AB-774 had always been… different.
From the moment he was born, they marked him. A child of conquered blood, born one day before being strapped into machines, exposed to needles, and locked behind walls thicker than his future. He was only a number—a project node in Dominion. Nothing more.
Yet something quietly shifted in the shadows of that sterile hell.
He learned to read at nine months.
Not through the common Empire method of data-stamped neural upload—something reserved for citizens of value—but through observation. He watched researchers scrolling through their datapads, mumbling words as they pressed buttons. He stared at the guards while they flicked through physical logs. He paid attention to the sequence of their eyes, the sounds that followed.
Then he mimicked it.
He was never taught the alphabet. He deduced it.
By seven months, he could speak. He never did, not often. Not unless he needed to. But the researchers eventually caught on. One day, when asked his designation, he responded in a cold monotone:
"AB-774."
The guards exchanged glances. They had assumed he was still pre-verbal. He wasn't. He had been listening all along. Watching. Learning. Quietly unraveling their language from sheer logic and exposure.
They monitored him closely after that—but his vitals never changed. His eyes remained flat. His voice dead. He obeyed orders, took injections, passed physicals. No violence. No emotion. No sign of emerging genetic enhancement. Nothing to report.
He was blank.
Or so they thought.
The lights buzzed in the ceiling of the concrete lecture chamber. Children sat at metal desks, some trembling slightly from the side effects of the day's X-Red dose.
Marla Verin, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, walked to the center of the holographic circle and initiated the day's lesson.
"Today," she said coldly, "we begin with geography."
The hologram burst to life behind her—a projected map of the Earth side, broken into four colossal territories, glowing with red, blue, gold, and grey.
"There are four great powers in our world," she began. "Four states feared and respected by all. Among them, our proud Stella Empire."
She gestured to the northern edge of the map—an ice-laced landmass cradled by ocean and mountain ridges.
"The Empire was founded seven hundred and fifty years ago by Arkam Stellare I, a noble-born warrior and visionary. He forged unity through steel, strategy, and foresight. In the early age of steam and silicon, he laid the foundation that would one day make us the most technologically advanced civilization on the Earth side."
Her voice had a rare edge of pride, even reverence, though her expression remained like frozen glass.
She moved the map slightly, highlighting a landlocked territory below them.
"In the center lies Bohia, a democratic republic—though weak in military might, it is shielded by geography and diplomacy. Its cities stretch for hundreds of kilometers, the largest being Bohia Metropolis, which spans over 500 kilometers in length."
Images of silver towers and floating sky-trams flickered briefly.
"In its heart lies the Bohia Academy, the most prestigious academic institution on Earth. Even the current Emperor's son was educated there."
She paused, eyes sweeping over the children.
"Many nobles from all factions study at Bohia Academy. It is considered neutral ground—too central, too dangerous to antagonize."
The map then shifted left, to the west.
"Here lies the Majin Empire. A land of mysticism and suspicion. Their founding emperor, centuries ago, was said to have fused his bloodline with that of a noble from Elemor. Since then, rumors claim the Heptis royal family can use magic."
Her tone turned almost mocking.
"It has been five hundred and forty years. And still—no proof. No flames summoned. No beasts controlled. No truth."
Finally, the far east glowed crimson.
"The Republic of Turan."
Her expression soured ever so slightly.
"Republic in name only. A tyrannical regime led by a single man—Viego Zaula. No parliaments. No councils. Just fear. And absolute command."
The map faded.
"That is our world," she said. "Broken. Balanced. And waiting to be inherited."
When the lesson ended, the routine continued.
Two hours of unstructured time before enforced rest.
The guards remained stationed behind soundproof glass, armed and silent. The children were allowed to move freely within the chambered hallways that connected their personal rooms—but nowhere else.
Some played card-like games made from scraps. Others brawled in the corners, exchanging bruises like currency. A few practiced push-ups or meditative breathing, eager to strengthen themselves.
But AB-774 always chose the same destination.
A shadowed corridor between chamber blocks led to an old, rusting room with a door that groaned on its hinges. Inside was the old library—if it could even be called that.
No datapods. No light screens. No AI interfaces.
Just physical books. Cracked spines. Yellowed pages. Forgotten paper.
To most of the others, it was worthless. To AB-774—it was sanctuary.
They didn't give him digital readers or brain-chip feeds. Why would they? He was just an experiment. A number.
But he didn't mind.
He found history there. Old stories. Forgotten philosophies. Books with names like The Republic, Fragments of Humanity, Age of Decline, and The Mirror of the Mind.
He read about emotions. War. Love. Anger. Joy.
He tried to understand them. Not because he felt them—but because he couldn't.
No rage. No warmth. No tears. Not even confusion.
It was like reading about a language that no longer existed.
One evening, as he turned a page with slow, calculated hands, the bell rang overhead. A deep chime. One long tone.
That was the signal.
Without hesitation, he closed the book, slid it back onto the rusted shelf, and walked down the corridor. The other children were already heading back—silent lines of white-robed bodies moving with military discipline.
No one dared break the rules. Not out of obedience—but out of fear.
The guards had demonstrated, more than once, what happened to those who disobeyed.
Inside the Dominion Project, the children weren't children.
They were calculated risks.
Test subjects.
Living weapons in development.
And yet, among them, one boy walked with unreadable eyes and a mind sharpened not by data implants, but by stolen moments and quiet pages.
AB-774 wasn't empty.
He was waiting.