Volume 1: Rebirth

  Author: Guinea Pig

  . . . . . .

  Philip no longer remembered how long he had been here. This place had never known light; there was no such thing as day. He had tried to count once. After every round of torture—those were the only markers of time left to him—he would whisper numbers to himself. By the thirtieth, he had gone numb.

  Each “day,” if it could even be called that, began with him awakening in a body that felt less and less like his own.

  What they did to him was not merely painful. Philip eventually understood that he was not an ordinary prisoner; he was an experiment, a test subject for purposes far more twisted than punishment.

  Once, he had clung to hope. He imagined a full-scale assault by the Slane Theocracy upon the Sorcerer Kingdom, humanity emerging victorious. Or perhaps a hostage exchange—surely he would be prioritized. After all, he was a noble of standing.

  No rescue ever came. Only the experiments continued.

  There were times when his arm stretched to an unnatural length, joints pulled apart for reasons he could not comprehend. Another time, his skin turned a pale gray, and when even a faint beam of light touched him, he burst into flames. It was one of the very few occasions he saw light during his captivity.

  They reshaped him again and again into grotesque forms that refused to remain stable. The pain surpassed the point where he could even groan. After each session, they healed him—only to begin anew, layering fresh madness upon his body.

  “Inhuman.”

  A word Philip had once used lightly at lavish banquets funded by Hilma’s money, condemning those he disliked. Now he understood how na?ve that had been. It was not merely a matter of cruelty. He was, quite literally, losing his human form.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Albedo did not appear every “day.”

  But whenever she came, the air changed. A stillness settled over the room, unnatural and suffocating. Those responsible for “researching” him stepped aside without being told. No orders were necessary.

  Philip was not kept in one place. He had been dragged to a realm of searing heat, where the air reeked of ash and blood, and he was burned for hours on end. He had also known a land of biting frost. His twisted body crackled every time he attempted to move. Once, he watched as millions of insects devoured his malformed flesh until he finally lost consciousness.

  “Can you hear me?” Albedo asked him once.

  “Yes…” he answered—or tried to. The sound that emerged no longer resembled a human voice. It was hoarse, warped, like wind scraping through a narrow crack.

  After a very long time—long enough that the memory of his original face had faded—he forgot what it felt like to have symmetrical hands. He forgot how to stand upright.

  “What a pity.”

  Albedo murmured softly as she stepped closer, looking down at the creature before her.

  Philip tried to raise his head, but one side of his neck no longer functioned properly. The attempt only caused him to twitch.

  Albedo tilted her head slightly.

  “The data is sufficient. Experimental value has fallen below the acceptable threshold.”

  He did not understand every word. But he understood the meaning.

  He had lost his value.

  A strange sensation filled his mind. It was not violent fear. Not panic. Something closer to emptiness.

  For so long, he had tried to adapt. Tried to survive within the new parameters forced upon him. Tried to prove that he had worth—even if that worth was only as a specimen.

  Now even that was gone.

  Albedo did not grant him a final glance. She raised her hand.

  “Send him where he belongs,” she ordered, her voice laced with the same disdain one might show after stepping on something filthy.

  And so Philip was taken to a place known as the “Happy Farm.”

  There, he was no longer hunted by powerful beasts. No longer reshaped into grotesque monstrosities.

  Strangely enough, it was during this period that his thoughts became the clearest.

  No expectations. No illusions.

  And in his final days at the “Farm,” as his consciousness gradually faded, he found himself thinking:

  If there were another world—one where he could begin again—perhaps he would do things more carefully. Prepare more thoroughly.

  And if not?

  Then perhaps this, too, was only fitting.