The sky was the color of dull steel.
Clouds rolled over the city of Veyranth, their heavy bellies swollen with the promise of rain. Beneath them, the execution plaza groaned under the weight of thousands. The air smelled of wet stone, cold iron, and something sharper—anticipation.
Kael Ardyn stood at the center of the raised platform, wrists and ankles locked in carbonsteel manacles. They cut into his skin, each movement biting deeper. He didn't bother to test them again. He'd tried earlier, and the cuffs hadn't even creaked.
The wooden boards beneath his bare feet were slick with moisture. Or maybe it was blood. He didn't want to check.
A bell tolled in the distance, slow and deliberate. Each note seemed to hammer itself into his chest.
"Prisoner, face the crowd."
The voice came from the herald standing to his left—a tall, thin man draped in the crimson-and-black robes of the High Gene Council. His eyes didn't hold cruelty, just the flat indifference of a man performing a job he'd done too many times.
Kael lifted his head.
The crowd stretched to the far edges of the plaza. Commoners packed shoulder to shoulder, some craning their necks to see over others, some perched on ledges or makeshift scaffolds. They'd all come to watch a death.
Faces blurred together. Some curious, some pitying, many twisted in disgust. Here and there, he caught sight of Council Enforcers—armored figures whose weapons gleamed with gene-forged edges.
And above them all, the banners of the ruling Gene Houses fluttered in the wind.
House Veyran's golden falcon, wings spread.
House Draeven's obsidian serpent, coiled and ready to strike.
And, presiding over all, the silver double helix of the High Gene Council itself.
Each crest a symbol of a lineage that could trace its ancestry back to the first Gene Lords—those who had shaped their bloodlines into perfection over centuries of selective mutation.
Kael had no crest. No lineage. No right to even stand on the same street as those banners.
"By decree of the High Gene Council," the herald's voice boomed, amplified by aetheric runes embedded in the platform's frame, "Kael Ardyn, you stand convicted of gene theft, assault upon an heir of House Draeven, and willful defiance against lawful authority. You have been judged guilty. The sentence is death, to be carried out immediately."
The words struck harder than the cold.
Gene theft. As if a man born crestless could steal something he'd never been allowed to touch.
Kael kept his gaze forward, locking eyes with no one. He wasn't here to plead, wasn't here to beg. The Council would get no satisfaction from seeing him break.
"Any last words?" the herald asked, almost mechanically.
Kael inhaled, the damp air sharp in his lungs. His voice came low but steady.
"Yeah. Tell your masters…" He lifted his chin toward the viewing balcony where the Council envoy sat under a canopy of silk. "…I wasn't born to kneel."
A ripple moved through the crowd—gasps, mutters, the hiss of disapproval.
The envoy's expression didn't change.
---
The executioner stepped forward.
He was a giant of a man, his armor a seamless mesh of gene-tempered crimson plates. In his hands was a blade unlike any Kael had seen before—long, slightly curved, and shimmering faintly, as if reality bent around its edge.
A gene-forged weapon. Created to cleave through enhanced muscle, hardened bone, even reinforced aether channels.
The executioner's eyes met Kael's. They were steady, calm. This wasn't personal. That made it worse.
He raised the blade.
---
Time slowed.
Kael's heart pounded in his ears. But with each beat came something strange—a faint vibration, almost a hum, threading through his bones.
Pain stabbed through his chest, sudden and blinding, as if someone had driven a hot spike through his heart. He gasped, knees buckling.
The sound around him dulled, like the world had been plunged underwater.
And then he heard it.
—Subject identified.
The voice was inside his head. It was cold, mechanical, yet layered with something older, heavier.
Initiating survival protocol.
"What—" The word barely left his lips before the pain exploded outward, ripping through every nerve. His skin rippled, veins bulging as if trying to escape.
Genetic anomaly detected. Sequence: Forbidden Class—Designation "Eclipse." Compatibility: 99.87%.
His cuffs snapped. Not loosened—snapped, shards of carbonsteel scattering like brittle glass.
Gasps tore through the crowd.
The executioner's blade fell—
Kael's hand shot up, catching the edge between elongated, darkened claws that had replaced his fingernails. Sparks flew as claw met gene-forged steel.
The executioner's eyes widened a fraction.
Kael didn't give him time to react. A surge of strength rippled through his limbs, alien yet familiar, as if his body had been waiting for this moment. He shoved the blade aside, sending the executioner stumbling back.
The crowd erupted into chaos.
---
Adaptation required. Environmental threat level: lethal. Authorizing initial mutation.
The voice threaded through Kael's thoughts, calm in the middle of his storming heartbeat.
His vision sharpened until he could see the tiny tremors in the executioner's grip, the minute cracks in the wooden boards beneath him. He could smell the fear bleeding from the guards at the platform's edge.
Then came the second wave of pain.
It was different—less like burning, more like tearing. His back arched as something pushed from beneath his shoulder blades. His muscles swelled, fibers twisting into denser cords. With a sickening crack, two jagged, bone-like protrusions tore through his skin, curving backward like hooked spines.
Blood dripped down his back, steaming in the cold air.
The nearest guard froze, eyes wide. Kael moved before fear could become action, his claws slicing clean through the man's spear. A flick of his wrist sent the guard sprawling.
Another rushed from behind—Kael spun, using one hooked spine to slam into the attacker's chest. The man crumpled, armor denting inward.
Mutation stabilized. Survival probability: 68%.
"Who are you?" Kael hissed under his breath.
Designation: Ascendant Codex. Directive: Ensure host survival and optimal evolution.
"Optimal—" He ducked a crossbow bolt. "—evolution?"
You will adapt. Or you will die.
---
From the balcony, the Council envoy's voice rang out, amplified by the runes.
"Do not let him escape! That is the Forbidden Gene! Kill him before—"
Kael didn't wait to hear the rest. His body moved on instinct, darting between the guards, vaulting over the platform's edge. He hit the cobblestones hard but kept moving, weaving through the screaming crowd.
Arrows hissed past his ears. A halberd slashed at his side—he twisted away, letting the momentum carry him into a narrow alley.
The Codex's voice came again, quieter but sharper.
North. Thirty meters. Sewer access.
He didn't question it. His feet pounded against the stone, claws scraping as he rounded a corner. The air grew damp and foul—an iron grate loomed ahead. He tore it free with one pull and dropped into darkness.
Water splashed around his legs. The stench was overwhelming, but it masked his trail. He staggered forward, every muscle burning, every heartbeat echoing in his ears.
Mutation strain at 43%.
"Strain?" he rasped.
Your body was not prepared for activation. You will collapse unless stabilized.
"Then stabilize me."
Affirmative.
The voice fell silent. And then the pain hit him again—rolling through his bones like molten metal, knitting torn muscle, sealing wounds. His claws retracted slightly, the spines on his back folding closer to his body.
His breath slowed. His vision dimmed.
Somewhere in the black water and stone, the Codex whispered—soft enough to almost be a dream.
This is only the beginning, Kael Ardyn.
He didn't ask how it knew his name. Some part of him already knew the truth.
This thing had been waiting for him.
And the world had no idea what was coming.