The Karnell facility was a sealed fortress of steel and bone-deep silence. Buried beneath the icy ridges at the northernmost border of the Stella Empire, its corridors twisted like a nervous system, gray, windowless, alive with surveillance. Each of the first eleven chambers—Chambers 1 through 11—were laid out identically. They branched off from a central circular hub, connected by narrow, dimly lit halls. Each chamber contained twenty-one rooms, seven children per room. The ceilings stood ten feet tall, and the air was always stale with artificial light humming above.
At the farthest depth, isolated and sterile, was Chamber 12, reserved only for infants under the age of three. These youngest test subjects would be nurtured until old enough to survive the first dose of the X-Gene compound. Only then would they be deemed suitable for the experimentation awaiting them in the upper chambers. One of these infants was classified AB-Class, the rarest of all. The reason Scoff Karios and the researchers placed such hope in him wasn't due to strength or behavior—he was still too young—but because the mana inside him flowed through his heart. Just like the fabled Elemor sorcerers described in the oldest records.
Each class of child had a unique mana flow pattern:
O-Class (like O-243): Mana concentrated in the hands.
T-Class: Torso and chest.
K-Class: The head, enhancing mental sensitivity.
S-Class: Across the arms and brain, linked to pyrokinetic mind-bonding.
R-Class: Spine and eyes, tied to foresight.
Y-Class: In the chest, capable of healing others at a cost.
Q-Class: Legs and arms—adrenal rush berserker types.
L-Class: Throat and neck, sonic manipulators.
B-Class: Back and skin—thermal adaptation.
Z-Class: Lungs and mouth—gas-based powers.
N-Class: Fingertips—electromagnetic and resonance control.
The end of the first week brought the second dose of the X-Gene compound.
Guards began calling names, one code at a time. Ten children per round. Each child walked out, expression blank or eyes wide with silent fear. The injections were necessary, but not merciful. While the first dose cracked their bodies open to mana, it was not enough to circulate energy through their full being. Without full-body flow, they were incomplete—still tools, not yet weapons.
The assignment of class depended on where mana flowed most dominantly.
Each time mana reached a new region of the body, the pain lessened. It never vanished, but it no longer crushed their hearts like the first time. That first time, blood streamed from mouths, ears, eyes. Some nearly died. Y-271, a quiet girl of Y-Class, was one of the rare cases. Her first injection had caused mana to surge across three of her five major body zones. Even so, this second time, she still trembled—just less than before.
The S-Twins, both girls, were next. Their bond enhanced their pain but also deepened their mana connection. Both showed new zones lighting up under internal scans. Scoff, observing them from the monitoring station, nodded with approval.
Then came K-109. His mana remained locked, despite the unbearable pain he endured. Tubes wriggled from his nose as he stumbled back to his chamber.
Then R-932, who had shown rare perceptual time-slowing powers even on the first day—still endured the compound's wrath, but again, no new progress.
O-243, oldest in his room and rumored to be dangerous, took his injection last. His class was O, a rare one, second only to AB. His mana clung to his arms like molten heat—but still did not spread. He gritted his teeth, took the pain in silence.
After their injections, the children were given two hours of open movement. All chamber doors unlocked, revealing a tight hall that linked them in a circle. A rare moment of relative freedom.
Some sat against cold walls, exhausted. Others sparred, challenged one another, repaid bruises from physical drills. A few whispered. A few laughed. But R-932 did none of that. He just stood, watching. Wondering if escape was possible, if it was anything more than fantasy.
After the two hours passed, the alarms buzzed once more. The halls dimmed. The children were returned to their rooms. Six hours of sleep—the only rest they would receive—began.
But for some, the day wasn't over.
The next morning began in pain.
The physical training sessions resumed—ruthless and unforgiving. The children were still recovering from the compound when the guards shouted, "Assemble!"
The steel corridors echoed with stumbling footsteps as the children made their way to the Physical Hall, a large chamber of metal and agony. Machines lined the walls. Electric whips hung from ceilings. The eleven teachers, one per chamber, stood in place, silent and waiting.
The trainers showed no mercy. Children were forced to run, climb, spar until their limbs collapsed.
For O-243, the challenge that day was real. He was matched against a Z-Class—a boy named Z-007.
Whispers followed Pier wherever he walked.
"Pier... age 11… green hair…"
"They say he was a noble," one guard murmured to another. "His father offended someone high up."
"I heard they crippled his father and—" The whisper cut off, the memory too cruel.
The records, buried in sealed data pods, stated this: Pier's father, Aren Olav, had once been a loyal lord of the Stella Empire. But one careless criticism of a senior official had signed their doom. Soldiers made him watch as they took his wife apart. Then they took his son to Karnell, a discarded toy of the empire.
Now Pier was a gas-breather. Z-Class. His lungs produced toxic vapor, his breath capable of suffocating animals. His eyes were dulled, as if drained of spirit, but his hatred boiled beneath his pale green hair.
The match began. Pier exhaled poison.
O-243 didn't flinch. His fists smashed through the mist. He moved with the strength of an adult twice his size. He roared, took a blow to the chest, and threw Pier to the floor. But not before his skin began to burn—acrid gas sizzling at his arms.
Pier was knocked unconscious. But O-243 collapsed too, in agony.
Then came Y-271.
Without waiting for orders, the girl knelt at O's side. Her hands trembled. She placed one against his chest and the other on his scorched wrist. A dim glow shimmered around her palms—light threaded with something almost musical. O's wounds began to close. His breathing evened out.
But Y-271 collapsed afterward. Her breath was shallow. Her body shook.
Livia, watching from the catwalk above, wrote silently into her datapod. "Subject Y-271. Healing capability confirmed. Secondary cost: extreme fatigue. Likely due to life force output. Monitor closely."
The lights dimmed again. The day continued.
And the Karnell program inched one step further toward perfecting monsters.