— W-What…? — Micah stammered like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar. His face had gone as pale as a sheet of printer paper. — Where did you even get that from…?

  Micah tried to retreat into indignation, but unfortunately for him, he had always been a terrible liar.

  Ezra burst into genuine laughter, leaning against the metal table, his body shaking from how hard he laughed.

  Micah just stood there, perplexed, unsure whether that was mockery, madness, or a dangerous mix of both.

  — Oh, oh… — Ezra hiccupped. — Micah, you really are something— hic! — Look! I even swallowed air.

  The alchemist fell silent for a moment, waiting for the hiccups to pass. He cleared his throat before speaking again:

  — Where were we?

  — Uh… at the part where you supposedly said I’m from another world? — Micah said, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

  — Ah, right. Well, if you’d made it any more obvious, you’d have been literally rubbing it in my face. — He resumed his reasoning as he sat on the room’s only chair, crossing his legs and interlacing his fingers over his knee. — First: you asked so many questions that I felt like I was back in my lecturing days at the guild. No kaleorin captured as a war slave would worry about such trivialities; he or she would be far more concerned with finding the best moment to strangle their master and return home. Second: your clothes. I’ve never heard of this “Foot-ball Team,” much less that fabric. Third: your body — He sized Micah up from head to toe — far too scrawny to be from Kaelor. No kaleorin, noble or peasant, would ever let their body deteriorate to that point. Even beggars there have more muscle than you. And finally… — he smiled, satisfied — nothing about you fits. It’s blatant.

  Ezra rolled his chair closer to Micah, bringing his hand up to stroke his cheek. Micah tried to pull away from the touch, but the alchemist continued anyway, utterly unconcerned with his subject’s consent.

  — You come from an easy world, don’t you, Micah? Easy to a fault. — His voice softened, almost sad. — I’ll admit, it’s probably a world I’d love to live in. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s far too merciful to let people like you survive.

  He returned his hand to his lap, ending the touch unhurriedly.

  — In any case, none of that matters. Native to Pulmérica or not. Weak or not. Slave or not. None of it will matter. Because thanks to me, your nature will be elevated beyond anything any man has ever reached. If you survive, of course.

  Ezra finally stood, returning to his workbench to continue crafting his bizarre mixture.

  Micah’s heart was pounding faster than ever. Adrenaline flooded his body the way water floods a city after a dam collapses.

  He didn’t know what all this was — but he knew he had to get out of there, at any cost.

  — E-Ezra, please, listen to me! — Micah screamed in desperation. — I’ll do anything, I swear! Just— please, get me out of here! I’m begging you… Ezra! EZRA!

  Micah kept thrashing and screaming for help, his eyes filling with tears. For Ezra. For someone outside. For God. For any damned ear his voice might reach.

  But it was useless.

  No one heard him.

  No one came.

  No one cared.

  As it had always been. And, according to some people he knew, exactly as he deserved.

  Ezra, already accustomed to the sound of screams, remained focused on his work — as calm as someone listening to barking from across the street. He picked up a syringe and filled it with a solution as blue as the sky, flicking it lightly to remove any air. Then he approached his project, already hoarse and exhausted from pleading.

  — Do you know what this is? — the alchemist asked, showing him the syringe.

  Micah glanced at it briefly, then back at Ezra, panting, glaring at him with resentment.

  — I don't think so. This is Anesthiris sap, better known as the Trumpet of Eternal Sleep, diluted to ten thousand parts per million. — He explained casually, admiring its faint glow. — Taken pure, death is guaranteed. But diluted, it can be an excellent tool.

  “To elevate your nature, there are certain prerequisites. One of them is the first step toward the long-dreamed Individualization — that is, the Awakening of your Image. There are many ways to awaken someone’s Image; a few lucky individuals are even born with it already awakened. But the most reliable method to this day is the ancient technique of the Three Twilights.”

  “The technique consists of isolating the subject from any external influence, in order to perform a kind of Karma ‘fast.’ This is done through the intravenous injection of Anesthiris sap, which completely paralyzes the subject for seventy-two consecutive hours. Not even your eyelids will be able to move.”

  “Consequently, the Spiritual Body enters a process of self-digestion, imploding the soul within the Pneumatic Core — where the Image resides.”

  He tied the tourniquet around Micah’s arm and cleaned the crease with alcohol.

  — Forgive the rambling. It’s just a good practice to explain the procedure before the subject enters a coma. — Then he added casually: — After that, there are only two outcomes. Waking up… or never waking up again.

  Ezra gripped Micah’s arm firmly, his long, cold fingers pressing into pale skin until the vein rose under the torchlight.

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  A blue river pulsed beneath.

  Micah choked on his own sobs.

  — Ezra… please… I don’t want to… I don’t want to die… not like this…

  The alchemist didn’t even blink.

  — You won’t “die,” Micah. — he corrected, like defining terms on a chalkboard. — Technically, you’ll be… interrupted. Suspended. Which is entirely different… in certain schools of thought.

  Micah sucked in air like a fish thrashing out of water.

  — Ezra, I’ll do anything. Anything. I swear. I can work. I can be useful. I—I—

  The alchemist smiled.

  Not with pleasure.

  But with that clinical smile someone gives when hearing a rat sing opera before vivisection: adorable, useless, irrelevant.

  — Micah… if I wanted utility, I’d have bought another slave. I want you precisely because you’re like this. So… raw. So ready to bloom. So immaculately tainted.

  He pinched Micah’s cheek, playing with the soft skin.

  Micah had no voice left.

  His mouth opened, but nothing came out but warm vapor — like a wounded animal forced to accept that the ground no longer exists beneath its feet.

  Ezra gently pushed the needle forward.

  The tip touched the vein.

  Hahahaha…

  If you’d seen what I saw.

  He looked like a rabbit trapped between two tires.

  That instant — when hope realizes it never existed —

  It’s always my favorite.

  Ezra inhaled deeply, as if savoring the bouquet of a rare wine.

  — The First Stage of Individualization is the only moment when a mortal touches the threshold… without dying. — he explained, almost reverently. — The soul’s implosion is painful, of course. But very brief. It lasts only… hmm… three or four seconds.

  Micah’s eyes widened.

  — S-seconds…?

  — For you… — Ezra tilted his head. — It may feel like weeks.

  The needle went in.

  The blue liquid began to move through the tube, like a thread of sky being pushed into his bloodstream.

  The effect was immediate.

  Cold ran through Micah’s arm. Then his chest. Then his spine.

  And then everything shook — or perhaps it was his soul shaking.

  — Ezra… I can’t… I can’t feel my legs…

  — Excellent. — the alchemist assessed, like watching a mechanism function. — The Spiritual Body is awake. The physical one is shutting down.

  Colors dissolved.

  Sound folded in on itself, becoming thick, pasty.

  Micah couldn’t move anything — not even his tongue.

  Ezra extinguished the torch and opened the door to leave.

  — Don’t struggle. Let your soul shrink. When it implodes… something greater will fill the space.

  Micah could only hear the door locking as he was plunged into total isolation.

  The silence was disturbing — as if the volume of sound had looped around on itself. It was deafening, maddening. The only things keeping his mind from disappearing were the sounds his own body made and the constant hallucinations.

  He lost all sense of time, and yet it dragged on. Even motionless, the effort felt comparable — if not worse — than unloading a truck full of cement bags alone, without stopping for even a second.

  For a moment he thought he might already be dead, that all that remained in the afterlife were his thoughts and this absolute, immutable void. But his irregular heartbeat, the faint sound of his lungs, and the noise of his stomach consuming itself were miserable reminders that his suffering on the physical plane had not yet ended.

  Hallucinations blended with memories, and he no longer knew what was real. At one point he believed Ezra had always been his father and that this world had always been his home.

  At another, he was convinced this place was Hell — that he had managed to throw himself into the creek and this was the punishment for his sins.

  And now he was convinced he had never even existed at all, that his entire life had been just another hallucination of this infinite purgatory.

  Until he simply stopped thinking — as if his consciousness had shut itself off forever.

  Yet Micah felt something he hadn’t felt in what seemed like months.

  He felt… touch?

  He thought it was just another trick his mind was playing on him.

  But this time… it was different. The sensation only intensified.

  A crushing pressure enveloped every inch of him. Each second it became harder to breathe. Each moment the pain worsened. His very senses began to be compressed.

  His eyes felt like they would burst.

  His eardrums like they would rupture.

  His lungs like they would explode.

  His skin like it would tear.

  Every orifice in his body began to bleed. Micah tried to writhe and scream, but his limbs continued to ignore his commands.

  His soul gave way.

  For a single instant — perhaps a hundredth of a second — he felt an indescribable, unimaginable pain, as if every nerve in his body had been compressed into an infinitely small point at the same time.

  Then, a flash without light.

  And darkness.

  …

  Damn… shit… it’s that hellish headache again…

  Wait… what’s that? Wind? And… sand?

  I tried to open my eyes again, unbelieving that I had regained my mobility. But to my surprise, this time my eyelids actually obeyed. I found myself kneeling, my hands resting on my lap, my head bowed.

  Then I tried to move my hand and… I could!

  I felt my face, felt my hair, felt everything! My eyes watered with joy. I sobbed. I ran my hands over every fold of my body. I smelled my own sweat. I licked my cheek and tasted the salt of my tears. I drowned myself in sensations I hadn’t experienced in an eternity.

  — M-my body’s back… My body’s back. My body’s back! MY BODY’S BACK! — I repeated over and over, testing the tones of a voice I’d only heard in thought.

  I was so absorbed in the ecstasy that I hadn’t noticed the cold. When the wind hit me, I realized my total nudity. I stood up carefully, regaining my balance little by little.

  I looked around.

  I was no longer in the same room.

  I squinted against a constant sandstorm. It made it hard to see, but not impossible to identify my surroundings.

  A long corridor stretched both ahead of me and behind me — so long its end was nowhere in sight. Strangely, no matter which direction I looked, the wind always blew toward my face, as if the storm itself were determined to make my life harder. The floor was sand, and on the ceiling there was a weak fluorescent light. Whenever I walked in any direction, the previous light shut off and a new one turned on above me, limiting my field of vision to just a few meters ahead.

  Both the walls and the ceiling felt familiar, but I couldn’t name the source of that familiarity. It was as if every corridor I’d ever been in occupied the same space.

  So this is the “Pneumatic Core” that son of a bitch talked about?

  But something was wrong.

  I had no shadow.

  I raised my hand — nothing behind it.

  Nothing in front.

  Nothing below.

  Nothing above.

  As if the light refused to acknowledge me there.

  From that point on, something even stranger happened — not that any of this wasn’t strange enough already. I felt a tightness in my chest, my hands grew sweaty, and the horrible smell of sulfur intensified. I could simply feel that something terrible was coming, and that I had to get out of there — fast.

  So I started walking.

  At some point in my exploration, I found a door, just as familiar and unnameable as the corridor that housed it. But when I tried to open it, it wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t exactly locked — it was as if every time I pushed, an equal force was applied from the other side. Someone — or something — was blocking my entry.

  Realizing that, I tried another approach. I knocked on the door three times:

  — Is anyone there? It’s cold out here… Please, could you at least tell me how to get out of this place?

  No answer.

  — Fine, then… — I huffed and moved on.

  With time, I found more of the same door on both sides of the corridor, all blocked in the same way. I walked for hours — days, even — but this place never ended. I tried to break the doors down, but they were indestructible. I tried to dig through the sand and hit solid stone beneath it.

  There was no way out except to keep walking.

  ...

  The soles of my feet were covered in blisters from walking barefoot. My dry throat begged for water, my stomach for food. I was sick of all of it.

  So I decided on a drastic measure.

  I stopped in front of one of the doors and sat on the floor. I would face whatever was behind it. Even if I kept going, I’d eventually collapse from thirst. If I was going to die, I’d do it looking for a way out.

  As expected, the sensation of imminent death returned in full force.

  With each moment, paranoia grew, my eyes tracking every faint sound or shadow.

  The pungent smell of rotten eggs became unbearable.

  The sandstorm worsened to the point where it was impossible to open my eyes or even breathe.

  Just as my heart felt like it was about to tear itself apart from pain, everything stopped.

  The smell, the pain in my chest, the sandstorm — all of it ceased at the same instant.

  Reluctantly, I opened my eyes, still expecting a deluge of sand. But there was nothing there. No sign of that terrible presence.

  Everything was… far too quiet.

  As if on cue, the door in front of me burst into flames the moment I stood up. I immediately backed away, slamming my back against the opposite wall.

  But I felt no heat. There was no smoke.

  It was an impossible fire — a sketch of fire.

  Then it went out — not literally, but as if it had simply ceased to exist.

  Moments later, the structure collapsed, crumbling into black ash.

  I approached carefully, stepping over the door, now black as charcoal.

  I felt that whatever was on the other side was… waiting for me.

  I didn’t know exactly who.

  But I knew I was already late.