Tristan grabbed the large scissors and stepped closer to Cyn, his voice hoarse.
"I’ll make you drink from the sa cup I was forced to swallow! I won’t just flay you—I’ll toy with you in a hellish way. Sothing even worse than what you turned into!"
Cyn mocked him, tension laced through his voice.
"Oooh, do you really have the guts? After everything you went through, I thought you’d embrace peace and forgiveness—start hating blood and violence."
His hoarse voice erupted in rage.
"Damn it—damn it! Don’t talk! Aaaagh! I hate you, you monster! Monster, monster, monster! That’s what you are! You turned into you! I’ll make you like —deford! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!"
Cyn watched the blade rushing toward him. He lost sight of its trajectory as it left his field of vision, but he knew exactly where it was headed—his neck, his Adam’s apple. He shut his eyes, bracing himself, waiting for his throat to be pierced.
Nothing happened.
Instead, he heard the Scar’s voice inside his head.
"Hahahaha! Did you almost wet yourself? I figured a little prank right after you woke up wouldn’t hurt anyone!"
Cyn spoke coldly, as if he could no longer tolerate anything.
"Is what we’re doing really right? Every ti I end up in so bizarre space, suffering worse than before—things I don’t even understand. Weren’t we supposed to be training? What is this randomness? And now you have ti for pranks? I’ve had enough. Either I understand what’s happening to , or forget about any cooperation between us."
The Scar’s voice echoed.
"Co on, don’t kill the fun. Unfortunately, that thing was out of my control too—I barely managed to intervene. Just keep in mind that it’s nothing more than a price you pay when you obtain sothing imnsely powerful. It’ll gradually stop knocking on the door of your mind."
Cyn replied angrily.
"Trust —this helps nothing at all! And as usual, every ti—no explanation! Whenever I lose consciousness, I wake up inside one of these trials that drag my awareness into taphysical places, like I’m eting so kind of god! What the hell is this?! Is this how I’m supposed to live? You know I’ll lose my composure—maybe even go insane if this keeps happening. That stench of rotten blood is still stuck in my nose, and my stomach feels like it’s twisting—as if it’s really inside !"
The Scar answered mockingly.
"Well... yes. I an—no. There’s no real explanation, actually. It has sothing to do with that sympathetic link. It’s like a trial you must endure to strengthen your ntal fortitude and personal will. Especially if you want power from —you must be strong. But look at the bright side: you did manage to use so energy and successfully heal your wounds, even while unconscious."
Silence fell. Cyn crushed down all those emotions and dark thoughts.
"I can’t move! Damn it! And what kind of prank is this? How did he even wake up?!"
The Scar replied in a playful tone.
"He woke up on his own."
Cyn didn’t believe it.
"I know you had a hand in this."
The Scar repeated in the sa tone.
"Alright, so what if I did? But I saved you. The mont he woke up, he crawled toward you! If not for my majesty—!"
Cyn cut him off coldly.
"Don’t joke with . I know you’re the one who—"
He didn’t even know how to finish the sentence. What exactly had it done? And how?
Still, he said,
"I know you’re involved in everything. So free . Are you controlling him or sothing? And how are you doing that?"
Silence—then a rotten answer ant purely to anger him, as though the Scar was enjoying it.
"No. I won’t free you."
Shuur! Bshakh!
The sound of flesh tearing—and blood surged outward. Cyn felt searing pain in his chest and shoulder. The blade had been driven into him twice.
Tristan’s voice, dripping with rage, echoed through the laboratory.
"I’ll drive it into you! I’ll bury it deep so you feel the rage and fire eating from the inside! I’ll make sure it goes as deep as possible!"
Cyn was stunned.
"Damn it—agh! What are you stabbing again?! Stop! Stop this!"
Only the Scar’s laughter echoed, as if it were enjoying his suffering.
"You can take this as an opportunity to get to know yourself better, Cyn. These are rare monts—when you’re angry, when you act in line with your true nature. Or do you hate this because it reminds you that you’re just like any other human?"
Cyn resisted the pain, trying to gather enough strength to break free from the restraints binding him to the table. The Scar’s playful tone returned.
"Oooh! Looks like I struck a nerve. Does what I say make you angry? Are you angry because you’re angry? Because you can’t control your emotions? What is this supposed to an? I’m worried about you, Cyn—you truly seem ntally unstable right now. Fortunately for you, you have a Scar like that cares about you and is always here to help you rid yourself of such behavior and beco a ntally sound human being!"
Cyn growled.
"This is no longer cody or sothing to laugh about. Tell him to release . I’ve had enough—I’m full. Just stop it, because I’m getting angrier by the second!"
Bakh!
Blood splattered. The scissors plunged into him again, missing his vital organs by re milliters. The Scar’s voice sounded as if it were deliberately trying to lure Cyn into a trap, provoking his rage—and it was working perfectly.
"Oooh! That was really close—ahahaha! You want to be freed? What if I don’t? What if I don’t want to? We have a long day ahead, Cyn—and I’ll do a wonderful job breaking you! Ahahahahaha!"
Cyn cursed inwardly. Talking was pointless—it would only make things worse. He burned with fury, flas of resentnt roaring inside him. Only after so ti did his thoughts slow. He fell silent, staring at the ceiling.
"Damn it... this is bad. I feel like I’m going to lose consciousness again. I don’t want to go back there—or anywhere else."
He closed his eyes and focused on what would help him most right now. He directed all his pent-up anger toward the Scar and activated it. Warmth spread, followed by familiar symptoms—rough breathing, a racing heartbeat. Then he felt sothing else.
Sothing warm.
The Scar’s voice echoed in his mind.
"Yes, yes! That feeling! Wetting your bed when you were a child, Cyn! Hahaha! You’re human—there’s nothing wrong with that. You were young, after all. How do you think they’d see you if they knew the great Cyn, who kills without blinking, used to wet his bed at four years old? Hahahaha! And now look at you—acting like you’re so big deal. You’re nothing but that child who once soaked his sheets, and you talk about shedding your humanity? Tsk, tsk! You dream too much!"
Cyn cursed silently.
"Damn it—how do you turn this idiot off? Does he run on batteries or is he plugged into a wall? He never shuts up!"
The Scar replied instantly.
"And I never will! Hahahaha! Cyn the Bedwetter—that’s your new title, and you deserve it! What scared you so badly back then that you soaked yourself like that, huh? Hahahaha!"
Cyn burned with rage.
"Damn it—that wasn’t even ! Do a favor and shut up, useless Scar!"
He thought hard, trying to use the Scar and the warmth spreading through his chest. A thought ford—one he refused to believe.
Damn it.
"No... I won’t do it. I’m not like that. That wasn’t —"
The Scar interrupted, as if injecting him with false confidence.
"Hahahaha, just do it. Who knows? It might help you. That’s what you’re looking for—that’s your destination. I’ll give you ti to choose."
Bakh! Shuur!
The scissors plunged in again, blood surging beneath the bandages. He felt warmth in his lower body—his own blood.
That was what it ant by "giving him ti."
Of course—it would never give him ti to choose. It would shove him forward, force his decision. And it was a decision he didn’t even want to think about.
Cyn focused deeply. The warmth inside him—it was there, but he couldn’t control it, couldn’t release it. He relaxed his muscles and cleared his mind.
He painted a picture in his head.
A hot shower, scrubbing his body clean.
Warm woolen clothes.
A large glass of cold water, drained to the last drop.
He turned, stared at his warm woolen bed, collapsed onto it, and drifted into deep sleep. In his dreams, he felt that natural instinct—to release what was inside, to find relief.
He dread of standing in a forest, the wind brushing against his face. He lowered his trousers, took himself in hand, and with complete ease and comfort, felt like he owned the world. A sensation he never wanted to end.
Pssshhh.
Droplets caressed the willow leaves upon grassy ground, as if nourishing them.
Warmth spread through him.
Then realization struck—discomfort. He jolted awake, only to find his bed sheets soaked. He had fallen into the forbidden trap. It had all been a dream. If anyone heard of this, they’d laugh at him.
Of course, it was all just Cyn’s imagination.
He opened his eyes.
The warmth flowing through him intensified.
The Scar’s voice echoed.
"Hahahahaha! See? That’s how it is. You just do it—you only need a similar sensation. Look—your wounds are healing at an incredible speed. Your vitality is rising. Your lost blood is returning, crawling back into your wounds! All you had to do was let go of your stubbornness—and here you are. The closest feeling to that warmth inside you was the sensation of wetting yourself in a dream!"
But then—
Sothing strange.
Pssshhh.
A sound echoed inside the laboratory.
And the Scar completely lost it.
"Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"
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