"Faster!"
A whip cracked through the air, biting across Cyril's back for the third time that morning. He didn't cry out. He stopped doing that two days ago.
His hands bled, filled with callouses. His knees trembled. But the pickaxe in his hands kept swinging, striking the black stone over and over.
Each swing echoed through like a heartbeat—slow, steady, and full of silent rage.
Around him, dozens of other slaves toiled under the same burning sun, dust covering their skin, eyes hollow, and hope drained.
"Don't stop, or that fingers mine!" the overseer snarled.
Cyril didn't stop.
He didn't even look up.
'Just keep working. Just keep breathing. You're not ready yet.'
But he could feel it.
Something inside him.
Growing.
Boiling.
Waiting.
—————————-
Hours had passed.
Cyril collapsed beside a water bucket, panting, every muscle in his body screaming in agony. As he reached for a ladle, a hand offered it to him instead.
"Here," said a voice.
A boy. No older than ten. Thin and malnourished, his, dark hair stuck to his face with sweat. His wrists bore the same shackles.
"You need it more than me," the boy said, smiling weakly.
Cyril stared at him for a moment before taking the ladle.
"Thanks, kid."
"I'm not a kid," the boy said, puffing his chest a little.
"Name's Ren."
"Cyril."
They sat in silence, slurping water like it was nectar. For a moment, it felt almost human.
Then the screams began.
——————————
Ren was dragged out of line the next morning. He was accused of stealing food.
Cyril knew it was bullshit. Everyone did.
But still, no one moved.
Not even him.
They tied Ren to a post at the center of the quarry.
The overseer grinned.
"Let this be a lesson."
The first lash struck. Ren screamed.
The overseers' grin turned into a large smile, as if the child's pain was just a fun game to him.
The second lash struck. Cyril twitched.
The third lash came down—and something inside Cyril shattered.
His pickaxe dropped.
He stood, trembling, fists clenched.
"Stop," he said quietly.
The overseer laughed. "What was that?"
"I said—STOP!"
The air around Cyril rippled.
The ground beneath him shuddered.
A black-golden light pulsed from his chest, veins lighting up like fire through his arms.
His shackles cracked.
The overseer turned just in time to see Cyril raise his arm—and then BOOM.
A blast of a strange force erupted from Cyril's body, slamming the overseer and nearby guards backward like ragdolls. Dust and debris flew into the air. The post holding Ren snapped in half.
Silence followed.
Everyone stared.
Even the guards who hadn't been caught in the blast stood frozen.
Cyril stood in the center, breathing hard, steam rising from his skin. His eyes glowed faintly gold.
"What… the hell…" he muttered, staring at his hands.
Then pain hit him like a freight train. His legs gave out. He collapsed, eyes wide with shock.
The last thing he saw before passing out was the sky—two suns shining above him like twin gods, watching in amusement.
He awoke in chains, again.
But this time, in a deep stone cell. Alone.
No guards. No light. Just thoughts.
And the mysterious power in his chest.
Cyril…
A voice? No—it was him. His thoughts again echoing louder than before.
He sat up.
Focused.
Breathed.
And for the first time, listened.
He could feel something coursing through his veins. The Flow. Energy. Power.
It didn't come from rage—it came from him. His will. His refusal to kneel. His sovereignty.
He didn't know what he was becoming.
But he knew what he wasn't anymore.
A slave.
A victim.
A nobody.
No.
That man died on a shitty apartment floor with cheap ramen noodles in his stomach.
This Cyril?
This was someone new.
And the world…no the universe would remember his name.