The hum of the estate's atmospheric processors was the only sound in the early morning stillness of Sector D. It was a low, rhythmic vibration that Roman had begun to associate with the heartbeat of this world—a mix of ancient stone and cutting-edge circuitry. He pushed himself out of the med-pod's lingering warmth, his joints popping with a satisfying clarity that felt entirely alien to him.
The Stage 1 Bone Refining process from the night before had been a violent success. As he moved, he felt a strange, gritty sensation on his skin. Looking down, he saw a film of grey, metallic impurities that had been pushed out through his pores—the "dross" of a biological frame being rebuilt. In the Star Cultivation Manual, this was known as the First Purgation. To the rest of the world, it was just the messy reality of being a Mortal Rank cultivator.
He made his way toward the bathroom, a compact space of polished chrome, brushed steel, and smart-glass that adjusted its temperature based on his proximity.
The Sonic Purgation
With a sharp gesture, Roman activated the Sonic Shower. In this era of Terra, water was a luxury reserved for the high-tier sectors and the Central Continent; here in Sector D, hygiene was a matter of physics.
He stepped into the booth, and a curtain of high-frequency vibrations and pressurized, ionized mist swept over him. The sonic waves didn't just wash him; they vibrated against his very cells, shaking loose the metallic grime and the lingering scent of the medical bay.
As the vibrations hummed against his chest, Roman closed his eyes, visualizing the energy pathways he had studied. He could feel the Lightning Snake bloodline—usually a dormant, cold thread—reacting to the sonic frequencies. It felt like a string on a lute being plucked by an invisible hand. The Earth-rank potion was still circulating in his system, acting as a catalyst, fusing his old world's mental discipline with this world's raw power.
When the cycle finished, a blast of warm, dry air buffed his skin until it glowed. He felt lighter, his muscles possessing a springiness that the original Roman had never known. Then, he turned to the mirror.
The Gaze of the Galaxy
The steam cleared from the smart-glass interface, and Roman froze. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they touched the cool surface of the mirror.
"What... is this?" he whispered.
The boy in the reflection was the same Roman Carter who had been beaten at the cliffside, yet the soul within had forced a physical evolution. His hair, which had been a dull, mousy brown—a trait of the weaker branch families—had turned a stark, shimmering white. It wasn't the dull white of age or the silver of the Moon-Clan cultivators; it was the brilliant, sterile white of a star's core or the flash of a high-voltage arc. It looked like spun silk made of pure energy.
But it was his eyes that truly stopped his heart.
They were no longer the simple brown of his father, Damien. They had transformed into the color of an ancient, primordial forest—a deep, vibrant green that seemed to hold its own light. Scattered across the irises were tiny, brilliant white dots, like a cluster of distant stars or a localized nebula caught in a green sky.
Roman leaned in, his nose nearly touching the glass. As he focused his intent, the white dots began to swirl in a slow, celestial orbit. Deep within the emerald depths of his pupils, tiny, microscopic fractals of white electricity leaped and danced. It was a thunderstorm trapped within a woodland glade.
In the old Roman's memories, the Lightning Snake bloodline manifest was a faint blue flicker that barely reached the skin. This was something else entirely. It was as if the "Snake" had consumed the "Star Manual" and birthed something nameless.
"I can't go out like this," Roman muttered.
At Sector D's Central Academy, appearance was a direct indicator of power. A student with white hair and star-flecked eyes would be seen as a freak or, worse, a genius with a mutated bloodline. If Brent Carter or his father's rivals saw this, they wouldn't wait for him to grow strong. They would cut him down while he was still in the Bone Refining stage.
He reached into the vanity cabinet and pulled out a canister of Nano-Pigment Spray. It was a common grooming tool used by teenagers to change their hair color for fashion or to hide their bloodline traits. With a practiced hand, he sprayed the fine mist over his head. The brilliant white was slowly smothered by a dull, unremarkable brown.
The eyes, however, were a problem. The smart-glass mirror detected his distress and offered a solution: Neural-Tint Contacts.
He pulled the small, translucent discs from their sterile casing. As they touched his eyes, the smart-material synced with his optic nerve, overlaying a brown tint that masked the forest-green depths and the dancing white sparks.
"The mask is on," he said to the reflection. "For now."
The Shadow of the Academy
A chime sounded at the door, followed by the soft hiss of the intercom. "Young Master," Maria's voice came through, sounding worried. "The grav-transport is idling at the gate. Master Damien left for the mining docks an hour ago, but he left your academy uniform in the molecular stabilizer. He... he asked me to remind you to be careful today."
Roman moved to the stabilizer, a tall metallic closet that used UV light and ozone to keep clothes in a state of perfect preservation. He pulled out the sleek, charcoal-grey uniform of the Academy.
The fabric was a smart-fiber blend, designed to be tear-resistant and heat-conductive. It was meant to protect students during combat practice, though for the old Roman, it had mostly just been a uniform that got dirty as he was pushed into the mud.
As he clipped his Student ID to his lapel—Roman Carter, Level 2, Year 2—he felt a surge of cold resolve. He checked his reflection one last time. Beneath the fake brown hair and the tinted eyes, a god was waiting to wake up.
He thought of Damien, currently at the docks, selling his soul and his legacy to pay for Roman's recovery. He thought of Brent, who was likely sitting in the Academy's high-tier lounge right now, bragging about how he had finally "cleared the trash" from the family.
"Today," Roman whispered, "the trash learns how to bite back."
He grabbed his satchel, which contained his tablet and a few Profound-rank energy cells, and walked out of the room. He didn't walk with the slouch of a defeated boy. He walked with the measured, predatory grace of a predator who had found its way into the sheep's pen.
The transport hummed outside, its anti-gravity plates vibrating the air. Roman stepped onto the street of Sector D, the neon signs of the city flickering in the morning smog. The Academy was waiting. The world of Terra was waiting.
And he was no longer just a snake.