Laine's eyes snapped open.
The stench of the gutter still clung to him—bitter, sharp, unforgiving. Hunger gnawed at his belly, his body weak and trembling. But something was different. His right arm felt heavy, alive, burning with an energy he had never known.
Slowly, he lifted it.
And there it was. The mask.
Not on his face—but fused into his arm, black steel grown from his very flesh. Its single crimson eye pulsed faintly, steady as a heartbeat. It was alive. Watching.
Laine's breath shook.
"…This wasn't a dream."
The Ancestor's voice echoed again, carved into his soul: Live like a worm… or rise as a monster. A choice, a warning—and now, a command.
His palm trembled as he touched the edge of the mask. It was cold, yet alive. The surface throbbed beneath his fingertips, sending waves of heat into his veins. Whispers crowded his mind—distant laughter, screams, the clash of steel. It was power, raw and hungry, and it was inside him.
A rough voice broke his trance.
"Oi! The beggar's still alive!"
Laine turned. A group of thugs had gathered, their eyes lighting up with cruel amusement.
"Hahaha, look at his arm! Some scrap metal stuck to it. Makes him uglier than before."
They circled him like wolves. Rotten teeth glistened in the lamplight, their steps slow and deliberate. Laine's chest tightened. He had no strength left to fight.
One stepped forward, hand outstretched to grab him.
Then—the crimson eye flared.
Laine didn't move.
The thug screamed. Black chains erupted from the mask, writhing like living shadows. They shot forward, coiling around his arms and legs, dragging him down with bone-snapping force. His body slammed into the ground, dust and blood scattering across the stones.
The others froze, their laughter choking in their throats. Fear replaced mockery.
Laine stared at his own hand. His body was still weak, his stomach still empty—but inside him, something had awakened. The mask pulsed in rhythm with his heart, and a whisper echoed through him:
Hunger is no longer your weakness. Hunger is your weapon.
A faint smile tugged at his lips—broken, trembling, but real. For the first time in his life, people weren't looking at him with disgust.
They were looking at him with fear.
The chains retracted, melting back into the steel. Silence followed, but the pulse remained, steady and unrelenting. Laine could still feel it thundering inside him, a heartbeat that wasn't just his own.
He looked at the terrified faces around him, then down at his trembling hand.
"I am no longer the boy they ignored," he whispered to himself. His voice was raw but steady, carried by something more than desperation. "I am the storm they will never forget."
The thugs stumbled backward, unwilling to test him again. The street had seen him as trash moments ago. Now, they stepped away as if he were a beast in chains, dangerous and untouchable.
Laine rose to his feet, unsteady but unbroken. The mask's crimson eye dimmed to a faint glow, its whispers curling like smoke in his mind.
And in that glow, Laine knew: the world would never see him the same way again.