Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. Meng endured the endless training, the relentless sparring, the beatings that carved toughness into his bones. Slowly, painfully, his body transformed. By the time he turned fifteen, his small frame had become broad-shouldered, his muscles hardened like iron. Though his mind still trembled at the memory of pain, a new fire burned inside him—a mixture of survival, determination, and the hope that someday, he might turn the tables.
One morning, after being given his usual meager breakfast, Meng noticed something strange a slight bitterness in the food he ate. He felt drowsy almost immediately but didn't suspect anything at first. The tall man in the leather jacket appeared shortly after, his face unreadable.
"Jonathan wants to see you," the man said, grabbing Meng by the arm.
Meng struggled weakly, but his muscles felt heavy, his vision blurry. He was led to a dim, quiet room where Jonathan awaited, sitting behind his pristine desk, his sharp eyes glinting with cold amusement.
"So, the boy is awake," Jonathan said smoothly. "I have new plans for you."
Meng's heart sank. "Plans? What do you mean?" he asked, trying to stand upright, but the drowsiness clouded his mind, making it difficult to focus.
Jonathan leaned forward, voice calm yet merciless. "You're going somewhere else. A more… specialized place. There, you will be used for testing—chemicals, experimental medicines. You will be, in essence, a lab rat."
Meng's blood boiled with rage. "No! You can't! How can you—"
But his voice faltered as the sedative from his breakfast took full effect. His limbs grew heavy, his vision dimmed, and before he could react, his knees buckled. Darkness swallowed him.
When he awoke. He was lying on a cold, metal bed, his neck, hands, and legs bound tightly, his mouth was covered with tape. The bright, white walls reflected a harsh light that made his head spin. Meng's heart raced with panic and fury.
A white-coated doctor approached, clipboard in hand, regarding him with clinical detachment. "Subject awake. Begin the test," the doctor said, almost as if talking about an object, not a living boy.
Meng screamed but no sound come because of the tap, thrashed, and tried to break free, but the restraints held him firmly. The doctor injected chemicals, applied strange ointments, and tested various medicines on him. Pain seared through his body, sharp and unrelenting. His skin blistered, his muscles spasmed, and his bones ached as if they were breaking from within. Whenever his body weakened to the point of collapse, the doctors would heal him just enough to keep him alive never to ease his suffering, only to continue their tests.
Days bled into weeks, weeks into months. Meng lost track of time, except for the constant cycle of torment. At night, he would stare at the ceiling, unable to sleep from the agony. His mind replayed the faces of the men who had ruined his life, especially Jonathan. Each time, anger flared in his chest, but his body was too broken to act.
Three years passed like this. Meng's body had been tormented his ten fingers had become six, one of his legs was cut off, and one of his eyes had been gouged out. His entire body bore marks of being cuts and stitches, yet now he no longer felt pain.
The doctor entered with a new vial of liquid, dark and sinister. "A new poison," he murmured clinically, as if Meng wasn't even human. The injection burned like fire through his veins. Meng's vision blurred instantly, his heart hammering erratically. His body convulsed against the restraints, every nerve screaming in unbearable pain.
As the poison consumed him, Meng felt his strength fading. His breaths grew shallow, his vision dim. For the first time, he knew there would be no healing injection afterward. This was the end.
Tears slipped from the corners of his eyes as regret clawed at him. 'I couldn't take revenge… I couldn't escape… I couldn't even live properly. All I did was suffer.'
Memories of his childhood flashed—walking under the full moon, smiling at the thought of fantasy stories, believing heroes could rewrite fate. He wanted to become a big businessman so that he could live a luxurious life, marry a beautiful girl, and travel the world. Now, his fate ended here, in a cold laboratory, forgotten and broken.
Meng's last thought before darkness claimed him was bitter yet defiant: "If there is another life… I will not waste it. I will not be weak. I will become strong enough to crush everyone who cages me."
And with that vow echoing in his heart, Meng's body fell still, lifeless on the bed.
.
.
.
For a long moment, Meng felt nothing—no pain, no chains, no cold needles tearing into his flesh. Only an endless darkness surrounded him.
'Am I… dead?' he wondered, his last memories flashing back the poison coursing through his veins, his regret, his vow.
Then, suddenly, light pierced the darkness. Mengs gasped and his eyes flew open. He found himself lying on his chest, smooth black jade tiles glowing faintly under his body. He attempted to turn to sit up and look around however what he saw made his whole body shiver.