1st Day
The installation had begun.
Om sat cross-legged in the center of the room, his back straight, eyes steady. Around him, silence prevailed—thicker than any solitude he'd known before.
[Master, stage one initiated.]
He closed his eyes and let his body relax.
He focused on the patterns and sensations rising within.
The vibrations were faint at first. Almost ignorable.
But within minutes, they grew.
His heart pounded against his ribs—not from fear, but from the unfamiliar force threading through his bloodstream. His cells trembled, his nerves buzzing like exposed wires.
Suddenly—itching. On his right forearm. Then his left. Then the base of his spine.
He opened his eyes, looked down.
Golden patterns shimmered faintly beneath his skin—Sanskrit syllables, slowly surfacing from within like ancient codes being remembered by flesh.
"…It's happening."
[These are structural syllables. Layer one complete.]
He smiled faintly.
Then clenched his teeth.
Pain hit.
Not sudden. Not sharp. But endless. As if his nerves were being used as instruments, each pulled to resonate with a sound too pure for the human body.
He didn't scream. But his breath grew harsh, ragged.
Still, he endured.
---
2nd Day
He hadn't moved in hours.
The syllables had now spread to his shoulders and chest—curling like living tattoos, warm and shimmering.
Sweat beaded across his skin—gold-tinted. Shimmering when it caught the light.
Even the air around him felt different—heavier, like a sanctum.
[Neurological updates progressing. Remain still.]
He blinked.
The ceiling pulsed.
Not in reality—but in perception.
"I can see… sound?" he muttered.
[Your senses are expanding. Sound, touch, heat—they're overlapping.]
His body shook violently for a moment. He coughed—and noticed his blood clotted immediately, turning into a speckled crystal on the floor.
"...Not normal."
[Adaptive blood response. Expected.]
He smiled—barely.
---
3rd Day
A crack formed—deep in his spine.
His body arched backward without his will. It adjusted, reshaping subtly—like a structure optimizing for energy flow.
He felt fluid. Not human. Not machine. Just... tuned.
And then—his throat burned.
Not from within, but across every cell of the vocal cords.
When he exhaled—
The air rippled.
It was soft. But the vibration spread. The desk creaked, papers fluttered, Zero's screen blurred for a second.
His voice now carried resonance. Not just sound—but weight.
[You are becoming a transmitter.]
He closed his mouth. The echo of his exhale still lingered, vibrating within the walls.
---
4th Day
His eyes were no longer his.
Not completely.
Circular mantras forming within his irises. Golden lines. Patterns ancient and unreadable—yet alive.
When he blinked, they rotated—subtle and silent, like a mechanism under sacred orders.
He no longer needed to "look."
He could see thoughts. He could feel vibrations coming from outside the room. Heartbeats. Movement. Breath.
"Zero… I feel like I'm not supposed to know this much."
[And yet, you do.]
He laughed faintly, eyes glowing softly.
---
5th Day
Pain returned.
Not dull, not sharp—but internal. Like his organs were singing and resisting at the same time.
His sweat now stained the floor in golden halos. His pulse beat like a drum, synchronizing with the glyphs across his skin.
The syllables moved—slightly, subtly—as if they were breathing.
Zero's voice no longer needed to speak.
Om could feel it inside his thoughts. No sound.
[Master, do not sleep. Almost done.]
He hadn't even noticed he was fading.
He forced himself to stay conscious.
The room pulsed gently—papers rising slightly into the air. Light bent near his outline.
He was becoming something else.
---
6th Day Evening
[Final phase.]
He rose to his feet, bare-chested, breath steady.
His skin looked like it was inscribed by a divine artisan—glowing symbols mapped across muscles, down his spine, trailing to his wrists.
His eyes reflected nothing normal anymore—only the Sanskrit script. His presence vibrated. Subtle. But real.
Dust shifted when he stepped forward. Light bent, ever so slightly.
He was no longer just Om.
He had become a form of resonance itself.
[Installation complete.]
{You good, kid?} the whip asked from the corner of the room.
Om smiled.
He felt pain—yes. But behind the pain, there was clarity. Strength. Structure.
He walked to the window and opened it.
Outside, snow still fell quietly.
But now, even the snow knew he had changed.