Seated on a black leather swivel chair, a man in a grey blazer gently stroked the hair of a little girl curled up on his lap.
She was licking a strawberry popsicle, her legs swinging freely. She laughed, her mouth stained pink.
— "One more bite, Lina. This one's for Zara, okay ?"
The girl nodded, beaming, and took another bite.
That man was Cain Caledron—also known as Doc C.
His signature white mask, stitched over the mouth, rested on the desk beside a scalpel and a notebook filled with cramped.
Behind him, in a stasis tank filled with greenish fluid, floated a humanoid shape.
Bony protrusions jutted from its shoulders. Its eyes were uneven, and its chest pulsed around an unfamiliar organ.
The body twitched.
Then the tank shattered—glass and fluid exploding across the lab floor.
A voice rasped from the mound of meat :
— "... Thought I was dead, Cain… Even from a distance, reduced to a single cell… I felt Judith's power… She burned me from the inside…"
— "Yes," Cain replied, adjusting his glasses, "Judith was one of the Royal Guard's finest—before she went blind."
— "You knew I'd survive?"
— "Of course. You're Ruben. You're everything anatomy refuses to let die. You're a nightmare that doesn't know how to quit."
Ruben slowly took shape. He didn't look human. Probably never had.
— "Zara… she joined your brother's camp." he said, eyes drifting toward the girl on Cain's lap.
— "I figured. But don't worry… it'll all sort itself out."
— "What did Zara do, Uncle Cain ?" the girl asked innocently.
— "Nothing at all, sweetheart. Eat up before your popsicle melts." he reassured her with a smile.
But their calm was shattered by footsteps—and the sharp clack of weapons being primed.
The reinforced door burst open.
A squad of fifteen men in plain clothes stormed in, all armed with assault rifles and energy cannons.
— "Cain Caledron. You're under arrest for treason against Eraser, for violating the Al-Rashad Protocols, and endangering the balance of this city."
Cain turned slowly, the lenses of his glasses catching the glint of red targeting lasers.
He didn't move. He simply ran a hand through Lina's hair.
— "Uncle Cain… are they bad men ?" she whispered.
— "No, honey. They're just pretending. It's like a play, you see ?"
He rose—no sudden movements. Ruben, already poised to obliterate the squad, was halted by a simple glance.
Cain raised his hands. He let them cuff him.
A soldier gently lifted Lina into his arms. She didn't resist, but her eyes couldn't hide her fear.
The three of them were escorted under heavy guard toward the central execution stage of Al-Rashad—the beating heart of the underground city.
A place of judgment, of spectacle, and of public condemnation.
---
An coliseum buried deep in the bowels of the earth.
Once, it had hosted the harshest rulings of the World Government.
The iron gates clanged shut behind them. Three figures—one towering, one twisted, and one small and carefree—walked into the echoing pit of the Scaffold Square.
Little Lina clutched her melting popsicle, eyes darting between the armed guards and her silent uncle.
Above them, Al-Rashad roared.
— "Die, you bastard Caledron!"
— "You sold us out!"
— "Kill the diploma-less freak!"
— "This is where we put down the sick animals, Doc… You should be honored." The voice came from above—Al-Rakhim, the ruler of Al-Rashad. Even the Inquisitors called him "The Sultan of the Desert."
Cain looked up. No fear. No anger. Not even disdain. Just cold indifference.
Lina, still licking her now-syrupy popsicle, tilted her head.
— "I built this shit with you, Cain!" shouted Al-Rakhim from his high platform. "Remember?! I pulled you out of your grave, fed you like a stray mutt, and this is how you repay me?! You bite the hand that saved you!"
Cain lifted his gaze to meet him, his hand resting protectively on the little girl's head.
— "You saved me ?..."
He chuckled—softly, mockingly.
— "No. You didn't save me. You broke me. Turned a sick child into a dissecting machine. Made me carve up corpses for your gain. I was useful. But don't kid yourself… I saved you."
The crowd erupted. Screams. Insults. Accusations.
They spat his name. Called him ungrateful, demon, traitor.
Rotten fruit and rocks flew, some nearly hitting Lina—Ruben twitched, ready to kill.
— "Tch… They're ready to stone a child," he muttered to Cain. "You're gonna let that slide ?"
Cain didn't answer.
He was staring upward—toward the rocky ceiling that passed for a sky.
As if… waiting.
Then, with calm, he raised one hand and whispered, barely audible :
— "Come to me, Gungnir."
One second passed.
Then—the ceiling exploded.
Stone and dust rained down as a deafening blast rocked the coliseum.
A golden light pierced the dark like a divine judgment.
And from above—she fell.
A white meteor ? No—a golden spear.
In Norse mythology, Gungnir is the spear of the god Odin.
It cannot be stopped while being thrown.
It never misses its target and returns to the hand of the master.
Nothing could explain what this mythical relic was doing in the hands of this degenerate, but one thing was certain : it was used in the massacre.
It ripped through the crowd, reducing bodies to a bloodshed, and then—like lightning—shot straight through Al-Rakhim's chest, nailing him to the wall.
The impact tore his heart clean from his body. His eyes went wide with shock and fear—then lifeless.
Cain held out his hand. The spear returned, heart still impaled on it.
He stared at it for a moment. Then looked up at the stunned, frozen crowd.
— "The old order is dead. It rotted too long. You think we're the traitors ? No… Your real enemies are the ones who trained you to obey like dogs."
He raised the spear.
— "I am the new dawn. This city, this order, this era… now belong to me. Those who rise with me have a place in this world. The rest… can follow Al-Rakhim."
A silence heavier than stone.
Then—someone dropped to their knees.
Then another.
And another.
Ruben watched from the edge, half in awe, half in fear.
— "Still the king of dramatic entrances, huh… Doc."
Cain wiped Rakhim's blood off his jacket, smiling faintly.
---
Flashback
Cain, barely twelve, spent his days between the barren walls and empty libraries of the manor.
He never went outside. Not out of fear of the world, but because his degenerative illness frightened other children—both his ghastly appearance and the irrational fear of contagion, though it wasn't infectious.
So he learned early on that nothing out there was worth more than the silence within these walls.
And yet, that day, a different breeze slipped under the main door.
Cain, lying in the shadows of a narrow hallway, heard the latch creak.
Nothing this alive had happened here in weeks.
He crawled toward the wall where the old stones sometimes betrayed their guests—there, a crack let the voices from the entrance slip through.
— "You came uninvited," said a hoarse voice, authoritative but tight. Tristan Caledron—his father.
— "Since when do I need an invitation?" came the reply, deeper and calmer. An accent rolled at the back of the speaker's throat.
Cain shut his eyes. That voice—it wasn't from here.
The man's tone bore the cadence of the Middle East.
— "You shouldn't be here," Tristan continued. "This is an old matter."
— "Old or not, it still hangs around your neck. The Caledrons owe me, Tristan. And debts… debts don't vanish just because you built an empire on sand."
A heavy silence fell. Cain held his breath.
— "You know it's not that simple," Tristan shot back, less confident now. "What we found there… it wasn't what we were promised."
— "And yet you all went. You, the Al'Maran, the Feshrak, even the Khaalem. All bitten by the bait. A treasure said to be untouchable, hidden in the ruins of Duraand."
Cain furrowed his brow.
The treasure of Duraand—he'd seen the name once, buried in a manuscript.
Then the man said the words he shouldn't have.
— "You know what I lost, Tristan. I don't want gold. I want what's owed. And this time… you will pay."
Cain felt his heart pounding against his ribs. He stepped back—too quickly. His elbow struck a lamp on a side table.
Clack.
— "Who's there?" the stranger barked.
Before Cain could flee, a figure turned the corner.
A tall man, sun-kissed skin, black beard, dark eyes.
He wore a linen coat and a brown turban. He looked at Cain with a twisted, knowing smile.
— "Well now… look at that. The little freak's been listening."
— "Cain!" Tristan shouted, appearing behind the man. "Goddammit…"
His father pressed his fingers to his temples in frustration.
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled sharply, took two steps into the room, then paced back like a caged beast.
— "I told you not to hang around here, for god's sake… How long have you been there? You think this is a game?!"
Cain said nothing. He kept his eyes on the man, wary, measuring him.
Tristan grabbed him by the arm.
— "Go to your room. Now. I don't want to see you here again."
He dragged him up the stairs, slammed the bedroom door shut, and turned the key with a tired sigh.
Through the wall, Cain heard his father mutter to himself:
— "My predecessor left me no favors…"
---
Night had swallowed the Caledron estate.
Cain, locked away like a shameful secret, stared at the pale ceiling, cold sheets clinging to his damp skin.
He hadn't slept. He never really did.
A knock on the door—then a second, softer, like a whisper.
He got up barefoot, hesitant.
He opened it, and there stood the man, his smile twisted like a bleeding wound.
— "The debt is settled," he whispered gently.
He stepped into the room, his fingers already loosening the sash of his robe.
Cain stepped back on instinct, heart hammering in his chest like a caged bird. He understood—everything.
Everything except why.
But this was no time for answers.
Whether courage or panic, something snapped.
He grabbed the wrought iron candleholder from his bedside. Heavy, like a blacksmith's hammer. And with a silent scream, he swung it.
The metal struck the man full in the face.
Blood drowned the man's right eye.
— "Argh… you little bastard—!" the man cursed.
Cain didn't wait to see if he was still breathing.
He ran. His feet slipped on the polished floor.
He threw open the window, scrambled onto the ledge with the desperation of the condemned.
One last glance at the room—hesitation—then he leapt.
His window opened to the forest. The branches caught him.
He hit the ground, rolled through mud and thorns.
The man stared from the window, seething with rage, but saw no movement.
Given the height, the boy was likely dead. And so, he abandoned his newly claimed toy.
But Cain had already vanished into the woods.
And that's how he disappeared.
---
Lytheria — The Qazmar Desert
Years passed. The boy was gone.
What remained was the husk of a survivor—thin, hunched, hollow-eyed from hunger and fever.
The Qazmar Desert, called al-Sahraa al-Mawt, the Desert of Death, offered neither shelter nor mercy.
It was a cursed land, scorched by a fallen black meteorite half-buried in the sand.
But it was the only shortcut to the capital, and so travelers risked it—at their own peril.
Cain lived there, alone, lost among the ruins.
He survived off caravan scraps, dried-out oasis wells, and human indifference.
He had become a ghost of the sands—forgotten, even his father hadn't bothered to search for him. His mother even less.
But one day, he made a mistake—he stole from the wrong people.
A fragment of the meteorite, rare and sacred. He meant to sell it to the highest bidder—a final gamble, a way out.
But the tribe that worshipped the stone—the Ghuls of Raq'zaa, former desert cannibals twisted into mutants—hunted him down.
They had a custom : they kept their prey alive while devouring them, to avoid the rot of death. A slow, agonizing demise.
Cain knew it. He had even watched it happen.
Now, he was running for his life, chased by a handful of those creatures.
He stumbled out of a canyon—and there, in the distance, tents, caravans, mercenaries. They were probably travelers going to the capital.
He hesitated. They might rob him, or worse, enslave him.
But what lay behind was worse.
He raised his arms and screamed :
— "HELP ME!"
Heads turned. Mercenaries murmured among themselves.
— "Look at his hands… he's holding something."
— "Is that… a meteorite shard?"
No need for orders, the blades instinctively came out.
His pursuers were slaughtered—throats cut, bodies burned into the sand.
Cain collapsed, drained, clutching the meteorite like a treasure stolen from a mad god.
He was "saved."
---
Lytheria — Al-Yadira
Months later, Cain stood beneath a gray sky, chained, eyes hollow.
The capital city of Al-Yadira, heart of the Sultanate, glittered with a thousand lights—but none for him.
He was no more than a slave.
A piece of human refuse, sold alongside beasts, starved, beaten, displayed like a lame dog at market.
Officially, slavery was abolished in the Earthly Empire of the WG.
Unofficially, some bodies were still worth less than firewood.
Cain had tried to die more than once.
But death refused to take him.
At a black market auction, he was dragged out in chains, thrown like a sack of meat.
The seller shouted lies about him—boasted of imaginary virtues, his rarity, like every desperate peddler.
No one raised a hand.
Until a coin landed on the stage with a clink, slicing through the silence.
— "1 Sol. This thing not worth more."
Cain slowly lifted his gaze.
— "1 Sol once..." Said the seller.
On a balcony, between two armed guards, a man stared down at him.
— "1 Sol twice..." Repeat the seller with the same energy, his eyes crossing the crowd, shocked.
A gaze full of arrogance and cruelty. A face Cain knew too well.
The scar at the corner of his eye hadn't faded.
Cain's world tilted.
It was him—the man from the manor. His tormentor. His master.
— "Slave 16 is sold to Mr. Al-Rakhim for the modest price of 1 Sol!"
The one they called Al-Rakhim's. Later known as TheSultan of the Underground.
---
— "You used me to gain power over my family and build this shit... Now I'm taking what's rightfully mine."