Alex stood there but said nothing.
Not because he was reconsidering. Not because he was overwheld.
But because words would have been wasted.
Why wouldn’t he continue?
What else was there?
Even if the odds were so impossibly low that any sane man would walk away, he would still do it. This wasn’t a question of choice—it never had been. His mind was made up the mont the flas swallowed his ho, the mont the screams died in silence, the mont the world betrayed everything he loved.
So let her mind gas end.
Let the guilt-laced warnings fade.
He would carry this path through to the end, no matter what it cost.
The holographic image of Mona—frozen in ti yet sohow watching him through it—stared ahead with eyes that seed to pierce the very flow of space itself. There was sothing almost divine in her gaze, not omnipotent, but knowing. As if she had seen this mont before it ca to pass. As if she had predicted his silence.
She didn’t wait more than a few minutes.
Then, with a softened voice, she continued.
"The operation itself is brutal," she said. "The pain alone has driven even strong-willed n into madness."
Her tone held no dramatics—just quiet, maternal regret.
"The system must be integrated directly into the brain. The neural pathways need to be restructured, forcibly adapted. Your thoughts, mories, and instincts will all be in flux for days, maybe weeks."
Alex’s expression didn’t change.
He simply stared at her.
Mona’s eyes, flickering faintly with static, trembled ever so slightly.
"But I couldn’t risk you dying because of my creation," she said. "Not after you’ve co this far."
There it was again—that tremor of guilt she tried so hard to bury beneath her calculations.
"So I went all out," she continued, more firmly now. "I redesigned the procedure, reshaped the surgical algorithm, reprogramd the internal stabilizers... and increased the odds of success."
She paused, then finished:
"To forty percent."
Silence returned, for just a heartbeat.
Then, with a low hiss, the floor beside Alex shifted.
Another panel opened, sleek and seamless, followed by a rising chanism that brought with it a long, sealed chamber, one the size of an average man. A faint mist drifted around it, cold and sterile, carrying the sharp scent of tal and disinfectant. The glass exterior was tinted with a soft blue hue, and inside, Alex could already see the diagnostic rune-lights flickering to life.
"The chamber is pre-calibrated for you," Mona said. "You’ll be placed in a dically induced stasis during the integration. The process will take five hours... and if it fails, your brain will rupture before you ever wake up."
Her voice didn’t falter, but sothing about her eyes did—like a mother trying to steady herself for a goodbye.
Alex didn’t look away from the pod.
His hand slowly curled into a fist.
There was no hesitation in his chest. No fear. Just fire.
Let it hurt.
Let it burn.
He would survive this.
Because this was no longer about survival.
It was about vengeance.
----
Mona’s voice rang out again, calm but deliberate.
"So, before we can move forward, you’ll need to enter the tube. But in case you ca into the bunker not in the best physical condition... I’d advise you to take your ti. Eat. Rest. The operation will demand that your body is operating at no less than ninety percent functionality. Anything less—and the odds fall even lower."
Alex glanced down at himself.
She wasn’t wrong.
Blood caked his hands and wrists. Several of his fingers were bent at unnatural angles. Cracks snaked along his forearm bones, and he could feel the sharp sting of torn muscle beneath his ribs. His breathing was shallow, uneven, his body a walking testant to the hell he’d just survived.
Still, part of him wanted to walk straight into the pod anyway.
Push forward. No hesitation.
But another part—older, wiser, and shaped by everything his parents ever taught him—forced him to pause.
Live first. Then strike.
He looked around the massive control hall, noting the sleek, almost sterile layout. One of the blinking signs above a corridor read "POTIONS", glowing a soft blue. Without another word, Alex followed it. His steps were heavy but steady, echoing against the polished floor.
Nyxara followed closely behind, silent as a shadow. Her presence was constant now—comforting in its own quiet way.
When Alex reached the potion room, he expected a small storage cabinet or maybe a cold shelf or two. He was wrong.
The room opened up like a vault.
Wall after wall was filled with shelves that stretched all the way to the ceiling, each stocked with glowing vials of varying color and intensity. From the entrance to the far end, potions were categorized with exact precision—grouped by rank, color-coded by function. Mana-replenishing potions stacked neatly to the left, strength-enhancing concoctions to the right, while rare and exotic brews were placed along the center aisle. Toward the back, he could feel it—a faint but unmistakable pressure that made the air thrum.
Grandmaster-rank potions.
There were dozens of them.
Alex blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected this. Not even close.
But his wonder lasted only a mont.
He stepped forward, brushing past shelves until he found what he needed: a Master-rank healing potion. It was already a high-tier resource, more than enough for soone at his current level. He popped the cap and drank it in one gulp.
Almost imdiately, his body reacted.
Warmth surged through his veins as the potion supercharged his natural healing. The bruises faded. Bone fractures began to realign. The sharp pain dulled, replaced by a focused ache. It wasn’t a complete recovery, but it brought him close—close enough to breathe without a wince.
Silently, he made his way back to the central hall. The lights dimd slightly, responding to his presence. He took a ditative pose at the base of the integration pod, legs crossed, hands resting on his knees, breathing steadily.
Nyxara, who had been watching and listening quietly the entire ti, finally spoke up.
"You’re not going to eat sothing first?"
Her voice was low but firm, carrying just a hint of concern. "Even potions use up energy to work. You’ll need food to rebuild strength. The chances of surviving the operation will be better if you’re not starving yourself."
Alex didn’t argue. Not this ti.
He simply nodded, stood, and turned toward the nearby hallway.
He couldn’t afford to be stubborn now.
Not when his life—and everything that ca after—depended on it.
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