The courtyard was quiet again.
The cold stone against Seren's back did nothing to ground him. The bruises ached. His lip bled faintly. But it all felt far away — like watching someone else's pain through a wall of water.
Rain fell in a soft curtain. Not sharp. Not loud. Just constant.
By nightfall, the courtyard was soaked. Vines drooped. Benches shone with water. A single boy sat beneath the overhang of an old glasshouse. Unmoving. Eyes closed. Mouth slightly open. The rain touched him, but he didn't shiver. He didn't move at all.
He didn't return to Dorm Epsilon, the dorm he previously stayed
He never even tried.
When the dorm reassignment was made, no one said a word.
They didn't have to.
He walked to East Tower Annex. An old, forgotten wing of the academy, once part of the main structure, but now unused.
The Annex wasn't on any recent maps now.
By the time he arrived, the skies had cleared, but the steps were still muddy.
A single box sat at the entrance. Water-damaged. His name scribbled in marker.
S. Vael.
There was a box and Inside the box:
A few books.
Two robes.
A cracked Vein-stone — grey now. Useless.
He picked it up. Quietly.
No lights in the upper halls.
No noise from the other rooms.
Old dust. Cold stone. Cracks in the walls where mana-threading had once run.
Room 9A was his.
He didn't unpack.
He didn't eat properly.
It was fine until it started on the second night.
A screen appeared in front of him.
[System Alert: Fusion Instability Detected]
[Rejection Symptoms: Critical]
At first, it was a pressure behind his eyes — like something was pushing outward from the inside, trying to crack through bone and thought.
Then it got worse.
A low, searing heat crawled up his spine and into his skull. His blood felt thick. Too hot. Too alive.
He jolted upright, clutching his head.
A scream ripped from his throat — hoarse, feral, unrecognizable.
"Wh—what is—"
The words never finished.
The pain hit again.
Like claws beneath his ribs. Like his veins had turned to wire, twitching and pulling in opposite directions.
His limbs spasmed. His nails tore into his arms.
His vision pulsed red.
"Stop. Please—" he choked. "Stop, stop—make it sto—"
His voice failed.
His throat seized. His lungs burned.
He doubled over and vomited.
Water, first.
Then thick black ink, clotting on the floor before it evaporated into smoke.
He tried to call out — to scream, to beg, to curse —
But no sound came.
Only a dry rasp. A broken exhale.
The System flickered into view at the edge of his sight. Cold. Silent.
[Rejection Symptoms: Escalating]
[Cognitive Stability: Unstable]
[Soul Fusion: Incomplete]
[Recommendation: Isolation Mandatory]
He crawled into the corner of the room and curled up, body wracked with tremors.
The walls didn't answer.
The System didn't care.
There was no one left to hear him anyway.
—
By the third day, he could no longer control his movements.
His limbs jerked without command — fingers twitching like marionette strings had been attached to bone.
When he reached out to steady himself, his arm bent wrong — a sudden twist, followed by a pop of dislocated bone.
His lips moved — trying to form a word, a thought, a cry.
Nothing.
Only breath.
Only silence.
The voice returned. Not his. Not external.
"The third sigil requires blood… not just drawn. Gifted."
He didn't know the language — but it was inside him.
Burning its way through his skull.
"Ugh… s-stop… make it… stop…"
Or just one guttural syllable, almost instinctive:
"…Ugh…"
By the fourth night, the convulsions had grown sharper. Violent. Controlled by something that didn't feel like him.
Every hour, his body tore itself apart — then stitched itself back together in a slightly different shape.
His shoulder reformed. His spine cracked and settled. His eyes glowed beneath the skin.
He didn't scream anymore.
He couldn't.
His throat had stopped working. Raw. Ripped from too much use.
When his mouth opened, only a faint whimper emerged — like air escaping a broken vessel.
He dragged his fingernails across the floor, carving lines into the stone.
A prayer, maybe.
Or a warning.
Or just something to remind himself he was still here.
"…Ugh…"
By the sixth day, he was almost unrecognizable.
His hair had turned to scorched black, threaded with veins of silver like molten wire.
His skin—too pale, almost translucent. His eyes—glowing faintly, like dying stars.
The memories were worse than the pain.
He saw places he'd never been.
A woman offering him a book of skin-bound glyphs.
A tower that bled when the sun set.
His hands — or someone else's — signing a pact in blood.
The name came back again.
Ithrian Solmir.
He mouthed it. Soundless.
And then came the whisper — deep, cold, unshakable:
"You are not the first to wear this soul."
He sat in the dark, still breathing.
But not alive in the way he once was.
Not whole.
Not human.
Not anymore.
The sun filtered weakly through a cracked window.
Dust drifted through the beam like ash.
Seren sat on the edge of the broken bed, staring into a sliver of cracked mirror propped against the wall.
He blinked. Once.
A screen bloomed before him.
Elegant. Curved. Digital — but too precise to be man-made.
[Soul Synchronization Complete]
Duration: 7 Days, 18 Hours, 42 Minutes
Physical: 42 (+3)
Veincraft Affinity: 48 (+2)
Mental Fortitude: 117 (+57)
Soul Resilience: 65 (+10)
Seal Channeling Potential: 30 (+1)
Total Growth: +73 points
Mental stats unusually high. Reflects recent trauma and fusion effect.
He was taller. Barely half an inch — but he felt it in his stride.
His limbs longer.
His edges sharper.
The previous red hair was completely gone.
His hair had turned to scorched black, threaded with veins of silver like molten wire.
His skin—too pale, almost translucent. His eyes—glowing faintly, like dying stars.
The memories were worse than the pain.
He touched his face.
No pain. No warmth.
"…What is this…?"
His voice came out hoarse. Barely a whisper.
Like the throat it came from didn't belong to him anymore.
Just calm. Cold and quiet.
Like silence had made itself a home.
The screen faded.
The numbers were gone.
But their meaning hung in the air — sharp as glass and just as cold.
Seren blinked. Slowly.
The mirror shard caught his reflection again — the ash-black hair, the silver veins, the ghost-glow eyes.
His own face. Changed a bit
He swallowed, but the dryness didn't go away.
Something clawed inside his chest — not pain, not panic, just… weight.
This wasn't how a person was supposed to feel. Not after waking up. Not after surviving.
There was no relief. No light. No sense of "you made it."
Just this.
A silence too loud.
A body too still.
A feeling like something was watching — but from the inside.
Then the voice came.
No warning. No buildup.
Just:
"You look pathetic."
Not growled. Not distant.
It sounded like someone standing right beside him, arms crossed, unimpressed.
But there was no one there.
His head whipped around — nothing.
But the voice continued.
"You didn't even ask for this, did you? Just collapsed, and now here you are—
A scoff, dripping with disgust.
"You didn't even fight for it."
Seren opened his mouth — but no words came. Just a broken sound, dry and ugly, like a breath caught on glass.
The voice didn't wait.
"You curled up. Cried in your head. Let them toss you in this ruin like trash. And now you want to claim what? Survival? Power? A new name?"
His pulse spiked.
"You're not even a real Vael."
That one hit.
His hands clenched on instinct, fingernails digging into his palms.
The air around him hummed. No magic — just tension. Like the walls were holding their breath.
"…Shut up," he whispered.
"You were always a disappointment. A shadow pretending to be flesh. A broken lineage in a cracked body, begging to be called worthy."
"Shut up." Louder this time. Shakier.
"They pitied you, Seren. That's all you ever had. Pity."
"I SAID SHUT UP!"
He staggered forward, hands trembling, breath ragged.
But there was still no one there.
Just him.
And that echo.
The silence buzzed in his ears — too still, too loud.
Then the voice came again.
Not loud. Not strange.
His own. But twisted.
Dry. Bitter. Coiled tight with something he'd never let out.
"You never fought back. You let them break you."
His fists clenched.
"…No…" he rasped, throat scraped raw. "I… I did what I could."
But even as he said it, the words curdled in his mouth.
What did I do?
Really?
He stood there. Sat there. Took it.
Let them carve names into his back with whispers and still called it survival.
Let them measure him in silhouettes — and nodded like he deserved the numbers.
Another voice stirred. Older. Quiet.
Not foreign — just buried.
"You let them tell your story. And then you tried to live in it."
His breath hitched.
Callen's smug grin.
The professor's cold nod.
The hallway silence that stretched a little too long when he walked past.
Laughter behind walls that were just thin enough to hear — but thick enough to never be sure.
"His older brother would've handled it better."
"The kid's record is a mess. Can't even activate a spell clean."
He gritted his teeth.
The worst part wasn't what they said.
It was how quickly he started to believe it.
Why is it always someone else?
Why do I have to be someone else to be enough?
One was a prodigy. Another in officer trials. A sister who never even looked at him.
They had stories written in other dorms, other wings, other worlds.
And every time he breathed — someone else's name filled the air first.
But now? Something snapped..
"Who the fuck are they to decide what I am?"
The words cracked out of him, hoarse and sharp.
"I'm not their heir. I'm not their copy. I'm not their fucking ghost."
The bed creaked under his weight as he stood.
Eyes glowing faint.
Veins lit silver-blue under skin like paper.
And in his chest — not rage. Not grief.
Something colder.
"I'm done being their comparison."
A pause.
"I'm not him. I'm not them."
His eyes sharpened, voice low but sure.
"I'm me."