drain isn't to heal you—it's to scan you. To map every bone, vessel,
nerve, and cell so it knows how to put you back together. And here's the
limitation—it can't give that chunk back until it's finished the reconstruction. No shortcuts."
She folded her arms, choosing her words carefully. "After that, it enters what we call the 'stabilization loop'—a slow, constant
drain of a small amount of fuel to keep itself adhered to your body and manage the repairs. When the job is done, the loop stops, and that big chunk is returned to you. But until then… you're working with far less than your usual
capacity."
Trinatha tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he put it together.
"So let me sum this up… it grabs a huge chunk of my psychic fuel—say, sixty percent—right from the start, and locks it away. Then it uses a tiny amount on loop to keep itself stuck to me until the rebuild's done. I can't touch that big reserve until it's finished… so right now, I'm stuck with maybe thirty-seven percent of my actual usable psychic fuel."
The nurse nodded.
He exhaled slowly, a dry smirk curling at his lips.
"Great… so I'm crippled and gift-wrapped."
Trinatha slumped forward, resting his head in his palm, fingers digging against his brow as though to crush the despair rising
inside. His other hand covered his eyes, hiding the prickle of tears.
"A 'medic soldier' who can't even support his brothers in arms with his abilities," he muttered bitterly. "How funny. Now I'm just a
medic student... just days ago I came here to become something. But now?"
He recalls the face of his Father as he continues "Father would be furious if he knew. He'd tell me to come back—"
He stopped, a half-laugh escaping him as he opened his eyes.
"Heh. Nope. He'd beat me instead. Tell me: 'Is this how weak your resolve is, Trinatha? You're more reslute than this.'"
A lone tear slid down before he could stop it. He brushed it away quickly, jaw tightening.
The nurse who had been watching quietly, set a hand on Trinatha's shoulder, her grip steady, grounding.
"Blaming the situation or yourself won't help in any way," she said sternly, though a flicker of warmth softened her voice.
Then, almost unexpectedly, she smiled.
"You're alive now. Isn't that already the best thing
that's happened to you? These restraints—these setbacks—are only temporary. You
know that, don't you? Just give yourself time. Let your body rebuild itself.
And I'll say this again: don't blame yourself."
Her tone gentled as she leaned closer.
"Look at me."
Trinatha tilted his head toward her, meeting her gaze.
"You will get through this," the nurse said firmly. "Be strong."
For a moment, silence filled the room. The weight on his chest eased, not gone, but lighter—like the first breath after nearly
drowning.
Trinatha managed a faint smile at her.
"You're right. Worrying won't help. In times like this… he would cheer me up."
His words stalled mid-breath. Realisation struck like
a jolt.
"Oh no…"
He turned sharply to the nurse, voice hurried.
"Do you know anything about a guy with silver hair?
Taller than me, always—"
The infirmary door opened with a low hiss. A figure stepped inside.
Trinatha froze. His words died in his throat.
It was him.
The same man who had worn Lakshman's armor in the castle.
Trinatha's eyes widened—then narrowed in a sharp frown.
Trinatha's eyes narrowed to slits, a chill running down his spine. That face—those sharp blue eyes, the slicked-back blond hair,
the broad shoulders that seemed carved out of stone—he had seen them before.
Once, in the castle, when time itself had fallen still. The memory flashed
unbidden: Lakshman's armor, his friend's familiar stance—but it hadn't been
Lakshman at all. It had been this man.
And now here he stood again, unmasked, undisguised, exuding a confidence that pressed against the air like a weight. The tuxedo did nothing to soften him; if anything, it sharpened his presence, radiating a cold
authority Trinatha couldn't look away from.
His chest tightened. What did he do to Lakshman? The thought clawed at him as his glare grew more piercing, his body coiling like a spring ready to snap. Recognition brought no relief, only dread. The castle had been the first time. Here was the second.
And Trinatha knew—there would not be a third without answers.
The blonde man gasped, clutching at his chest in mock horror before letting his expression sharpen into something calm and authoritative. His blue eyes locked on Trinatha's narrowed gaze.
"Woah, easy there, young man… your glare almost shot a death beam at me."
He stepped closer with a steady confidence, each
stride deliberate, until the weight of his presence seemed to press against the
infirmary walls. His tone shifted, losing its theatrics but not its edge.
"I expected gratitude from you. So where's this
hostility coming from? I saved you, y'know?"
The words struck Trinatha harder than he expected. His
chest tightened, not with anger but with the reluctant truth—this man had saved
him, pulling him back from a death he had already begun to taste. Trinatha's
guard faltered; his shoulders eased though his eyes still searched, still
measured.
"I… apologize for my rudeness," he admitted, voice low
but steady. "I truly appreciate what you did for me. But you need to
understand…" His jaw tightened as the memory flashed—the moment frozen in the
Emperor's chamber, the borrowed armor, the substitution. "…you took the place
of my friend. You wore his armor in the castle."
Trinatha's tone sharpened again, insistence cutting
through the gratitude.
"So I need to know—where is my friend? It's blatantly
obvious you had something to do with his absence."
The blonde man's sharpness softened into something
almost reflective. He leaned back slightly, his tone easing as though he were
confiding in Trinatha.
"Oh? You mean that other young man—the one I took the
place of in the alleyway?" He tilted his head, blue eyes narrowing faintly.
"Well, he's in our prison. Down in this bunker." A pause, then a low chuckle.
"Fierce lad, your friend. Even when battered and half-drained, he still found
the strength to bare his fangs."
The man's gaze drifted, as though replaying the scene
in his mind. His voice grew quieter, edged with something that almost resembled
respect.
"I remember him standing there… face bloodied, body
failing him. Yet his eyes—those damn eyes—still burned holes through me. He
looked at me and said, 'If you dare lay a hand on him, I will crawl back from
the depths of crooked men's pit and make you regret ever breathing the same air
as me.'"
The blonde man shivered once, as if the memory scraped
at him. Then he exhaled slowly, fixing his stare back on Trinatha. His lips
curved into a smile—not mocking, not cruel, but carrying a weight of respect
and a glimmer of admiration.
"I respect men like him," he said, the smile lingering
as though the very thought of Lakshman earned it. "All their thoughts, all
their strength… narrowed to one purpose: protecting someone they care about."
The blonde man's sharpness eased into something
lighter, almost mischievous. He spread his arms as though trying to disarm the
atmosphere itself."Well, enough about that," he said, his voice suddenly
carrying a teasing lilt. "Wanna eat something? You must be starving. We've got
great cooks in our bunker here…"
But Trinatha's mind had latched onto only one
thing—the truth that Lakshman was alive. The thought struck like a spark in the
gloom, steadying his resolve. Food, rest, comfort… none of it mattered now."Uh…
no thanks. I don't want food for now," Trinatha replied, his tone firm but
laced with quiet relief.
He took a step forward, his hunter-shaped eyes locked
onto the man before him.
"Can I see my friend?"