The shattered glass of the observation room refracted a cold gleam under the sterile lights. Miguel's hand, still clamped around the leader's throat, had turned a translucent, bloodless white from the sheer force of his grip. Beneath the skin, those circuit-like dark purple energy lines trembled violently, then began to rapidly fade. The power that had erupted from the depths of his soul now receded like the tide, draining all strength from his muscles.
"You…" Miguel's voice hadn't fully made it out of his throat when the scene before his eyes began to twist and warp without order.
He felt himself falling into a bottomless abyss. The terrified shouts of the surrounding researchers and the shrill alarms receded quickly into the distance. In the end, all his senses converged into a nauseating sensory overload—his brain felt as if the final fuse had burned out, plunging him into total darkness.
The leader slid clumsily down the broken edge of the glass, coughing violently and gasping in the air laced with scorched fumes. Yet when he looked up at the collapsed Miguel, his usually inscrutable eyes were filled with tears. It was ecstasy—an unhinged excitement born of a decades-old obsession finally reaching its end.
"It worked... it really worked…" he wiped his tears with trembling hands, staring obsessively at the residual traces of the experiment still flickering on Miguel's skin. "Even better than I imagined. This 'vessel' is not merely a container—he's reshaping... The plan is no longer just an empty fantasy."
He spun around and barked at the trembling guards by the door, "Move carefully! Bring him to the S-class recovery ward. I want him alive—not a single hair missing!"
"I'm afraid you won't be taking him anywhere."
A calm, magnetic voice rang out from beyond the observation room.
A man in a deep gray coat, appearing to be in his early thirties, stood at the end of the corridor. He held a weathered leather binder in one hand and wore a pair of silver-rimmed glasses that didn't make him look old at all. In this space steeped in technological brutality and the stench of blood, his scholarly elegance seemed entirely out of place.
The leader's expression darkened instantly. He glared at the newcomer, gritting out a name through clenched teeth: "Director… You actually crawled out from your pile of useless paper to meddle in this?"
"You and I both know," the Director said with a mild smile, voice as calm as if discussing tomorrow's weather, "that if you throw him into the S-Zone today, the original report on the 'true deviation rate of subject assimilation' will appear on the Supreme Command's desk within thirty minutes."
The leader's pupils narrowed. He and the Director had once been classmates at the same elite academy. Back then, one had delved into forbidden energy research, while the other was immersed in an ocean of ancient texts. He knew better than anyone just how many damning "old accounts" this seemingly frail librarian held in his hands.
"You haven't changed. Still playing games in all the wrong places," the leader sneered, then finally waved his hand, signaling his men to stand down. "Take him, then. I've already got the key experimental data I need. He's nothing more than a fixed prototype now."
The Director ignored the sarcasm and quietly walked over to Miguel, gently lifting him up.
When Miguel opened his eyes again, the first thing he smelled was a blend of old paper, dried flowers, and a faint hint of pine—completely unlike the nauseating chemical stench of the lab.
He instinctively tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his ribs and arms made him gasp. Looking down, he saw his upper body wrapped in clean bandages. The wounds still ached, but the feeling of his bone marrow being scorched by mutant energy was gone.
It was a rustic guest room. The bookshelves reached the ceiling, and heavy curtains blocked out the sunlight outside.
"You're awake? Two hours earlier than I expected."
The Director sat not far away in a cushioned armchair, flipping through a book. He turned his head and offered a warm smile. "This is a private dormitory inside the National Library. Don't worry—those men in uniform won't get in here for now."
"You saved me?" Miguel asked warily, eyes fixed on him.
"More precisely, I bargained for you," the Director replied evenly, setting the book aside. "But you'll need to prepare yourself mentally. To pull you out of that pit, I had to agree to the army's terms—Miguel Wegenstadt, from this moment on, you are 'erased' from all military records. Officially, you died in that experimental explosion."
Miguel froze.
Erased. That word carried enormous weight. Once, for the sake of revenge, he had forced himself into that uniform—it was the only identity he had. And now, he had lost his comrades, his captain… and finally, even that cold, metallic name tag.
"Then… who am I now?" Miguel looked down at his hands, voice hollow.
"You can be yourself." The Director saw his confusion and stood, pointing to the window. "If it feels stuffy in here, you can take a walk down the library corridors. There's a lot of history you've never seen—maybe you'll find something helpful. But remember: never go beyond the front gate, or the 'trouble' outside will make things difficult for both of us."
He walked to the door, then paused as if remembering something.
"I have to go. Need to handle a certain 'troublesome genius.' Young Master of the Allenbell family has been poking around forbidden texts again. If he digs too deep, he might end up in the same place you just crawled out of."
The door closed softly. Silence returned.
Miguel tried to stand. His body felt heavier than before. With each step, that hidden power under his skin seemed eager to move. He walked to the desk and saw an old, worn booklet lying on top.
It was the one he knew best. The cover was blank, but the frayed corners told him everything—he had seen the captain hold and flip through it countless times.
The captain's diary.
Hands trembling, Miguel opened to the first page.
"March 12. Sent off two more young ones today. My report looks good: 'bravely sacrificed.' But I know it was because my retreat order came five seconds too late. I'm beginning to doubt—does this 'radiance' built on corpses truly mean anything? I even thought about resigning tomorrow, just walking away from this damned place…"
Miguel's fingers clenched tight. The man he worshipped like a war god… had wavered?
He kept reading.
"June 5. Met a kid named Miguel. Seventeen. Eyes full of fire—just like me at that age. That fire might burn him, or it might light the way for others. Even though the ( ) Squad is still dead last, seeing those clumsy guys sweat so hard just to improve a little—I feel I can't leave. If even the 'captain' gives up, who will shine a light for these forgotten 'parentheses'?"
Miguel collapsed onto the cold floor, holding the diary tightly to his chest. Tears fell without warning, soaking the yellowed pages.
In his darkest, most helpless days, it was the captain who had reached out and pulled him from the cold shadow of "Blood Blade." He had always thought he was the one bringing glory to the squad, never realizing it was these "weaklings" and that always-smiling man quietly mending his broken soul.
"...I'm sorry, Captain… I didn't light the way for anyone…" Miguel choked.
In that moment, a soft ray of light slipped through the curtains and pooled at his feet.
Miguel looked up, vision blurred. In that beam, he saw a familiar silhouette—the captain, hat worn askew, that silly blank badge swinging from his chest.
The captain said nothing. He just grinned like always, then pulled from his coat a half-torn piece of coarse bread, its scent full of wheat.
"Stop crying, rookie. Eat something first. Then we'll figure out how to make this damned night a little less dark."
Miguel reached out, fingers grazing air. The vision vanished like smoke.
He gripped the battered diary tighter. The confusion in his eyes was gone—replaced by something steadier, deeper. He understood now: even if his name was erased, even if his body had become a monster… as long as he hadn't gone out, the fire the captain lit would keep on burning.