[At night, after I "cured" the kettle]

  While I was still reeling from the tragic miracle that occurred this evening, my parents were engaged in a fervent discussion.

  This night was rife with revelations—much like every godforsaken day in this new world.

  For hours on end, I have been staring at the rags swaddling my obsidian arm.

  The very one I lost several hours ago.

  Yet, I was damn certain that I had lost it.

  There is a total absence of tactile sensation, temperature, or pressure.

  My body abruptly ceases to perceive the world at the proximal end of my elbow.

  I still recall that luminous phenomenon that consigned the kettle and my right arm to oblivion.

  The incredible majesty of physical space—and yet so lethal, who would have thought?

  However, at this precise moment, I cannot move so much as a finger.

  Confined to this small, cozy bed, I lay helpless...

  Confronted by a multitude of inquiries and enigmas saturating my scientific mind.

  What is the nature of this process?

  Why do Ro’Zeta’s "words" function as "program keys"?

  How was that entity able to arrest the explosion and regenerate a lost limb?

  Who is she?

  Is she an ally, or a foe who has strategically camouflaged herself during such a dire period?

  Far too many questions for someone as small as I.

  I haven't even fully mastered the art of conquering the potty chair... and now this!

  But years of sequestered labor in laboratories have yielded results.

  It is best to resolve problems based on their immediacy... and proximity.

  Presently, my brand-new arm is the most pressing issue.

  My legs move when I issue the command.

  I can rotate my head, albeit imperfectly.

  Even my left arm is entirely under my volition... but not this one!

  It lies there like a block of masonry... impossible to lift, impossible to budge.

  Not a damn thing!

  The clinical presentation of monoplegia is evident... but were it a mere paresis, I should be able to elevate it.

  To move the arm even a millimeter... anything at all!

  Gargh!

  To hell with it... I shall analyze this later.

  The salient point is—I am alive, and that is... superb; I am grateful for at least that much.

  Dammit!

  Ergh... I have examined it several times now, yet the tissue surrounding the stump shows no signs of suppuration or the odor of decay.

  It is... sterile?!

  Far too pristine for a body that lost such a substantial "piece"... especially from an explosion.

  And do you know what is most lamentable?

  I lack the equipment to examine myself... properly, in the Kolosian fashion!

  In my time, I would have already conducted a dozen samplings and analyses... I would already understand the "how" and the "why."

  But not here, and not now.

  I must resign myself to this... but I simply can't, for fuck's sake.

  It is so arduous being a small child.

  The illumination in the small chamber where I was—according to my parents' design—supposed to be "slumbering," cast a pale blue-yellow hue… It flickered faintly, evoking antiquated memories.

  Of medical school, those initial examinations… My first love…

  ** by love, Lady Sha’Tyes refers to a microscope **

  Do you know what I have observed throughout this duration?

  Everything within this residence possesses the appearance of a "near-broken contraption"… Like refuse enduring its final moments.

  And yet, it is all hauntingly technological… Take, for instance, this "blue-yellow" light…

  Did you know it engages automatically?

  It even modulates its saturation, "warmth," angle, and lumen output according to a specific programmed curve… It is quite remarkable!

  I feel a modicum of shame for having held such a "low" opinion of my progenitors and this world in general…

  Initially, I did not even attempt to discern such minute details.

  But now— -

  Oh! Stay!

  They are discussing something quite vociferously… Perhaps I might even manage to overhear it…

  Come now, Siana, focus…

  ** here Siana perceived some indistinguishable masculine noise… this is, incidentally, a verbatim quote from her consciousness **

  Activating auditory nerves to maximum capacity!

  — Lira, we must consult a physician… immediately! - my father entreated in a loud "whisper," — What if this… occurs again?

  — But… - my mother’s voice sounded like a puppy whose tail had been stepped on.

  — What "but," Lira? Do you wish for him to kill himself one day? - now there, Father, you are being manipulative!

  — Aurelius is not to blame for anything… He is innocent! - Oh! So my name is… Aurelius? What an androgynous moniker.

  — I am not suggesting he is at fault… Lira, damn it… I simply do not want him to continue maiming himself! Look at his hand! - shouting, you know, is hardly necessary… I immediately discerned from my mother’s tone that she holds HERSELF responsible.

  — But it is intact… Is it not? It has merely… well, changed slightly. That is all.

  — Changed slightly?! Ha… Why, it is blacker than coal… Holy Azaria! Lira, come to your senses! We must see a doctor… I implore you.

  — Tch… And the funds?

  — What is wrong with them now? - ah, this classic "pecuniary problem." It seems one cannot escape it even here.

  — We do not have enough for a doctor… especially not a competent one. I will not surrender Aurelius to some hack who simply charges less…

  — What? We do have the money.

  — Truly? Are you mocking me? Do you even recall the cost of the delivery?! - hm, this is getting interesting.

  — We have exactly enough for two "Mistrals," - Franko nodded, — To Tilf’Talor and back.

  — You must be joking… Ha, so that is where you "went to drink with friends," is it?

  — Heh… Forgive me for not telling you sooner, Lira, - my father’s laughter was distinctly hysterical, — I simply wanted us to have "extra" cash, just in case…

  — Oh, you fool, Franko… But you are my fool, - for some reason, my mother’s tone softened instantly.

  — Will you explain to Lyuba that we are heading to Tilf’Talor?

  — Of course, without question… Then we must pack, oh… You idiot, damn it! - oh, these emotionally volatile parents… Why scream like that only to start laughing like children afterward?

  — What shall we do about the boy's hand, Lira? - this question left a heavy residue in the air, — Can you knit something inconspicuous for him?

  — Agh… I shall try, Fran, but I make no promises, - I had the impression that two pairs of dissatisfied eyes were drilling through the wall at me, — Have you tried lifting him since it happened…?

  — Aurelius has grown heavier…

  — Yes, damn it, and how! - you know, she was indignantly affectionate… Heh, I actually felt a bit relieved. — Do you suppose it is because of "that" hand?

  — Most likely, but it is best to leave that to the Midwife; so, let us get moving.

  Midwife?

  Who is that? A physician?

  A folk healer?

  Something religious?

  Why "Midwife," specifically?

  But that is not all... Tilf’Talor, I wonder what that is.

  Perhaps another village, or even a city?

  Maybe it is larger than the one I am in now... And who is this "Lyuba"?!

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  // — Dormi, little lamb. //

  What? You’re some— - -

  Damn it, my eyelids have grown heavy. My body is unnaturally quic… It has relaxed…

  I can’t… Control…

  ** someone knows how to sing the world’s shortest “lullabies,” because our little doctor fell asleep instantaneously **

  [ The following morning ]

  Oh… I haven't slept that well in ages, ugh.

  I just can't recall exactly how I drifted off… Hm, curious.

  Let us summarize what we have gathered.

  First of all, my name is Aurelius… Heh, it is so bizarre… Finding that out only now.

  Surely they had their reasons; heaven knows what the cultural norms regarding names are here.

  Secondly… My mother’s name is Lira, and my father’s is Franko.

  Lovely names, to be honest… Quite romantic.

  Yet my name sounds like something extraterrestrial.

  It contains a Ro’Zetian root… Aurus—that is gold, if I am not mistaken, and Relis—a sort of idiomatic expression for “being right”…

  Relius is actually “pillar,” for God’s sake.

  I doubt they are sufficiently versed in Ro’Zetian to devise such a “meaningful” name.

  Even the stress and the very manner of speech when they pronounce it… This story unsettles me, yet there are more pressing matters at hand.

  Namely—my damned arm!

  Curse these limbs!

  First, pink sausages, and now a hunk of black “hell-if-I-know-what”… It doesn't even move!

  ** for about ten minutes, the 74-year-old woman attempted to hex the very air… and force it to do something **

  Ha…!

  To hell with it, let it be as it will… Let’s see what this Midwife can accomplish.

  [Half an hour after feeding and diaper changes]

  Wow, I have never been transported through the house with such frequency.

  Today, I was "handled" more often by my father… It appears I have indeed gained weight.

  He still exuded the scent of metal and lubricant… Ha, a diligent man you are, Franko. Be proud of yourself.

  ** Is it possible that Siana has actually praised someone… other than herself? **

  I seemed to be in the same position as I was when my mother tended to me… But my father occupied half the room by default.

  I realized for the first time just how low our ceilings are…

  Several times I observed his grayish forelock brushing against the doorframes.

  What a misfortune to possess such a gargantuan stature… Wait, does that mean I also have the potential to grow tall?

  ** As if anything could tower over your ego, Lady Sha’Tyes **

  Furthermore, the windows are so diminutive; only I could fit through them.

  And it seems security here is somewhat deficient, as every glass "doorway" to the outside world possessed internal metallic shutters.

  By the way!

  I finally discovered the "culprit" behind the warmth in this house… In the corner of our shared room stood a power cell.

  This became evident as soon as I observed my mother’s morning ritual.

  She approached that corner and sat down slowly, resting her hands upon it.

  — Imple, — my mother uttered, and this marvel of technology transitioned its hue to green.

  It was reminiscent of charging a device on Kolos.

  However, she utilized a "key"—Imple, which is akin to saying "Replenish!"

  The only thing that remains enigmatic—why did my mother appear so utterly exhausted afterward?

  Is there some metaphysical nexus between the "key" and the command?

  Hm, curious…

  [After the parents dressed themselves and Aurelius (Siana)]

  I am unsure why, but I harbored the impression that they would don something opulent, you know… for "going out."

  But my father remained in yesterday's trousers, the same soiled ones… though his sweater appeared slightly more presentable.

  Mother… well, Mother looked as poised and respectable as ever.

  She was constantly adjusting the hem of her dress or the buttons on her blouse.

  Perhaps she possessed no glittering accessories, yet the seamstress’s expertise was immediately discernible.

  Everything looked as though it had just left the atelier.

  Smooth, pristine, and pleasantly scented.

  My eyes rejoiced at the sight of her… Is this also hormonal?

  ** You will not succeed in explaining everything in existence with the word "hormones," Siana **

  My father’s hands threw open the thick, heavy gate.

  And I was immediately greeted by a cool breeze.

  The characteristic scent of the street, like a puddle after the rain… and this sudden spike in pressure.

  The noise struck me so unceremoniously that my ears popped.

  Oh, this cursed comfort—it renders one so fragile…

  Nevertheless, before I could even survey my surroundings, I heard the sharp, metallic "clash" of the bolt striking the worn latch.

  — Sera, Protectio, — my mother uttered, a few beads of perspiration falling from her brow. Is the utilization of "keys" truly so detrimental to one's physical endurance?

  — Hey, Lira... — my father draped an arm around her, as if signaling for her to lean on him, — How about I handle the anathemas from now on, alright?

  — Thank you, darling... I shall attempt to conserve my strength for Tilf’Talor, — she sounded more composed than she appeared.

  But... Anathemas?

  Is that what they call the "keys"?

  Hmm, exceptionally pertinent information... Once I have matured sufficiently, I shall be able to locate clinical texts regarding this.

  Anathemas... Anathemas, commit that to memory, Siana.

  My objective had been to scrutinize everything as thoroughly as possible... to "photograph" every single thing I encountered.

  After all, knowledge is a weapon.

  And at my current stage of development — it is the most vital one.

  Consequently, imagine my profound disappointment when I realized I would only be able to perceive a minuscule quadrant of this "world."

  My father carried me so clumsily that a portion of the horizon was simply inaccessible to me.

  However, I was gratified that Lira could rest.

  Judging by how much Franko — who was quite imposing and muscular — panted while transporting me, I estimated my current body mass.

  Somewhere in the vicinity of 30 kilograms.

  What can I say — that is fucking impossible!

  No infant on this earth could possibly weigh that much... Period.

  But these clinical findings definitively pointed toward an anomaly regarding my "new" arm... damn, it weighed a hell of a lot!

  [During a stroll through Surpil]

  It turns out my father is quite the "chatterbox," hah…

  He has been talking for twenty consecutive minutes now.

  Alternating between me and Lira, my mother.

  About what?

  Well, about everything… but I am grateful to him nonetheless.

  I now know that our city is called Surpil.

  And that it is a small, v-e-r-y small city.

  A mere town, even.

  The streets of Surpil are as narrow as the intestines of a small animal.

  Even so, the world proved to be grander than I had remembered it…

  This imperfect road. Crooked, like the teeth of a seasoned alcoholic.

  The coarse grass has seized the roadsides, becoming their sole inhabitant.

  The sky is vast and gray… as unwelcoming as the countenances of the other townspeople.

  Some of them possess horns, others have scales upon their necks, and those over there—their eyes actually glow!

  The alleys we traversed were fractured, with abrupt turns… it gave the impression that we were wandering through a marvelous, yet derelict, labyrinth.

  The houses stand in such dense proximity, as if seeking refuge behind one another.

  Initially, I perceived this city as a monument to chaos. However, I eventually began to discern the underlying logic.

  This is defensive architecture.

  Should something breach the perimeter, it would be unable to move with rapid linearity.

  This was corroborated by the remnants of what appeared to be turrets.

  Imposing metallic "beasts" with large, elongated teeth for muzzles.

  Then my father added, gesturing toward an old, peeling edifice:

  — Look, Relius, "Evacuation Sector 3"… your mother and I used to take cover from the shelling here, like blind felinuses. We would huddle in a corner and pray to Saint Azaria to protect us.

  I cannot say that Franko was the type to display his emotions readily… yet one could sense the fear in those words.

  It remains fresh, like a wound that continues to hemorrhage.

  Shelling, you say…

  But I have heard nothing of the sort over the past nine months, so I hold out hope that the conflict has dissipated.

  The last thing I need is a war.

  Yet with every passing minute, everything became increasingly lucid.

  Dark stone, metallic patches everywhere.

  Repair upon repair… a multitude of structural "sutures" that they hadn't even attempted to conceal.

  These houses were like "patients" on life support. I observed pipes running along the facades like intravenous lines.

  Ironclad windows, the distant hum of generators…

  Coughing, the screech of metal.

  And those bizarre, towering steel pillars with crystals embedded within.

  They radiated a frigid light.

  Street lighting… yet so meager, barely two meters around each pillar.

  If you squinted and tried to peer into the gloom, it seemed as though the entities here moved from one patch of light to the next.

  There is no sound of children’s laughter or boisterous conversation.

  Only the rhythmic clicking of footsteps on stone.

  And those to whom they belonged were no better than the illumination.

  There, a woman with a bandaged arm; a man with a metallic prosthetic finger rolling a cigarette near his mouth.

  A child with dark circles under their eyes clinging to a stooped old man whose coat is festooned with medals.

  No one makes a sound here… the denizens of Surpil seem to be in a state of energy conservation.

  Small, insular silhouettes.

  Long sleeves, everything in dark hues—a practical, utilitarian scheme.

  They all appeared so exhausted, so lackluster… Even I, with time, began to feel that same fatigue.

  As if the very air around us were hemorrhaging one’s energy.

  My damned medical brain automatically triaged the injuries of the surrounding beings, identifying manifestations of malnutrition, insomnia, and chronic stress.

  I surmised without prompting that it wasn't just a lack of *adequate* medicine here… it was nonexistent.

  But what can I possibly do in this body?

  Naught but press on, resting upon my father’s shoulders while staring at the next shop sign, flickering half-dead.

  Everything is so sickly, damn it…

  Distorted.

  In my past life, I saved Kolosians, Imperials, Titans.

  From maladies more harrowing than death itself.

  But here… here they don’t need a physician; they need someone who can deliver them from war.

  From its scars, to heal these mutilated lives.

  But I… I am impotent, am I not?

  Fuck, I loathe this sensation.

  [Another ten minutes or so elapsed.]

  Franko and Lira came to a halt beside a semi-dilapidated edifice overgrown with wild vines—or something remarkably evocative of them.

  "Do you see this exquisite depiction, Relius?" Lira gestured with a slender finger toward a feminine image that dominated the entire interior wall of the structural remains. "This is Azaria the First, our liberatrix," my mother remarked, her voice imbued with profound reverence and her countenance graced by an even broader smile.

  "The deity of every Azarian," Franko interjected. "In moments of trepidation or necessity, Relius... you may always solicit her intercession." His massive hand toyed with my fine hair as he offered a most endearing smile. "She will undoubtedly render assistance."

  Hm, another acquisition of knowledge.

  My parents are Azarians, which implies that Aurelius (that is, I) am also Azarian.

  I have encountered this designation elsewhere... yet I cannot recall the precise circumstances or the source.

  It is persistently on the tip of my tongue—confound it.

  However, I was most struck by this "Azaria the First."

  My parents characterized her as a "Goddess"... do they truly subscribe to such concepts?

  Or perhaps I have been reincarnated into a world where the concept of "Gods" has not yet been rendered obsolete.

  Regardless, the depiction was aesthetic.

  Yet my father neglected to mention that a city was being consumed by flames behind her... since when did benevolent goddesses commence the incineration of cities?

  This Azaria the First... she possessed expansive wings, akin to those of a bird. But three pairs... a peculiar avian specimen, is it not?

  Three pairs of horns. Long and slender ones, short and exceedingly sharp ones, and those that extended down to her heels—curved and formidable.

  I could not discern a tail; perhaps there was none... but I distinctly observed paws.

  Actual paws, like those of a large feline.

  Nalis once presented me with photographs from Lexium-Prime.

  What were they called... Tyrs? Rygrs?

  Ah, precisely—Tigers!

  Like those of Tigers.

  This is no Goddess; it is some manner of chthonic manticore.

  My train of thought was interrupted by my father's declaration:

  "We are nearly at the station, Lira!"

  I could scarcely believe we were departing for elsewhere...

  The midwife.

  Tilf'Talor.

  What awaits me there?

  Perhaps someone capable of elucidating the nature of this obsidian hand.

  Or...

  Perhaps someone capable of discerning the anomaly within me?