"Faster!"
A whip cracked through the air, biting across Cyril's back for the third time that morning. He didn't cry out or even try resisting, he stopped doing that two days ago.
His hands bled, filled with callouses. His knees trembled, but the pickaxe in his hands kept swinging, striking the black stone over and over.
Each swing sounded out like a heartbeat—slow, steady, and full of quiet rage.
Around him, dozens of other slaves worked under the same burning sun, dust covering their skin, eyes hollow, and hope drained.
"Don't stop, or that fingers mine!" the overseer snarled.
Cyril didn't stop.
He didn't even look up.
'Just keep working. Just keep breathing.'
But he could feel it.
Something inside him.
Growing.
Boiling.
Waiting.
***
Hours passed.
Cyril collapsed beside a water bucket, panting, every muscle in his body screaming in agony. As he reached for a ladle, a hand offered it to him instead.
"Here," said a voice.
A boy, no older than ten, thin and malnourished, his, dark hair stuck to his face with sweat. His wrists red, clasped with the same shackles.
"You need it more than me," the boy said, smiling weakly.
Cyril stared at him for a moment before taking the ladle.
"Thanks, kid."
"I'm not a kid," the boy said, puffing his chest a little.
"Name's Ren."
"Cyril."
They sat in silence, slurping water like it was the last thing they'd ever drink. For a moment, it felt almost human.
Then the screams began.
***
Ren was dragged out of line the next morning, accused of stealing food.
Cyril knew he it was a damn lie.
Everyone did.
But still, no one had the courage to get up and do something.
Not even him.
They tied Ren to a post at the center of the quarry.
The overseer grinned.
"Let this be a lesson."
The first lash struck, and Ren screamed.
The overseer's grin turned into a large smile, as if the child's pain was just a fun game to him.
The second lash struck, Cyril twitched.
The third lash came down—and something inside Cyril shattered.
His pickaxe dropped.
He stood, trembling, fists clenched.
"Stop," he said quietly.
The overseer laughed.
"What was that?"
"I said—STOP!"
The air around Cyril rippled.
The ground beneath him shuddered.
A blue light pulsed from his chest, veins lighting up like fire through his arms.
His shackles, which felt invincible before, cracked.
The overseer turned just in time to see Cyril raise his arm—and then BOOM.
A blast of an unknown force erupted from Cyril's body, slamming the overseer and nearby guards backward like ragdolls. Dust and debris flew into the air, the post holding Ren snapped in half like a stick.
Silence followed.
Everyone stared.
Even the untouched guards stood there shocked.
Cyril stood in the center, breathing hard, steam rising from his skin. His eyes glowed faintly.
Ren's youthful eyes widened in shock, tears threatening to pour out. As if the poor boy knew his coming fate after this.
"Thank you Cyril..."
Of course, Cyril didn't hear him. Something he'd come to regret.
"What… the fuck …" Cyril muttered, staring at his hands.
Pain hit him like a freight train. His legs quickly gave out, and he collapsed with his eyes wide and full of shock.
The last thing he saw before passing out was the sky—two suns shining above him like twin gods, watching in amusement.
***
Cyril woke up in chains again.
But this time, in a deep stone cell. Alone,
no guards, no light, just him and his thoughts. And now, the mysterious power in his chest that lashed out violently earlier.
Cyril…
A voice? Nope—it was him. His thoughts again echoing louder than before.
He sat up.
Focused.
Breathed.
And for the first time, listened.
He could feel something coursing through his veins, the flow, energy, power. It didn't come from rage—it came from him, his will, his refusal to kneel.
He didn't know what he was becoming.
But he knew what he wasn't anymore.
A slave.
A victim.
A nobody.
That guy died on a shitty apartment floor with cheap ramen noodles in his stomach.
This Cyril?
This was someone new.
And the world…no the universe would remember his name.