The dreams came whether he wanted them or not.
Morgan's face. Morgan's voice. Morgan's bare feet pressing down, down, down—
"Lick, pet. You know you want to."
Kael woke screaming into the darkness of the temple, alone except for the dust of a hundred kills and the hunger that never quite went away anymore.
His heart hammered against his ribs. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. For a terrible moment, he didn't know where he was—didn't know if the temple was real or the lab was real or anything was real except Morgan's laugh echoing in his skull.
Breathe. Breathe.
He forced air into his lungs. Forced his eyes to focus on the green-glowing pillars, the stone floor, the piles of dust that had been monsters.
Not the lab. Not Morgan. You're free.
Free.
The word felt hollow.
He lay back against the cold stone and let the memories take him. Fighting them only made them worse. He'd learned that years ago.
Let them come. Let them pass. Let them hurt.
They always hurt.
[FIVE YEARS EARLIER]
The first thing Kael learned in Morgan Whitmore's laboratory was that pain had flavors.
The second thing he learned was that begging made it worse.
He was eleven years old when he woke up in her world.
The room was white. Sterile. Bright lights that never turned off, that burned his eyes even when he squeezed them shut. Metal tables. Metal instruments. Metal smell in the air—blood and antiseptic and something chemical that made his nose burn.
His wrists were strapped down. His ankles too. He couldn't move, couldn't sit up, couldn't do anything except stare at the ceiling and wait.
She came three hours later.
He knew it was three hours because there was a clock on the wall—the old kind, with hands, not digital. He'd watched it move. Watched the hands crawl around the circle while his bladder filled and his throat dried and his mind raced through every possibility.
Rescue? No. His family was dead. He'd seen his father die. Seen his mother fall. Seen Michael's face twisted with terror as the space around him warped and—
Don't think about that. Don't think about them. Don't think.
The door opened.
She was beautiful.
That was the first thought that crossed his eleven-year-old mind, and it would haunt him forever. Morgan Whitmore at twenty, heir to one of the most powerful families on Earth, was breathtaking. Golden hair that fell in perfect waves. Green eyes that sparkled with intelligence. Skin that glowed like she'd never seen a day of hardship in her life.
She smiled, and for one stupid, desperate moment, Kael thought maybe—
"Awake, finally."
Her voice was music. Also poison.
She walked to his table, looked down at him, and her smile widened.
"You're smaller than I expected. The reports said eleven, but you look... eight? Nine?"
The ageless physique. Even at eleven, he looked younger. His mother had warned him about it—told him never to tell anyone, never to let strangers know. But the Whitmores hadn't asked. They'd taken.
"Can you talk, little one? Or did the explosion take that too?"
Kael said nothing.
Morgan's smile didn't waver. She reached out and touched his face—gentle, almost kind. Her fingers traced his cheekbone, his jaw, the line of his throat.
"Perfect bone structure," she murmured. "The ageless physique preserves more than just youth, apparently. You'll be beautiful forever."
Her hand slid lower, pressing against his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
"I wonder what else we'll find inside you."
That was the first day.
The second day, she came back with needles.
"Don't worry, pet. This won't hurt... much."
It hurt. It hurt more than anything Kael had experienced, which wasn't much—his life had been short, sheltered, happy. His mother reading stories. His father teaching him to carve wood. Michael pretending to be annoyed by his little brother but always, always watching out for him. Dalia's tiny hands reaching for his face.
The needles burned.
His blood burned.
His veins lit up from the inside, and Kael screamed until his throat gave out.
Morgan watched the whole time, taking notes on a tablet, her expression calm and clinical.
"Fascinating. His body is already fighting the serum. Adapting. Look at this—cellular regeneration at twice the normal rate."
She leaned close, her breath warm against his ear.
"You're going to be very useful, little one."
The third day, she brought her daughter.
Lara Whitmore was six years old—a miniature version of her mother, with the same golden hair and green eyes and smile that never reached her eyes.
"This is my experiment," Morgan told her. "His name is Kael. He's going to live forever, probably."
Lara stared at him with the blank curiosity of a child examining an insect.
"Can I play with him?"
"Later, darling. When he's properly trained."
Lara pouted. "You never let me have anything fun."
She left. Kael never saw her again, but he heard her sometimes—running in the halls outside his cell, laughing that too-perfect laugh.
The first year was needles.
The second year was surgery.
They cut him open while he was awake. No anesthesia—Morgan said it would interfere with the results. He felt everything. The scalpel parting his skin. The clamps spreading his ribs. Hands reaching inside him, touching organs that were never meant to be touched.
He learned to go somewhere else in his head.
A small room, dark and quiet. His mother's voice reading stories. His father's hands carving wood. Michael's rare smile. Dalia's laugh.
He stayed there while they took him apart and put him back together.
The third year, Morgan got bored with science.
She came to his cell one night—if nights existed in this place, with its endless artificial light—and looked at him differently than before. Her eyes traveled his body slowly, deliberately, like she was assessing merchandise.
"You're growing nicely," she said. "Even with everything we've done, your body heals. Adapts. You barely scar."
She stepped closer.
"Do you know what I want, pet?"
Kael said nothing. He'd learned that speaking only made things worse.
"I want what you have. Immortality. Eternal youth. I'm twenty-three now, and already I can see it—the tiny lines around my eyes, the way my skin doesn't quite glow the way it used to. In fifty years, I'll be old. In a hundred, I'll be dead."
Her hand caught his chin, forced his face up.
"But you'll still look like this. Still young. Still beautiful. Still alive."
She squeezed until his jaw ached.
"So I'm going to find your secret. I'm going to cut it out of you, or inject it, or breed it. And when I do, I'm going to live forever."
She released him, stepped back, and smiled.
"But first... I need to make sure you remember who owns you."
Her bare foot pressed against his face.
"Lick."
Kael didn't move.
Morgan's smile didn't waver. She kicked him—not hard enough to damage, but hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to send him sprawling.
"I said lick, pet."
He still didn't move.
She kicked him again. And again. And again.
On the seventh kick, something in his ribs cracked.
On the twelfth, he stopped counting.
On the twentieth, he licked.
Her skin tasted like soap and sweat and something else he couldn't name. His stomach heaved, but he forced it down. Forced himself to keep going until she pulled away, satisfied.
"Good boy. See? You can learn."
She left.
Kael lay on the floor and stared at the ceiling and wondered if this was what hell felt like.
The fourth year, he learned to hate.
Not the hot, passionate hate of stories—the kind that drove heroes to vengeance. No, his hate was cold. Quiet. Patient.
He learned to smile when Morgan wanted smiles. To crawl when she wanted crawling. To lick, to beg, to perform every degradation she could imagine.
And inside, he built walls.
Room by room. Brick by brick. He hid his real self so deep that even he couldn't always find it.
But it was there. Waiting.
Watching.
Learning.
The fifth year, he turned sixteen.
Or he thought he did—it was hard to track time in the lab. But according to the calendar on Morgan's tablet, today was his birthday.
She came to his cell with cake.
Actual cake. Chocolate, with candles and everything.
"Happy birthday, pet."
Kael stared at it like it might explode.
Morgan laughed—that musical, poisonous sound. "Oh, it's not poisoned. I wouldn't waste poison on you. You're too valuable."
She set the cake on the floor between them.
"Eat."
He ate. It was good. Better than anything he'd had in five years.
Morgan watched him, that calculating look in her eyes.
"You're sixteen now. Old enough to awaken, if you were going to. But you're not, are you? No system access. No status screen. Just a body that won't die."
She shook her head sadly.
"What a waste. Immortality without power. You'll live forever as prey."
Kael kept eating.
Inside his walls, something stirred.
The system only awakened at fifteen. He'd passed that birthday in this cell, alone, waiting for a notification that never came. Morgan was right—he was sixteen with no powers, no status, nothing but Adaptability and the ageless physique.
But Adaptability was a power. It had to be. His body had survived everything they threw at it—poisons, diseases, radiation. It had learned, evolved, adapted.
If the system wouldn't give him power, he'd make his own.
He'd wait.
He'd watch.
He'd learn.
And one day, when Morgan least expected it—
The cake was finished.
"Good boy," Morgan said, and left.
Kael lay back on his cot and stared at the ceiling and smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
[PRESENT DAY - THE TEMPLE]
Kael opened his eyes.
The memories faded, leaving him shaking on the cold stone floor. His cheeks were wet—when had that happened? He wiped them roughly, angrily.
Fuck her. Fuck all of them.
He sat up, looked around the boss chamber. Still empty. Still silent. The piles of dust hadn't moved.
He called up his status, needing something—anything—to focus on.
NAME: Kael Hayes
AGE: 16
LEVEL: 10 (F-rank)
RACE: Lesser Dhampir
PHYSIQUE: Ageless Physique
BLOODLINE: Ouroboros (Awakening)
ABILITIES:
Age Manipulation (Grade: C)
Adaptability (Grade: A)
Devour (Grade: ???)
SKILLS:
[Improvised Weaponry] - Novice
[Danger Sense] - Novice
[Pain Tolerance] - Apprentice
[Acid Spray] - Acquired
Sixteen years old. Level 10. One ability stolen from a monster, another from his bloodline, another from his mother's genes.
Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Morgan was A-rank. The Whitmore family had S-rankers. The Hart family—his mother's family, the ones who'd started all this—had SS-rank elders who'd survived since the System's arrival.
And he was Level 10, alone in a god's tomb, with nothing but hunger and hate to keep him going.
Kael stood.
His legs were steady now. His head clear. The memories still hurt—they'd always hurt—but he'd learned to use pain. To convert it into something useful.
Fuel.
He looked toward the exit of the boss chamber. Beyond it, the temple stretched deeper, darker, filled with monsters and traps and rewards.
Morgan wants immortality. Wants power. Wants to live forever.
He started walking.
I'll give her forever. Forever to regret.
Every. Single. Thing.