He woke up in a new enclosure. Sealed off. No visible entrance or exit. The same blinding white LEDs burned his now sensitive eyes. The room contained only a steel bed with a thin mattress and a desk—stark, bare. Unlike his old cell, the one he had once shared with Viroshiki—his creator—this one had no books, no distractions. Just sterile emptiness.
The only color came from the blood.
It seeped from the open micro-wounds on his skin, never clotting. A slow, constant trickle—like tears that refused to dry. It throbbed with a dull ache, like a pressure behind the eyes that never left. A gentle mist of blood always hovered on his face, a silent precipitation of suffering.
This space was designed for simplicity. Nothing more than what was needed. Minimal comforts—just enough to keep him alive. Just enough to keep him healing.
He stared at his reflection again.
His regular eye—once brown and clear—was changing. A faint silver ring glowed around the iris, clashing violently with the dark pigmentation. Blood pooled again, leaking from the corner. He clutched his head as the pain surged back—pounding, blinding.
He dragged himself to the bed—closer to a futon than anything else—and curled up on its surface. Silent. Trembling.
He cried himself to sleep.
After all, he was still just a child—ripped away from home.
Two months had passed. The infusion process occurred every two weeks—and each time, it became more painful. Exponentially so.
The migraines had long since become white noise. Pain was no longer a moment; it was a pulse. A presence. Always bleeding, always there.
Both his eyes had turned silver, glowing faintly with the white light of the compliance implant embedded deep within. The implant's purpose was clear—mental suppression. A blockade. It kept him docile, frozen in place.
Blood now streaked from his gums and teeth. His mouth tasted like iron. His ears were no different—blood trailing from them like his eardrums had ruptured. Drenched in cold sweat, his heart pounded like a war drum beneath his ribs.
His skin burned. Not figuratively—truly burned. It felt like open wounds splashed with menthol and exposed to the chill of night. Even with dulled senses, it was unbearable.
He couldn't claw at his skin. Couldn't scream. Couldn't stop it.
In desperation, he slammed his head toward the wall—sterile, white, unyielding.
But it never connected.
A guard caught him by the scruff of his garb, having entered silently from what had once been a seamless wall.
He saw where he was being guided—to a crystalline, tempered glass box. Its outline and panels were a turquoise green. It was transparent.
He saw a steel-paneled room beyond—decorated. It was an arena.
His gaze shifted toward the stands, locking onto Doctor Hibino's lightly scarred face. Unnatural, metallic gold eyes stared back at him, glowing with anticipation as their circular pupils slowly became slitted.
An entry point on the other side of the room opened up. A second child was led in, bound in insulated chains. His mouth was gagged behind a muzzle. His eyes were filled with anger and animosity as he thrashed. Blonde hair cascaded over his face—straight, shoulder-length. From what Arc could tell, they were about the same age, yet the boy's limbs were longer, his frame lankier. His eyes were a cold green—pained.
Arc could see the scarring, the hints of regular black patches across his skin, composed of a material that resembled the flesh of an electric eel. He looked at the boy, then at the guard in full insulated armor.
The glass walls around him fell away.
A small knife sat in front of him—a copper dagger.
He grimaced as he stood up, his mind reaching the only conclusion:He was going to have to fight the teen in front of him.
"Every inch of this room is designed to kill me."
The guard pulled out an injector as Doctor Hibino spoke up.
"Meet Strom Reinhardt."
The dark liquid inside the injector glowed faintly. The guard stabbed it into the teen's jugular.
Strom's dull forest-green eyes sparked violently, shifting into a brilliant neon hue. His irises hardened—diamond-shaped—and black lines extended from them like fractal lightning bolts. His fingers grew claws as he let out a guttural roar, the sound muffled by the muzzle. The chains binding him shattered.
Neon green arcs of electricity exploded from his body, slamming into the ground. Full-blown shocks lit up the room.
Arc cried out as the energy struck him. His nervous system flared—visible through his skin as his body lit up like a living conduit. He was sent skidding backward, a smoking imprint seared into his forearm where Strom's claws had struck.
He hissed in pain, the scent of burnt flesh rising into the sterile air.
Arc recovered seconds later—just in time to see a fully charged Strom lunging at him again.
Sheer volumes of electricity bounced off the walls, each bolt ricocheting like unleashed lightning. One struck him directly—his nerves flaring, skin blistering, hair singed at the tips. He raised his arms to block the onslaught, but it was no use. The flesh began to carbonize where the volts landed, burning deeper with every second of exposure.
He gritted his teeth, dodging a thunderous fist by inches. His body screamed in pain, already failing.
He was stuck in a reverse Faraday cage.
Everything in the room was steel. Conductive. Deadly.
He had nowhere to run.
he tried to remain air born to a void the conductive material as each step meant agony along as Strom was in contact as he dodged him narrowly once more he ripped of his sleeves as he skidded back wrapping his feel and left hand in the elastic material as he grabbed the copper blade as he parried a blow sidestepping to the left as his silver eyes began to glow his heart rate accelerating as his wounds began to leak. he was angry at his predicament and at himself, how would he simply roll over and take defeat knowing that he wouldn't die here.
He felt the pressure building inside him—each dodge, block, and parry stoking it further. His enhanced perception barely allowed him to keep up, though the damage still piled on. Every shock to his system left him stunned, nerves spasming as he tried to stay mobile.
As he moved, his eyes tracked the Uratsu energy that made up Strom's electricity, watching it bounce off the steel walls like wild serpents. He timed their arcs, studied their shifts—always adjusting his position, slipping behind Strom at just the right moment. Some bolts connected, but instead of ripping through him, they dispersed harmlessly into his body.
He looked down at his arm—carbonized, split, and bleeding—only to see silver liquid begin to glow. It oozed from the scorched flesh, merging with his blood, threading through the charred cells of his right arm and down to his feet. Alkanite.
The living metal hardened, anchoring him. Flexing into the lines of his joints, it gave him back movement—control.
He clenched his fist and dropped into his guard. His silver eyes caught a faint green hue as they reflected the neon lightstorm around him. Then he struck.
A brutal jab to Strom's sternum. The teen staggered, doubling over in pain.
Arc stepped back, clutching the copper knife tightly. That was his first decisive blow in the brutal exchange.
He noticed the stain of alkanite he'd left on Strom's chest—dripping, pulsing—begin to glow as it interacted with the electric charge now coursing around him. The alkanite was charging.
Arc felt it. An instinctual pull.
He moved in, energy building through his frame as the Uratsu-powered shocks invaded his body. The alkanite flowing through his charred feet began to shimmer as he landed a second impact—his carbonized fist connecting. The expelled alkanite rejoined his arm, its stored power converting, redistributing into him.
But Strom was still faster. His hand intercepted the blow, guiding Arc's fist off course—and then the copper knife was in motion, stabbing clean into Arc's ruined palm. Arc hissed in pain but didn't stop. He pulled back, moved into the blind spot, and dashed low, slicing into the tendons of Strom's thigh and ankles, severing control and movement.
A flash of memory—training droids. His mother watching as he moved precisely, disabling joints, never aiming to kill—only to survive.
He moved in again, dodging the flailing, animalistic strikes of lightning—electric madness radiating from Strom's broken form. Then, the opening.
He slipped through his guard.
The copper blade had changed—an alkanite extension reshaped it into a short sword. Arc drove it forward, through Strom's ribcage, heart, and out the back. The blade emerged, dripping with blood and energy. Strom's green eyes widened as Arc's silver ones pulsed neon, syncing with his core.
The supernatural, metaphysical core imploded.
A final convulsion of power exploded outward—electricity lashing across the chamber, shredding Arc's nerves. Blood sprayed across his face. The life drained from Strom's eyes, which slowly reverted to something almost… human. He smiled faintly, lips trembling with blood.
"Thank you," he whispered.
And then—gone.
Arc stood frozen, watching as Strom's spiritual augment core shifted into him. The alkanite on his blade crept through Strom's body, absorbing the unbound Uratsu. Strom's body collapsed—lifeless.
Arc's eyes dilated—black again, just for a moment. His hands trembled.
The alkanite from the dagger seeped back into his body as his eyes began to glow—not neon green, but something new: an electric cyan, so bright it was almost white. He felt something… fill. A void within him, slightly less empty now.
He dropped to one knee, the surge in his stomach rising with the weight of what he'd done. He turned and vomited violently to the side.
It was his first intentional kill. A teenage boy, barely older than he was. Innocent.
Before he could process the guilt, a sharp kick drove into his ribs, launching him into the steel wall. His head snapped back as he collapsed. A female guard in full armor loomed above him. The taser hadn't worked, so she knocked him out the old-fashioned way—with a solid, mechanical punch to the temple.