— Kyle Valter’s POV —
The white door closed behind .
It wasn’t just a normal closing sound; there was a deep chanical click, followed by a very low hum—like the activation of a high-rank Eitra suppression barrier. The air in the sterile white room completely stilled.
I stood in the middle of the room, feigning a cough and clutching my chest, while the doctor with silver glasses and dead eyes walked slowly toward his desk.
"Please sit on the examination bed, Mr. Noah," the doctor said in a soft, monotone voice devoid of any human tone. He didn’t look at , instead typing sothing on his electronic tablet.
"We will conduct a deep scan of your Eitra pathways to determine the cause of your pain."
I moved slowly and sat on the edge of the dical bed, padded with cold white leather.
Alright... I thought to myself, preparing to use [Shadow Rend] at any fraction of a second.
If he tries to inject with anything, I’ll slice his shadow and crush him until he spills everything about this hospital.
The doctor approached .
In his hand was a silver device resembling a scanner, but at its tip was an extrely thin needle pulsing with a sickly yellow light.
"Relax completely," he said, raising the device toward my neck.
At that mont, I decided to act.
I wouldn’t let him touch . I focused my Eitra into my eyes, stared at his shadow stretching across the white floor, and raised my right hand to summon the Forgotten Blade.
But... nothing happened.
"Huh?"
I tried to push Eitra through my veins, but my energy pathways were... dead. Completely empty.
As if I had never awakened.
As if I were nothing but an ordinary human drained of every drop of Eitra.
My crimson eyes widened in genuine terror.
I tried to jump off the bed, but before I could move even an inch—
Clank! Craaash!
From within the dical bed itself, four black tallic restraints shot out—thick as robotic arms.
They lunged at my wrists and ankles at supersonic speed, pinning down with crushing force against the bed.
The tal was cold, overwhelmingly powerful, crushing my bones and preventing from moving even a single finger.
"What is this?! Stay away from !" I shouted, abandoning the act of a patient, twisting with all my strength—but the restraints didn’t budge a milliter.
The doctor wasn’t surprised. His dead expression didn’t change.
He looked down at and adjusted his silver glasses with his finger.
"Resistance is futile, Sample Number 894," he said in a chanical tone, as if reading from a manual.
"The entire room is an absolute Eitra suppression field. Even if you were Rank A, you wouldn’t be able to ignite a single spark here. Your body is now nothing but flesh and blood. Which is exactly what we need."
"Sample?! I’m a patient! Let go!" I roared, saliva flying from my mouth.
But the doctor drove the yellow needle brutally into the side of my neck.
It wasn’t an anesthetic.
It was liquid fire.
I felt a corrosive substance surge through my veins, boiling my blood, paralyzing my motor nerves while keeping my pain receptors at maximum sensitivity.
I wanted to scream—but my jaw locked completely, and my tongue swelled until it nearly blocked my throat.
"Transferring to the slaughter floor," the doctor said coldly, pressing a hidden red button beneath the edge of his desk.
The floor beneath ... split open.
I wasn’t in a room—I was inside a massive hidden hydraulic elevator.
The entire dical bed, along with part of the room, began descending at a terrifying speed.
The sterile white walls faded upward, replaced by pitch darkness... then flickering red light.
The temperature rose violently. The air beca heavy, viscous, saturated with a stench that made my stomach churn:
rusted iron, rotting flesh, sulfur, and sharp chemical gases burning my sinuses.
I was falling into the darkness, eyes wide open, unable to move, unable to scream—listening only to the grinding of tal around the elevator.
Then the descent stopped with a violent jolt that made my teeth slam together.
The rusted tal doors opened slowly, releasing a nerve-tearing screech.
What I saw...
It wasn’t a hospital.
It wasn’t a secret basent.
It was a physical manifestation of the underworld.
I found myself in a colossal hall, its ceiling lost in dense darkness.
The walls weren’t concrete—they were covered in pulsating red organic tissue, massive black veins like sewage pipes pumping yellow and green fluids through the walls, feeding this nightmarish place.
On both sides of the wide pathway—along which my bed was being carried by chanical arms from the ceiling—stood hundreds... no, thousands of massive glass cylinders.
Inside each cylinder... was an experint.
Not ordinary human experints.
Abominations beyond the limits of horror.
I saw a man whose lower half had been fused with the entrails of a giant spider. He floated in green liquid, his face twisted in an eternal scream as the spider’s organs devoured his body from the inside, regenerating it endlessly.
I saw won whose skin had been completely stripped away, their exposed muscles stitched with copper wires infused with Eitra, twitching like flayed worms.
I saw children... dear God, the children.
They were fused together—three or four children sewn into a single mass of limbs and heads, crying in overlapping voices like dying cats.
The sound in that hall was a symphony of pure suffering.
Muffled groans, hysterical screams, the cracking of bones being broken and reset, and the buzzing of chanical saws operating in shadowed corners.
The bed I was bound to moved automatically toward the center of the hall—to the only point of light.
"No... no... please..." I whispered in my mind, my eyes flooding with tears from the chemical gases and from a raw terror that shattered every layer of the Black Joker persona I had built.
I was once again that child in the "Dawn Hope" orphanage.
But the horror here was a million tis worse.
The bed stopped beneath an enormous surgical light—blinding, pure white.
At the center of that illuminated circle, the floor was entirely covered with tal drainage grates, thickly coated with congealed blood and pus.
Around , rusted chanical arms hung from the ceiling—ending in massive scalpels, circular saws dripping blood and acid, and huge syringes filled with boiling black liquid.
From the shadows... sothing stepped forward.
It wasn’t the doctor.
It was a being wearing a heavy black leather apron, layered with thick stains of dried and fresh blood and human fat.
It was enormous—nearly three ters tall.
It had no face—its head was covered with a filthy burlap sack, with only a single hole from which one red eye protruded—wide and hungry.
In its right hand, it held a massive cleaver nearly two ters long.
In its left, it dragged an iron chain ending in rusted hooks.
"A new sample... yes... very fresh," the butcher spoke in a voice like grinding volcanic rock, viscous saliva dripping from beneath the sack onto my bare chest.
"Let us see how his weak Eitra pathways endure, Voiders’ parasite," said another voice—a cold female voice coming from speakers in the ceiling.
A voice identical to Madam Grace, the orphanage director... but more distorted, more chanical.
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