[= Transmission Acquired =]

  Aventis Secundus – Exile Stronghold

  Location: Undisclosed | System: Restricted

  Galactic Date: 2739, Cycle 07

  Local Time: 18:47 Imperial Standard

  Legatus Status: Confined | Contact Authorization: Level Red

  [= Connection Secured =]

  The chamber felt colder than usual.

  Legatus Varro Marcellis sat unmoving, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Candlelight scarcely reached the far walls, leaving the room sunk deep in shadow.

  Across from him stood Magister Quintus Aurelian, Arch-Hermetic of the Legio Invicta—a man who didn’t trade in politics or battles, but flesh, will, and transformation.

  They were not alone.

  Between them, chained to the kneeling block, was Subject XIII.

  Well 13 something. They started the count over every thousand test subjects.

  Subject XIII. Once a soldier. Once a warrior. Once a man.

  Now something else entirely… or he would be, if he survived.

  Aurelian eyed the Legatus carefully before speaking. “My lord, this is the final application of the serum.”

  Varro’s gaze flicked to the restrained figure. "I expect results. Proceed."

  From within his robes, Aurelian drew out a glass injector, its sleek surface lined with intricate circuitry. Inside, the serum pulsed with a sickly, impossible hue, neither red nor gold, but somehow both.

  Varro watched without blinking.

  The Magister knelt beside XIII, tipping the young man’s head back. Breath came in short, shallow gasps; sweat beaded his skin. He’d survived far more than most.

  But would he survive this?

  "Hold him."

  Two Invicta guards emerged, iron grips pinning the subject like a lamb to slaughter.

  Aurelian pressed the injector tight. One swift push, and the needle punched deep into XIII’s skull.

  A hiss.

  The serum surged directly into his brainstem.

  For a moment. Nothing.

  Then everything happened at once.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The subject’s body arched violently, muscles straining against their limits. His breath hitched. Pupils dilated, swallowing all color.

  His lips parted... and something else breathed through him.

  A sound that had no place in any sane world.

  It crawled up the walls, wormed into the shadows.

  The guards flinched.

  The Magister stepped back. His breath was measured, but Varro saw his fingers twitch.

  Then came the whispers.

  Layered voices, low and guttural, like an ancient chant without source.

  Thoughts without origin.

  A pulse rippled through the air, causing the shadows twisted unnaturally. The candle guttered low, though no wind stirred.

  And then, for a fraction of a second, something seemed to stare back from beyond the veil.

  A presence pressed against their minds, not speech, not sound, but knowledge no man should possess.

  The guards dropped their weapons. One stumbled back, gasping desperately for air. The other simply stood frozen, eyes wide.

  Subject XIII’s head snapped upward, his eyes black voids, something writhing beneath their surface.

  "They are waking," XIII whispered, voice thick with mocking laughter.

  Aurelian froze. Varro’s fingers tightened.

  Subject XIII grinned horribly, lips splitting at the corners, skin tearing his cheeks all the way to the ears.

  "They see you now."

  The guards scrambled back. One collapsed to his knees, trembling uncontrollably.

  The candlelight snuffed out completely and darkness fully swallowed the chamber.

  Then the silence broke.

  A raw, gut-wrenching scream sound tore through the darkness as XIII’s body seized violently and his spine twisted unnaturally, ribs snapping outward like splintered wood.

  A ragged breath.

  Then silence again.

  Stillness.

  The candle flickered weakly back to life, barely illuminating the twisted ruin that had once been a man. Limbs hung limp, head lolled grotesquely to one side, mouth frozen in that too-wide grin.

  Aurelian exhaled slowly, smoothing wrinkles from his robes as if this were merely another failed calculation.

  Varro remained motionless.

  The Magister straightened, voice tight. "My lord," he said stiffly, "as you see, the serum succeeds physically, but the mind shatters every time."

  No reaction.

  Aurelian hesitated, then pressed on. "We’ve tried thousands of candidates. Every single one collapses at the final threshold. They cannot endure it."

  Varro still didn’t move.

  Finally, the Magister spoke words that had haunted his research for years.

  "Except for one."

  "He never heard the voices."

  "No."

  "He never broke."

  "No."

  Varro growled softly, leaning forward. "Then explain. Why can’t you replicate what Dr. Kiros achieved?"

  Aurelian hesitated. That was the question.

  "Kiros kept detailed records until the final injection," he said carefully. "But that data is missing. Purged. We have only scattered reports of his results afterward. We don’t know what Kiros did differently."

  Varro’s jaw tightened. "If Kiros altered the process, we must reconstruct his methods."

  Aurelian sighed. "With respect, my lord, we've tried every known variation. Something crucial is missing."

  Varro’s eyes narrowed. "Explain."

  "The mind, my lord," Aurelian said calmly, voice razor-sharp. "Perhaps the body can endure the transformation, but the mind must be shaped to accept it, or distracted. Turned off."

  "You believe it possible?"

  "Perhaps Kiros altered perception during the final administration."

  Varro leaned back, thoughtful. "How?"

  "We don’t know," said Aurelian. "But we know his memories were altered soon after. The Republic claimed they were purging classified intelligence before his defection, but what if—" He stopped himself.

  Varro’s gaze locked onto him. "What if what, Magister?"

  "What if his mind was already altered before the process even finished?"

  Silence.

  Varro smiled thinly, like a wolf scenting blood.

  "They buried him in lies, believing they could erase him."

  Aurelian swallowed. "Yes, my lord."

  Varro tapped a finger against the table. One. Two. Three.

  "Then we must do what they did."

  Aurelian straightened.

  "If the body survives, but the mind fails," Varro murmured coldly, "then we reshape the mind first."

  His gaze drifted back to Subject XIII’s still-twitching corpse.

  "Prepare a new subject. Begin with perception manipulation before the first injection."

  "And if we succeed, my lord?" asked Aurelian softly.

  Varro’s thin smile widened slightly. "Then we stop making physically superior soldiers," he murmured softly, eyes gleaming coldly in the gloom. "And start forging gods."