Time stretched and warped, turning seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, and hours into an eternity. Nemo paced the small, stifling cell, each step louder than the last in the oppressive silence.
The murmurs—the whispers—those delicate threads of sound had vanished completely. And now, the absence of their cryptic comfort filled him with a terror far worse than the voices themselves.
He had feared them when he had first become aware of their existence, but now he craved their elusive presence. Without their gentle noise, the darkness pressed heavily around him, solidifying into an invisible, suffocating force.
The whispers, incomprehensible yet compelling, had kept something far worse at bay. Without them, Nemo could feel the edges of his sanity fraying like worn cloth.
Why? Why won't they speak to me? Where are they? They were telling me something important—so crucial, so essential. Yet, deep down, a primal part of him recoiled from actually understanding the whispers. Instinctively, he knew comprehension would mean his doom.
He danced at the edge of madness, both yearning for and dreading clarity. A sudden panic gripped him as realization struck. The door! When they closed the door, the whispers disappeared! I must escape this prison! I need them—I need them to protect me!
Nemo lunged at the heavy metal door, pulling and clawing at it with frantic desperation. It didn't budge. Panic surged, sending adrenaline coursing through him. He struck at the door, pounding it with fists, nails scratching uselessly against cold metal.
In a burst of primal frenzy, he sank his teeth into it, feeling his gums bruise and bleed. Nothing. The door remained immovable, unyielding. Driven by maddening despair, Nemo slammed his fist against the door again and again, each blow harder, fueled by anguish and terror.
Finally, a sickening crack resounded. Pain flooded his senses, white-hot and blinding. He pulled back instinctively, staring in disbelief at his now malformed hand. A shard of bone, white and glistening, protruded grotesquely through torn skin.
Yet amid that searing agony, something miraculous happened—the whispers returned. Sweet, blissful, horrifying whispers that brushed gently at the fringes of his mind, soothing his panic.
His heart quickened in twisted relief, savoring their indecipherable murmurs, each syllable holding a promise of salvation and doom.
But all too quickly, the bone retreated beneath healing flesh. Skin knitted swiftly back together, robbing him of pain, robbing him of whispers. Panic surged once more, fiercer than ever. Nemo understood now—pain, blood, suffering—they were the keys to salvation.
They brought him the whispers, the protectors from true darkness. In the back of his mind, a vague memory stirred—a fleeting image of Ceres, blood running down her forehead.
It meant something crucial, something vital—but the whispers called louder, drowning out rationality. Consumed by need, Nemo lifted his hand to his mouth and bit down savagely, teeth sinking deep, tearing away a chunk of flesh.
Pain exploded, brilliant and sharp, and blood spurted violently, coating his face and staining his clothes. He smiled, feeling the intoxicating release of relief flood his soul as the whispers surged louder, clearer—still incomprehensible, yet crucially important.
Then, abruptly, the whispers faded, dwindling cruelly despite the continuous flow of blood. Nemo growled in frustration, desperation driving him to extremes. He plunged his fingers deep into the ragged wound, digging violently into muscle and sinew, twisting and ripping flesh in an effort that surpassed mere pain, descending into madness itself.
The whispers fluttered weakly, softer and softer, slipping further away with each heartbeat. They were abandoning him, leaving him utterly alone once more.
Dropping to his knees in a pool of his own blood, Nemo felt reality begin to flicker. The room dimmed, shadows swirling, color bleeding from his vision until all he saw was blackness.
In that final moment of consciousness, something shifted deep within him—a profound and violent transformation. He sensed rather than saw a new presence growing inside him, a root erupting within his very soul.
And as the root unfurled, as blood and agony mingled to nurture its growth, the whispers finally ceased their torment. Silence returned at last, mercifully absolute.
_________________________
As Nemo opened his eyes, the bright neon lights above him flooded his vision, sending sharp spikes of pain through his skull. Yet, this pain paled compared to the agony radiating from his hand. He forced himself to look down, nausea rising as he saw the mangled flesh that had once formed his hand.
It was recognizable—barely. All fingers remained, even arranged correctly, but the skin between his thumb and index finger was completely torn away. The back of his hand lay gruesomely split open, ravaged by the violence of his own actions.
The searing pain was relentless, though thankfully, the bleeding had ceased. He could already see his flesh slowly knitting itself back together.
I'm lucky no bones were broken.
Nemo sighed, shuddering. The events felt surreal, a terrible nightmare from which he could not wake. He had theories, fragmented ideas about the purpose behind this torment. Yet the reasoning escaped him.
If it had merely been about blood, Ceres and Xeras could have easily handled it without such drastic measures. No, there had to be something else—something crucial he was missing. This gap in understanding gnawed at his sanity.
He remained still, straining his ears but hearing only the muted pulse of his own heartbeat. He sighed deeply, eyelids drifting closed again. I'm starving.
The hunger gnawed at him fiercely. Fighting madness, bleeding, and healing—it all drains too much energy. With a groan, he dragged himself to the wall, leaning heavily against its cold surface. Fatigue and helplessness washed over him.
He held no resentment towards his three captors—they clearly knew more than he did. Everyone must go through this, he assumed, a brutal initiation to survive.
"Oh, it seems you're already awake,"
Lyla's voice echoed softly from hidden speakers somewhere above. Nemo's eyes flickered upwards towards the lights. It irked him deeply—why the secrecy? After all, he had rid himself of those haunting whispers.
"Can you let me out now? I've removed whatever was inside me," he paused, recalling Ceres's words, and added confidently, "I let it bleed out."
"Yes, I see that," Lyla responded carefully, "but I still can't release you. There are still crucial steps to take. First, tell me how you feel."
Nemo closed his eyes tightly, frustration bubbling. "I'm hungry, my hand hurts like hell, I'm exhausted, tired… And did I mention I'm starving?"
"Understood," Lyla's voice softened. "Next, we need—"
"Why put me through all this? Why not just bleed me outside?"
A pause. Lyla's voice returned, more hesitant this time. "I'll answer all questions later, but right now…"
Another abrupt silence stretched out painfully before she continued, more firmly, "Newly rooted awakened possess inherent dangers—to themselves and everyone around them. But we'll discuss that further soon. Right now, we move on to the next step. It's less unpleasant than before, but I can't promise it'll be comfortable."
A quiet hum filled the room, gentle yet ominous. Suddenly, the sweet yet rotten fragrance intensified, filling Nemo's senses.
"This is the feeding phase," Lyla explained calmly. "Newly rooted individuals lack a strong bond with their root, making it dangerously easy for others to steal and transplant it. Only after the first trip does the root anchor firmly to your soul."
"But what exactly feeds your root?" Lyla continued, anticipation edging her tone. "Think of it as your next critical question. Our solution: Wind of Nutrition. It's concocted from multiple beast essences, infused into an elemental wind designed to nourish roots lightly. By analyzing what the root absorbs, we determine its nature and whether you possess multiple roots."
Nemo hesitated, his voice trembling slightly. "You said unpleasant. Why?"
"Well," Lyla hesitated again, "a growing root burrows deeper into your soul—and unfortunately, that's not exactly painless. It's beginning now."
The quiet hum grew louder. A sudden, gentle breeze flowed through openings on either side of him. Nemo braced himself futilely, uncertain how to prepare for pain originating from within his very soul.
It struck with unimaginable force. Nemo collapsed immediately, curling into a fetal position, helpless against the intangible agony tearing at his very essence. The nourishing wind infiltrated every fiber of his being, carrying with it overwhelming, formless torment.
Yet within the storm of pain, Nemo sensed something new—a division in his mind, subtle yet profound. One aspect pulsed relentlessly with hunger, another was a swirling chaos of endless questioning, and the third, most complex, brimmed with powerful emotions and images of familiar faces.
But understanding eluded him, the pain overpowering his capacity for clarity. Mercifully, the torment did not last forever. After what felt like hours—but was no more than ten minutes—the wind ceased, leaving an eerie stillness.
Nemo groaned weakly, his body relaxing slowly. Strangely, the pain faded swiftly, becoming little more than a ghostly memory, oddly surreal. He struggled upright, awaiting Lyla's explanation. Her voice returned promptly, yet something in her tone unsettled him deeply.
"Your analysis results are back, and... well, they're certainly interesting. The full ramifications of what we've discovered will require deeper exploration. But first, we need to handle a slightly more pressing matter."
She hesitated again, the silence thickening, amplifying Nemo's anxiety. "Nemo," she finally said carefully, clearly uncertain how to phrase it,
"I'm not quite sure how to tell you this, but we might have a bit of a problem."