When I entered the room, I immediately felt the difference between it and the corridor.

  It was small. Cramped. Warmer than outside, of course—but also stifling and damp, like an abandoned greenhouse, saturated with the smell of mold and sweat. The brown tile floor was greasy, unpleasant to walk on barefoot. Dark stains hid the beige color of the walls; in some places the paint had peeled away entirely, revealing shoddy plaster beneath.

  The only source of light was a window with broken blinds. Through it, the outside world was visible, covered in a fog so dense it felt like you could cut it with a knife—except for an eclipse, which repelled the mist around it like oil on water.

  The room was furnished with only: a single bed, a plastic table, a chair—one that looked like it belonged at a dining table rather than in a bedroom—a nightstand, a lamp, and a dusty mirror cracked into exactly three large shards.

  Nothing in that room matched.

  Everything looked like a place that had already given up on being a home.

  And yet… there was something painfully familiar about it.

  A pale echo of my childhood—only mutilated.

  Without color.

  Without hope.

  As if someone had ripped the innocence out of the place.

  Just like they had done to me.

  When I stepped inside, I thought I was alone—until I noticed something at the edge of my vision. A strange movement in one corner of the room, like shallow breathing. I narrowed my eyes, trying to make sense of the blur.

  My vision sharpened, and what I had taken for a shadow revealed itself to be a small animal, not much larger than a cat, sleeping peacefully. But it was so black that it was hard to tell where the darkness ended and where the creature began.

  Like a silhouette without an owner.

  Its body was that of a lamb—but with one glaring difference: its skull bore not two, but eight horns, curved like dried roots. When I took a step forward, one eye opened.

  White as snow.

  Then another.

  And another.

  And another.

  With only one side of its face turned toward me, it stared at me with four eyes.

  It had no pupils—but I knew it was staring straight into mine, observing my soul, naked and raw, the way an owl watches its prey. And paradoxically, the way a cornered lamb would look at the wolf about to devour it.

  I tried to look away from that ambiguous scrutiny that sent chills down my spine—but the eye contact remained. Unshakable. As if my eyeballs no longer belonged to me, but rested instead in the hands—or rather, hooves—of that being.

  Then it turned its entire face toward me, slow as an eclipse.

  — Who… what are you…?

  A fifth eye opened.

  I stepped back.

  The sixth.

  The door behind me was gone.

  The seventh.

  — S-STOP STARING AT ME!

  And when the last one began to open—

  Micah woke up gasping, tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

  For the first time in his life, he had been seen.

  Truly seen.

  Without expectations.

  Without illusions.

  Without mercy.

  And he couldn’t bear it.

  The door opened without warning, flooding the room with painful light. He blinked rapidly, blinded, as he heard heavy footsteps and the metallic clink of steel plates.

  — Ah. What a surprise. You actually woke up. — Ezra said, in his usual casual tone.

  Someone loosened the leather straps binding Micah’s arms and legs. When they tried to lift him, Micah attempted to speak—but only managed to cough. His throat was dry like charred wood.

  — Drink.

  When his eyes finally focused, Ezra was holding out a canteen. Micah drained it in a single gulp, water spilling from the corner of his mouth like cracked earth receiving rain after months of drought.

  After the last swallow, Ezra leaned down until they were eye to eye.

  — So, Micah. What’s it's name?

  Micah frowned.

  — Huh… whose name?

  — Your Image’s, of course. You two talked in the Core, didn’t you?

  — That thing? It just stared at me. It didn’t say anything. — Micah shrugged.

  Ezra grabbed Micah’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.

  — Micah, everyone who wakes up after three days becomes Awakened. And all Awakened know the name of their Images. Don’t lie to me.

  — I’m not lying! I don’t even know if that thing could talk!

  A flash of irritation crossed Ezra’s face—quickly replaced by his usual half-mocking, half-bored smile.

  — Very well. It doesn’t matter. The experiment will continue. Your karmic reserve is all I need, and you showed it to me on the first day — he said, adjusting his half-cloak.

  Then he added, almost laughing:

  — Your negative Karma is absurdly high, Micah. Serial-killer levels. I don’t know what you did in your past life, but congratulations on the suffering caused.

  Ezra ruffled Micah’s hair like someone praising a well-behaved child. Then he turned and left, followed by the bodyguards—carrying Micah with them.

  The room led into a long but narrow corridor, filled with multiple intersections, like a labyrinth, packed with incoherent turns and hallways that led nowhere. From floor to ceiling, it was made entirely of stone, with no windows, lit only by torches.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  They were underground.

  The architecture was disturbing.

  Skulls stacked like bricks.

  Ribs forming arches.

  Jawbones serving as frames.

  It felt like Micah had gone back to the days when he raided dungeons with his middle school friends.

  — Nice décor… real classy, Ezra — Micah remarked sarcastically as he examined the eccentric walls.

  — Hm? Oh, this? — Ezra gestured lazily. — They’re real.

  Micah stopped.

  — Sorry… what?

  The alchemist rolled his eyes, letting out a small sigh before repeating impatiently:

  — They’re real. The bones are real.

  Then he shoved his fingers into the eye sockets and nostrils of one of the skulls, pulling it from the pile like it was a bowling ball.

  — Here, see for yourself. Catch. — Ezra tossed the skull toward Micah.

  Micah instinctively opened his arms—but before his fingers even touched the bone, something ran up his spine, like a reversed shiver, as if something had invaded his nervous system.

  Victor, walking ahead, didn’t even turn his head.

  He merely received a discreet elbow jab from Ezra and, with a tired sigh, clicked his tongue.

  The sound echoed twice.

  But it was as if the echo came before the sound itself?

  And then—

  Micah saw it.

  The skull, still midair, snapped its jaw open with a grotesque crack.

  Its fractured mandible stretched like that of a starving predator, teeth falling from its mouth and regrowing as twisted ivory needles.

  The hollow eye sockets filled with a black sludge that writhed like maggots.

  The sutures of the skull split open like fissures, pulsing with a sickly pallor as it gained weight.

  A spine burst from the neck with terrifying speed, followed by ribs and a pelvis.

  The skull was generating a body for itself.

  And that thing flew straight at his face, shrieking with a sound that was half pig, half choking child:

  HRRRGHRRRGH—

  Micah let out a primal, horrible, involuntary scream:

  — AAAAH NO NO NO—!

  He threw himself to the ground so hard he slipped on his own feet, slammed his head against one of the bone walls, tried to crawl away, and knocked into a femur that fell and rolled, making even more noise.

  He tried to defend himself with his bare hands, flailing his arms like someone trying to shoo away a bee... a giant and hungry one, that is.

  The scream echoed through the entire corridor.

  When the echoes died down, he realized—

  The skull was lying motionless on the floor.

  Inert.

  Exactly as Ezra had thrown it.

  No black sludge.

  No living jaw.

  Just an ordinary skull, staring at him with the same emptiness he was already used to seeing in the mirror.

  Ezra stifled a laugh as he looked at Micah.

  Then he extended an arm theatrically, like a circus presenter:

  — Ta-da.

  Victor kept walking, indifferent, as if the scene were routine.

  Maybe it was.

  Micah, trembling, remained frozen on the ground for three long seconds before finally finding his voice:

  — H-HOLY SHIT, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT???

  — What? — Ezra asked, picking his nose. — You falling? A magnificent performance, I must say.

  — Not that! The thing! The skull turned into a monster! A— a— a—

  — A skull — Ezra corrected. — A fine skull, at that. Stop wasting it with theatrics.

  Victor finally glanced over his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, the expression of someone who would rather be doing literally anything else.

  — Sorry, master — the bodyguard muttered. — The echo came out stronger than intended.

  Ezra gave him a friendly pat on the arm.

  — Don’t apologize, Victor. It was excellent. He almost pissed himself.

  — I– I didn’t piss myself! — Micah snapped, red-faced.

  — Yet, my dear — Ezra smiled.

  Victor turned back and picked up the skull from the floor, handing it to Micah with an uncomfortably humiliating military seriousness:

  — Hold it properly this time — he instructed, as if Micah were a child holding an egg.

  Micah took it with both hands, trembling like a soaked cat.

  Ezra turned to continue guiding the group through the bone-lined tunnels.

  — Now come. I have much work to do.

  — And… what exactly am I supposed to do with this? — Micah asked, lifting the skull like it was cursed.

  — Oh, nothing — Ezra replied without looking back. — I just wanted to see your reaction.

  Victor cleared his throat, trying to hide a smile.

  Micah briefly considered throwing the skull at Ezra’s head.

  But remembering that horrifying vision—one he still couldn’t explain—he feared what Ezra might do with such powers if he were truly annoyed. So he simply put the bone back where it had been, making sure it was just a corpse, before following the group.

  — So what is this place, anyway? — Micah asked, trying unsuccessfully to read the illegible inscriptions on the arched ceiling.

  — A section of the city’s catacombs closed to the public — Ezra replied disinterestedly. — Some time ago, the passage connecting this area to the rest of the catacombs flooded. When I heard the news, I repurposed the intact space as a private laboratory. That’s the main reason I own property in this agricultural city instead of the capital. Besides the absurd prices there, of course.

  As he finished, Ezra pulled a handkerchief from inside his doublet and covered his nose.

  — Prepare yourself. We’re close to the Central Island’s sewer. The smell will get quite unpleasant.

  As promised, the pungent stench of human waste filled the air, forcing Micah to bury his face in his tunic. He thought he was used to the smell of shit—after all, he passed the creek every day on his way to work—but somehow this was even worse.

  Despite the stench, Victor and the other bodyguard—still anonymous beneath his helmet—maintained perfect military posture, which made Micah wonder whether they even possessed a sense of smell.

  Soon, the group reached a section of the corridors that looked more like a prison than an ossuary, with dark cells lining both sides of the tunnel.

  The left side housed several prisoners of strange disposition. Some merely stared at whoever passed their cells. Others bashed their heads against the walls until the stone was stained red. Very few seemed to have any sanity left.

  Micah even saw one of them chewing on his own lip—a sight that sent chills down his spine.

  The right side had more of them—but strapped to metal chairs, with tubes inserted into their arms, their blood being drained and stored in large glass containers for a purpose Micah feared to question.

  He could only watch in horror as he saw examples of his own fate should he remain at Ezra’s mercy.

  — Don’t pity them — the alchemist declared, placing a free hand on Micah’s shoulder. — Most are criminals or debtors who abused my goodwill. But some… are just like you.

  Suddenly, a crash rang out from a cell on the left. An overweight man gripped the iron bars, rings threatening to snap on his fat fingers. He wore a dirty, torn—yet silver—cloak.

  — EZRA. EZRA! — the man screamed desperately. — Look, let me go, please. I’ll pay you double, triple even! Just give me a few months… I’m useless to you here!

  Ezra looked at him for a moment, then approached, smiling broadly before humiliating him in a low voice:

  — Garland, my dear Garland, do me the favor of stopping this tantrum of yours. — The alchemist poked his chest. — We both know what kind of man you are. A minor noble, fond of gambling and dependent on Mother Luck. But unfortunately, the fate of such men is always the same… the money runs out. They seek loans, believing with all their being that luck is still smiling upon them—even after it abandoned them long ago. How tragic…

  Ezra lowered his voice even further, playing with Garland’s hair:

  — I watched your steps, Garland. I saw you liquidating your assets. I saw you gathering the little money you had left. I saw you packing your bags to join a caravan. You planned to flee to Vellancia, start over with a new identity. But the world doesn’t turn that way—you can’t simply run from your problems. You were caught in the act trying to swindle me… and that hurts me deeply, Garland. I thought we were friends. You helped arrange my furniture when I arrived, we went to the cathedral together every Axedal, even met at the tavern now and then… But you know how the Law works, Garland. You studied in the capital. You’re an intelligent man. This is simply the consequence of your actions: Indemnification through Servitude. And like every citizen, you must learn to deal with it.

  Ezra ended the conversation with a pat on the man’s back, leaving him there—defeated, eyes wide, collapsed to his knees.

  — You’ll sleep here — Ezra stated as the anonymous bodyguard pulled a keyring from his belt and opened one of the cells. — I need your spiritual body to recover before we proceed. There isn’t much space, so get along with your roommate, alright?

  Micah barely had time to hesitate before he was shoved inside, the door locking behind him. The cell was small, containing only a bunk bed and a hole in the ground for necessities.

  Micah stood still for a few seconds, ear pressed toward the darkness shifting inside the cell. The stench was even worse there: old sweat, rust, moisture that never dried—and something else… something that reminded him of flayed flesh.

  He swallowed hard.

  — …Is anyone there?

  Silence.

  But it wasn’t dead silence—it was the kind that breathes.

  Micah took a hesitant step forward, and then a thin, raspy voice answered from the top bunk:

  — You’re quite slow to notice things, huh?

  Micah jumped so hard he hit his head on one of the iron bars. A weak laugh spilled from the bunk—half tired, half mocking.

  — H-hey… do I know you?

  The figure climbed down slowly. First a thin leg, then a bare torso. The light filtering through the bars revealed the gaunt face of a pre-adolescent boy—but what stood out most were his hands.

  The fingers were far too long, far too rigid, as if made of chitin.

  Micah recognized him immediately.

  It was the boy from the barn.

  The same one who had been one foot in the grave—and the recipient of Micah’s frustration.

  — You— you’re… — Micah pointed, nearly dropping his own skull.

  The boy lifted his chin.

  — From the barn? Yeah. — He tilted his head. — You squealed like a pig back then too.

  Micah didn’t know whether to respond.

  The boy sighed, almost cynically, and sat on the lower bunk.

  — Thought you’d died out there. Almost disappointed when I heard your screams in the corridor… — he looked at his own deformed hands with studied boredom. — But I guess you’re hard to kill. Congratulations.

  Micah blinked, confused and irritated.

  — You could’ve… I don’t know, introduced yourself before scaring the shit out of me, you know?

  — I could’ve — the boy shrugged. — But that would’ve been a lie.

  Micah frowned.

  — What?

  The boy stared at him with dark, unblinking eyes.

  — I’m not good with introductions. Or people. I’m technically not even the same person you met.

  He said it as casually as someone commenting on the weather.

  Micah stared at him like he was speaking gibberish.

  A crooked smile appeared on the boy’s face—half annoyed, half surprised at Micah’s slowness.

  — Exuvia — he finally said. — That’s my Image. I was born to escape everything. Old shells never last with me, and every time I shed my exuvia, I become tougher. But… just like I lose my old invisible shell in the process, I always end up leaving a little piece of myself behind.

  One of his fingers snapped, cracking off another piece of skin that fell to the floor like a dried fragment.

  Micah swallowed again.

  — Does that… hurt?

  — Only when I stay still too long — he replied. — And Ezra keeps me still. That’s why I’m going to escape.

  He said it with such conviction it sounded like a law of nature.

  Micah stepped closer.

  — Escape… through the sewer?

  The boy looked at him like he was evaluating whether Micah had a brain.

  — I’ve been there. The wall of the third cell on the left has a loose grate. It probably reaches the drainage that leads straight to the river. But I can’t open it alone. — He raised his hands, showing that despite their hardened appearance, they trembled slightly. — These damn things crack every time I force them too much. They grow back, but… it hurts. Seems my Image couldn’t adapt to my factory defect, huh? Haha…

  Micah took a deep breath, remembering the horrific vision in the Core—the Lamb, the eyes, the unbearable weight of being seen.

  Then he finally noticed how well the boy looked. No bandages. Not even scars.

  — How did you recover so fast?

  — New shell. Duh. Heals everything. Besides, thanks for leaving me isolated that day. Would’ve been way too dangerous in the middle of those psychopaths.

  Micah hesitated.

  — And why do you want my help?

  The boy tilted his head and gave a crooked—but sharp—smile.

  — Because you look desperate not to die here — he said bluntly. — And desperate people move.

  Micah didn’t argue.

  The boy stood, studying Micah like a crustacean searching for a crack in a ship’s hull.

  — So, Micah — he said, interlacing his deformed fingers behind his head — do you want to keep being the alchemist’s toy? Or do you want to open that wall with me when the guards change shifts?

  Micah didn’t answer immediately.

  But his silence was answer enough.

  — What should I call you…?

  The boy’s smile widened.

  — I’m Ivan M?ngke. But you can call me Crayfish.