The air in the subterranean chamber was a cold, sterile breath, thick with the metallic tang of blood and the sharp, acrid bite of ozone. It clung to the tongue, a phantom taste of iron and burnt spirit. Overhead, a single, pulsating crystal, veined with sickly green light, cast long, wavering shadows across the polished obsidian floor. In the center, a slab of black jade, slick with residual fluids, held the grotesque centerpiece of the room.
Gong Xuelan, High Priestess of Chixia Gong, stood over it, her posture as precise and unyielding as the instruments laid out on a nearby silver tray. Her robes, the color of fresh snow, seemed to absorb the chamber's grimness, remaining pristine. Her gaze, usually as clinical and cutting as a scalpel, now held a flicker of something akin to disappointment, though it was swiftly masked.
"Useless waste," she murmured, her voice a low, resonant hum that vibrated through the very bones of the chamber. Her slender, pale fingers, tipped with perfectly manicured nails, gestured dismissively towards the figure on the slab. "Discard it. The chaotic qi consumed the vessel before true awakening. Another failure."
Her aides, cloaked figures whose faces were obscured by deep hoods, moved with practiced, silent efficiency. They approached the slab, their movements devoid of hesitation or empathy. The figure on the jade was undeniably male, or had been. Its skin, stretched taut and unnaturally pale, was crisscrossed with fine, crimson lines—failed meridian pathways that had ruptured under impossible spiritual pressure. A thin, almost feminine, grace still clung to the limbs, a haunting echo of the perfection Xuelan had sought.
As the aides reached for it, a tremor, imperceptible to all but the most sensitive instruments, passed through the body. A silent, agonizing reawakening.
Pain.
It was the first sensation. A searing, all-consuming fire that ripped through every nerve, every fiber, every atom of what he now was. It was the pain of a body torn apart and reassembled, of spirit forced into an unnatural mold. He was drowning in it, a silent scream trapped within a throat that could not yet form sound.
Then, a flicker of memory. Not his own, not yet. Fragments of images, like broken glass: the cold gleam of instruments, the hum of spiritual energy, Xuelan's face, close and intent, her breath a ghost against his skin. He was being made.
And then, the chilling realization. This body. It was not his. Not truly. It was a vessel, a construct. Every organ optimized, refined, yet unnaturally, disturbingly feminine in its underlying structure. The curve of the hips, the delicate set of the shoulders, the subtle, almost imperceptible softness of the musculature. It was a grotesque parody of his former self, a body designed for a purpose he could not yet fathom.
Identity: Fragmented → Multiplexed
A whisper, cold and clear, echoed not in the chamber, but within the very core of his shattered spirit. It was a voice without a source, a presence without form, yet undeniably there. It offered a chilling proposition.
New Function Unlocked: Survival ProtocolNote: Obey. Or cease.
The aides were lifting him now, their gloved hands impersonal, their movements precise. He was a slab of meat, a failed experiment, destined for the morgue. But within the shell of that discarded corpse, a consciousness was stirring, a malevolent will forging itself in the crucible of pain and betrayal.
His body, still limp and unresponsive to their touch, twitched. A single, almost imperceptible spasm of a finger. Then, slowly, agonizingly, the muscles in his back began to tense. Unseen, unheard, the failed vessel of Chixia Gong began to rise from the slab.