The walls—once stone and reinforced with steel—gradually gave way to an unknown alloy. Each of Elion's steps echoed with a heavy thunk. The lights embedded in the walls shifted in quality. They no longer felt artificial. It was almost like sunlight—warm and real… which was impossible, considering they were kilometers beneath the earth's surface.
The thin, gray-haired agent escorting him finally stopped and turned.
"You probably already know what's going to happen, but I'm required to inform you anyway."
Elion nodded silently.
"First, gazing at the Hand can be disorienting—deeply so—so I suggest you avoid looking at it directly. You'll need to place a drop of your blood on its index finger. If you're not Unlocked, nothing will happen. But if you are… brace yourself."
He exhaled sharply and gestured for Elion to follow.
Shapes emerged ahead—four people, maybe five—waiting in line before a sealed bulkhead. Their expressions were tense, their postures rigid with unease.
"Wait here. When it's your turn, enter and offer your blood to the Hand. None will be in the room with you. Prolonged exposure is dangerous, but don't worry—we're monitoring everything and will intervene if necessary."
Without further comment, the agent turned and walked away. Elion took his place at the end of the line. Faint whispers reached his ears.
"I hope I'm not Unlocked..."
"Why? Being Unlocked is basically a blessing. Don't you remember what happened to Horis? With how things are now, having a way to defend ourselves is mandatory."
"Fool. You say that, but you'll just end up dying on a recon mission you didn't even ask for."
"Like hell I will!"
One by one, the others went in. Each emerged visibly shaken, but otherwise unchanged. After a few minutes, the heavy bulkhead unlocked with a low hiss and slowly swung open, inviting Elion in. The alloy it was made from seemed different—less ethereal than the rest of the shrine, clearly added after its discovery.
The room beyond was bathed in a light so pure, so impossibly white, it felt alien. The ceiling formed a smooth dome, seemingly the source of the light. A massive circle etched with black lines was carved into the floor. At its center hung a long metal arm suspended from above, wrapped in a jungle of wires that pulsed with dark energy.
At the end of the arm was a much more human-like forearm made of steel, followed by a metallic hand. The forearm looked grafted onto the larger mechanical limb, almost grotesquely fused.
The moment Elion laid eyes on it, nausea surged through him. His breathing grew ragged, and his chest tightened. There was something wrong about this thing—something that shouldn't exist. It looked small, yet felt impossibly vast, infinitely so, like space itself was bending around it.
He quickly looked away. The feeling eased, though only slightly.
Approaching slowly, heart pounding louder with every step, he forced himself to take another glimpse.
All the fingers were curled into a fist—except the index, which pointed straight at him. The sharp tip gleamed with a dark radiance.
Elion took a deep breath before placing his own index finger on it. The metal sliced through his skin effortlessly—sharper than any scalpel. Blood welled, then vanished, absorbed instantly by the Hand.
For a moment, nothing happened. Relief started to creep in, but it was fleeting. The Hand's thumb snapped down, clamping over his finger like a vise.
He gasped, stumbling back, eyes drawn once again to the Hand—and immediately regretting it. A headache slammed into him like a hammer. Pain surged through his body, radiating from his finger. It felt like thousands of needles driving into the bone.
His face twisted in agony. He screamed, shattering the eerie stillness of the shrine.
A voice entered his mind—soothing, serene, even, but utterly alien. The words were indecipherable at first, drowned beneath his scream. Then black lines began appearing along his finger—symbols, script from a language he couldn't comprehend. The voice sharpened, grew clearer. A few words emerged from the noise:
"Voice." "Guidance." "Infinity."
The pain intensified, his thoughts close to shattering—then, just as suddenly, it all vanished.
Elion collapsed onto the cold alloy floor, his body limp. The Wretched Hand released his finger. The markings spread from his index down his right forearm, glowing like gold. The symbols were still unreadable—but the melodious voice chimed again:
[The Voice of God has been implemented successfully… Unlocked: Rotten Sun, pleased to meet you.]
Elion barely registered the words before darkness swallowed him.
...
"So that's Golden Thread's son."
"He looks nothing like his father."
At the sound of voices, Elion's eyes fluttered open. He lay on a small bed, his head heavy but free from the unbearable pain. Glancing down at his hand, he saw the strange text still etched into his skin—just like the inscription he'd once seen on his father's finger. The mark of the Voice of God.
The people speaking noticed him stir.
"Awake, Sir Elion? Do you feel alright?"
A brown-haired man approached. His emerald eyes and friendly smile made him look trustworthy.
Sir? Never been called that before…
Elion nodded, masking his confusion.
"Good. I know this might be overwhelming, but you'll get used to it." The man frowned slightly. "The next train to Goreth will be there tomorrow morning. It'll bring you to S33."
S33—the base in Goreth. That's where the expeditions to find the First Finger departed, twice a year. The team usually consisted of two Second Fingers and a few First Fingers to escort the newly Unlocked through the depths, where the nearest First Finger was located.
The man hesitated, a question clearly on his lips, but he didn't ask it. Instead, he extended his hand.
"I'm Unlocked Jeff, by the way. Pleasure to meet you."
Elion shook his hand tentatively.
Jeff continued, gesturing to a silver-haired woman in camo-green clothing behind him.
"That's Kelly. If you need anything, come find us." He paused. "We'll let you, uh… figure out how the thing in your head works now."
With that, he turned and walked away, his long coat trailing behind him.
Nice of him to leave me alone. Better than a certain someone.
Elion chuckled softly. Taking a moment to breathe and take in what just happened, he looked at his arm again. Almost as if responding to his gaze, the ancient script on his finger began glowing golden, extending up his arm in shifting, fluid symbols. When his eyes focused on them, the Voice returned.
The text on his finger—the part visible to others—was his true name, or rather the name assigned to him by the Voice of God. It didn't care about what name his parents had scribbled on his birth record. It only cared about what he was.
The Voice translated it:
[Name: Rotten Sun]
How charming…
The next line read his nature:
[Description: A lost soul finding solace in the study of the past. A peerless existence bound to both good and evil. The streak of darkness that rots the sun.]
Uh… I don't really know what to make of that.
He shook his head and looked to the next line.
[Ability: Bearer of Truth]
[Description: You are able to witness the threads that constitute all. Your gaze may unravel lies and expose the nature of things.]
Elion frowned, rereading the description several times. As a historian, it was undeniably a blessing. But as a fighter? He couldn't see the usefulness.
That meant he'd have to rely on others to survive. Something he despised above all else.
He clicked his tongue in frustration.
How do I activate it?
Abilities were supposed to be instinctual for the Unlocked. So, he willed it—reaching inward with intent. Just like that, everything around him changed.