It had been two weeks since AB-774 was placed into Chamber 8, Room 3. In that time, nothing remarkable had happened. No signs of genetic awakening. No outbursts of power. No sudden mutation or flare. For the researchers, this was perfectly normal. Most children didn't manifest anything for months. But among the other children in the chambers, especially the few who had awakened early, quiet disappointment lingered. Some had expected more from him—he was an AB-Class after all. Among the chambers, whispers had begun to circulate—quiet ones, cautious, never in earshot of the guards—that maybe the AB-Class boy was just another failed subject with a rare code. Nothing more.
The rhythm of life inside the laboratory had become mechanical: wake, train, eat, obey. No clocks, no sun. The children had no sense of time beyond the sharp, artificial light that switched on without warning and the monotone voices of the guards blaring from hidden speakers.
Every day began the same.
"ASSEMBLE. PHYSICAL TRAINING."
The voice thundered through the chamber before the lights blasted to full brightness. The children jolted awake from their thin cots. AB-774 moved slowly, his joints stiff, bruises never fully healed. A guard walked through the hallway, slamming his baton against the metal walls as if daring someone to lag behind.
"Move," the guard said again. One child hesitated, legs trembling from the last day's drills. He earned a kick to the ribs.
AB-774 was already limping from the day before, but he didn't stop. He knew better. One foot after another. Every step was a small rebellion against collapse.
They were led into the training hall. It stank of sweat, iron, and blood—the scent never quite gone from the floor. Today's regimen was heavier than usual: endurance sprints, crawling under electrified wires, target grapples. The instructors shouted, striking with rods if someone faltered too long. AB-774 fell twice. Once trying to lift a weighted stone, and again during combat rolls. His body refused to respond. His palms bled. His breath caught in his throat.
But he said nothing. Always nothing.
After nearly three hours, the session ended. The children were given exactly thirty minutes to recover. AB-774 collapsed against the wall near his sleeping cot, panting. His muscles trembled with every small movement. That was when a guard's boot slammed into his thigh.
"Classroom. Move."
He groaned and stood, forcing his legs to obey. Disobedience wasn't an option. Everyone in the chamber had heard about the White Room—an isolated cell, soundproof, airless, with a single cold light. No return. Not truly. Whatever went inside that room never came back the same.
They lined up at the corridor outside the classroom block. Four guards watched them with blank expressions. Then she arrived.
Marla
Cold. Precise. Clean uniform, no signs of wear. Her expression as unreadable as stone. She stepped through the sealed door without a word, and the children followed.
Marla's class occurred once per week. Exactly two hours. No breaks. No interruptions. Just information—cold, curated, designed for obedience.
"Today's lesson," she said without preamble, "is how Emperor Arkanos Stellare III took the throne of the Stella Empire."
She paced slowly before the row of seated children, her boots clicking rhythmically on the floor.
"Ten years ago, the Empire was under Emperor Ares—a war hero, decorated during the Nythic Uprising. His firstborn son, Luven, was named Crown Prince. But he was… unfit. Obsessed with pleasure. He spent empire funds on luxury, women, gambling. He ignored the Council. Disrespected the traditions. Many feared he would destroy the Empire from within."
She paused.
"Arkanos was the second son. Quiet. Calculating. While Luven flaunted his status, Arkanos studied the Council. One by one, he brought the nobles under his banner—promising discipline, profit, and power in exchange for loyalty. He did not raise a weapon. He raised a pen. When the time came, the Council voted. Emperor Ares abdicated. Crown Prince Luven was exiled. Arkanos rose."
She turned, her voice sharper.
"Power does not always come from war. It comes from understanding what others desire—and giving it to them before they realize it cost them everything."
She walked to the end of the room.
"Lesson concluded."
The Guards stepped forward. Without a word, the children were herded out.
With that, the two-hour free period began. Some children rushed to spar. Others traded food silently or compared injuries. AB-774 turned without hesitation toward the open library door. There was no lock on it—just neglect.
The library in Chamber 8 was small. Four shelves. Each barely full. No datapods. No implants. No neural chips. Physical books were obsolete in the empire. Knowledge now came through injections ,, direct links. Books were for history—forgotten, discarded, irrelevant.
But AB-774 came here almost every week. He didn't know why. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe the weight of the paper.
He pulled out a book again—the same one he had opened his first week.
What Is Beneath the Heart
It had no author. Its spine was cracked. The title was almost erased. But inside, it spoke of illusions: the illusion of control, of friendship, of the self. It explained that most of what people believed was built to manipulate them. It gave examples from a time before the magic realm of Elemor merged with Earth.
He read again a page talked about the Roman Empire—how it became the greatest power in the old world. Not because of technology , but through structure, discipline, conquest. It ruled vast lands and crushed all opposition. But it didn't fall to foreign armies. It fell from within—greed, betrayal, ambition.
The next page spoke of Mesopotamia, one of the first civilizations. Before tech, before order. People didn't even know how to read properly—but they still found ways to fight. To conquer. To control.
That didn't change. Even now. Especially now.
"In those days, few minds were trained to grasp the written word; reading was not just skill, but a revelation that reshaped how one saw the world. Without understanding, fear and ignorance bred swiftly, fueling endless wars—not just fought with swords, but battles within minds, where doubt and ambition waged their own silent campaigns."
He was puzzled reading this line.
He closed the book and returned it to its exact place.
The flickering light above him buzzed like static. Behind him, the chamber murmured with distant footsteps and quiet breathing.
He said nothing, expression blank, as he limped out into the dim corridor
Six hours of strict sleep followed.
Then:
"ASSEMBLE. PHYSICAL TRAINING."
Again.
The drills were even worse than morning. The guards watched closer, less patience in their eyes. And then came the sparring match.
They placed AB-774 against T-134.
A larger child. Older. Already showing signs of physical enhancement. T-134 didn't hesitate. He wasn't cruel—just conditioned. The instructors had told them clearly: show mercy, and you go to the White Room.
AB-774 didn't resist. From the start, made no attempt to fight. He didn't lift his hands. He knew it was useless. He was only three, and his body hadn't caught up. His genetic power still not awakened.
The first hit slammed into his ribs. The second swept his legs. He didn't even try to stand. Then T-134 he grabbed AB-774's wrist and twisted sharply. The sound of cracking bone filled the room. The hand bent in an unnatural angle—half-broken.
Y-271 took a step forward from the line, her eyes glowing faintly, power trying to gather in her fingers.
But O-243 seeing this stops her, saying "Don't."
She stopped. Her genetic power could heal AB-774, Ease his pain. But it could kill her. She was already weak, pale and her hair started turning white.
Y-271 withdrew, eyes heavy with helplessness.
AB-774 didn't look at them. He didn't need help. He didn't want it.
Y-906 said nothing. She stared for a moment, her expression unreadable as her eyes rested on AB-774's broken arm. Then she looked away—not in fear, but in understanding. In Karnell, empathy was a luxury no one could afford twice.
The match ended. The guards dragged him back to his room. His hand wrapped in rough tape. His eyes empty.
He sat in the corner of the room, silent. Tomorrow would be the same. He would rise. Bleed. Obey.
And if he could stand… he would read again.