The room was still, save for the faint hum of machinery behind the walls.
Sym sat cross-legged on his bed, the single dim light above casting cold shadows across the walls.
On the floor beside him rested a simple metal tray, dented from years of use.
It held a bowl of vegetable soup, a hunk of dry bread, and two pale sausages with little flavor but just enough texture to trick his stomach into satisfaction.
He ate in silence, methodically, the metal spoon clicking softly against the bowl's rim. Sage had scanned the food in advance, no sedatives, no toxins, no neuro-triggers. Just calories. Just sustenance. Just enough.
"Clear," Sage had said. "Organic base components. Minimal spice. Likely synthesized. Functional."
It wasn't Horta-I. Not even close. There was no sensual euphoria here, no memory-triggering explosions of taste. Just fuel.
But fuel was enough.
When the bowl was empty, he placed it neatly back on the tray, rose to his feet, and walked across the room to the wall-mounted mirror that almost blended into the wall as if not there. The reflection that stared back still felt wrong.
Curly hair, brown eyes, which were soft and almost melancholic.
Tanned skin, not from sunlight but likely genetics. A slim build, wiry, more than weak. Average height, maybe eighteen years old, the old Sym didn't know the concept of birthdays, just making it another day was a surprise.
The number 33 was stitched in small gray thread above the chest on his plain black clothing. No name. No title. Just a number.
He reached up, brushed a hand across the fabric.
"Thirty-three," he murmured. "Why that number?"
"Unknown," Sage replied. "Numerical assignments may correspond to experiment sequence, survival order, or facility logistics. Too little data to determine."
Sym stared into the mirror, eyes narrowing.
It made him feel less like a person and more like a product. A specimen in a catalog.
His mind wandered, circling back to Emanuel's words.
Faux Skill. The phrase clung to him like a wet shroud.
He didn't know why it bothered him so much, maybe because it placed a ceiling above his head, a limitation he hadn't chosen. Emmanuel's words lingered in his mind.
"Your skill is synthetic. Not true. Not blessed. It's less."
He turned slightly, watching the reflection of his own posture. Stronger than the old him, yes, but something about the way the strength settled in his limbs felt... forced. Installed. Not earned.
Then his thoughts drifted to the red halo that pulsed around his [Boost] skill. Unlike Sage's soft blue, this one burned faintly.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall.
"Is that why it glows red?" he asked quietly. "Because it's not real? Because it doesn't belong?"
Sage was quiet for a moment before answering.
"Color-coded data systems often indicate risk, power tier, or volatility. Red may signify danger, or incompleteness."
Sym looked back at the mirror. At the stranger who now wore his name.
"I need to know what this thing does," he muttered. "Before someone else finds out first."
He stepped away from the mirror.
Then a knock could be heard coming from the door.
The knock was softer this time, more rhythmic than before. Three calculated taps, like the knock itself, had been rehearsed. Expected.
Sym turned to the door, almost anticipating Emanuel's arrival. He sat down on the edge of the bed, back straight, gaze calm. Performance mode: engaged.
The door slid open with a muted hiss, and Emanuel stepped in, still holding his clipboard, still dressed in that unassuming lab coat that somehow made him more unnerving.
His glasses caught the room's dim light and reflected it back like twin coins.
"Good morning, Thirty-Three," he said with that familiar, polite chill. "How are you feeling?"
Sym offered a casual shrug. "Fine. A little strange, maybe. Head feels... funny. But otherwise, I feel alright."
Emanuel nodded thoughtfully, making a note on his clipboard.
"That's good," he said. "It's natural to feel... disoriented. The process rewrites more than just biology. Consciousness undergoes recalibration. You'll start unlocking pieces of yourself soon, abilities tied to your unique resonance with the system."
Sym kept his expression steady, neutral. Inside, though, the phrase echoed: unlocking pieces.
That's what had happened when he stimulated the gem. That was the trigger. That screen, the interface, was the system.
The same thing Emanuel was describing now. He had already activated it. Already taken the first step. He just hadn't told anyone.
Emanuel continued, unaware.
"Now that your system has likely been engaged, it will begin to introduce basic information. Then, you'll become aware of your skill and learn to use it."
Sym nodded slowly, pretending to take it all in for the first time.
"Before that," Emanuel added, "you'll be allowed out. First to the common area, then to the cafeteria. You'll be under observation, but you'll be able to move around. Get used to the facility."
Sym folded his arms. "How many of us are there?"
Emanuel adjusted his glasses with a small flick of his wrist.
"Seven," he replied. "All fully conscious now. And a few of them have already begun interfacing with their system. Those subjects have entered the next phase, understanding and control of their skill."
So the others had made it. At least six more Awakened were walking these halls. And one of them, already ahead.
Sym stored the information away like a blade behind his back.
He glanced down at the black uniform he wore, at the stitched 33 on his chest. "This number... is that how I'll be identified?"
Emanuel smiled, faint and professional.
"Yes. Thirty-three will be your designation within the Power Research Group. It streamlines data tracking, hierarchy mapping, and cross-faction records. Names tend to get... complicated."
Sym stared at the number again, expression unreadable.
"Understood," he said finally.
"Good," Emanuel said, already turning toward the door. "Food will arrive shortly. After your next session, you'll begin orientation with the others. I suggest you get some rest or prepare yourself. Things move quickly, once they start."
Emanuel remained by the door, hand resting lightly on the clipboard as if considering whether to stay or leave.
But something in his posture shifted, his casual demeanor darkening, eyes sharpening behind the glint of his glasses.
"I should mention," he said, "what to expect when you begin truly interfacing with your system."
Sym didn't move, but his gaze lifted, alert, ready.
Emanuel took a step closer. His tone lowered, taking on a weight that hadn't been there before.
"You'll see a few core metrics. The most important one is your Level. It's the clearest marker of your growth. The higher your level, the more powerful you are, physically, mentally, and spiritually. It's not just symbolic. It's foundational."
He tapped the side of his clipboard absently.
"Leveling, however, is... difficult. There's no shortcut. No injections. No artificial help. The only known path forward is through action. Struggle. Trial. Killing."
Sym tilted his head slightly. "Killing?"
Emanuel nodded. "Specifically, magical creatures. The anomalies that crawl through the gates. Slay them, and you evolve. It's the only consistent pattern we've tracked. The system responds to conflict. It rewards survival. Violence."
Sym frowned inwardly at the word.
Magic.
Creatures.
This validates his theories. It wasn't just a new planet. This was a new law of reality. Nothing Sage or he had studied could prepare them for this, because the world itself bent under different rules. Unquantifiable. Wild. Chaotic.
He said nothing, letting the weight of the revelation settle while Sage quietly cataloged every word.
Emanuel continued. "Once your system is stable, you'll see more. Your Skill will be displayed, name, function, and any special effects tied to it. I believe you've already accessed part of it, yes?"
Sym blinked, then nodded slowly. He knew Sage had allowed him to bypass the process. "Maybe. A screen. A list."
"That's your foundation," Emanuel confirmed. "In time, you'll learn how to wield it, how to push it further."
He turned, halfway through the door, before glancing back.
"There's also an Achievements category. You'll see it listed. Don't worry about it for now. It only becomes relevant at higher levels, and as urban legends tell, these achievements will combine and become a title at certain waypoints in your leveling."
"Why?" Sym asked.
Emanuel paused, then gave the faintest smile.
"Because achievements aren't just milestones. They're... thresholds. Allegedly, sometimes they grant more than titles, it shapes a lot of your path forward, but fainting a title is simply too rare at this point, and you should not worry about it."
Then he stepped into the hallway, his voice the last thing Sym heard before the door sealed shut behind him.
"Rest. I'll return later."
Sym didn't reply. He just watched the door.
Then he turned, slowly, and sat back down on the bed.
The words buzzed in his head.
Level. Monsters. Achievements. Magic.
Thresholds.
He had a lot to consider.