The infirmary was empty when Bren opened his eyes again.
No soft whispers. No clinking tools. No nurses. Just silence and the faint scent of iron and antiseptic.
He sat up slowly. His body didn't ache, but it should have. By all logic, he should be dead—or at least on life support.
Instead, he felt… fine.
Better than fine.
A soft chime echoed in his ears.
[SYSTEM: Physical recovery complete. Sigil Stabilized.]
[Mutation in progress… Suppressed.]
He blinked. "Suppressed?"
Bren swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The faint rustle of the sheet felt sharper against his skin than it should've. Like his senses had been dialled up a notch. Maybe two.
He made his way to the mirror bolted to the infirmary wall. What he saw made his stomach twist.
His face was still his... but what caught him was the patch of black—just above his right ear. Yesterday, it had been small. A coin-sized blemish. Now, it had spread like ink in water, threading into the rest of his blonde hair.
He touched it. It was real.
And then he spoke.
"…Damn."
The voice that left his mouth wasn't the one he remembered. It was rougher. Hollow in a way that felt unnatural. His eyes widened in shock. A part of him hoped it was temporary from the screaming.
He stared at his reflection, fists clenched.
"I'm still me," he muttered.
Bren quickly grabs his boots and puts them on. He places a blanket over his shoulders and leaves the infirmary.
His eyes flickered every direction. On edge. Like he's doing something wrong.
Maybe he was... he did just up and leave the infirmary.
"Why does it seem all my senses have heightened?" he thought to himself as he approached his cabin.
Upon entering he noticed a fresh uniform hung up. He felt something was off... like he was being expected.
The courtyard was filled with early morning fog and quiet tension.
Moisture clung to the stone paths and grass, the mist curling like ghosts around the boots of the assembled Hunters. Forest Vale recruits stood in clean rows, uniforms pressed, expressions taut. No one spoke. No one dared to breathe too loudly.
Sergeant McEvoy stood at the front, arms crossed over his chest. His face was carved from stone, unreadable as ever.
Bren fell into line near the back, his movements automatic. Every step he took felt like it echoed too loud in the fog. Conversations dimmed as he approached, voices halting midsentence. Even the air seemed to stiffen.
He kept his gaze forward, ignoring the sideways glances. Leia's sharp eyes tracked him from across the line. Kovan shifted beside him, jaw tight, expression torn between curiosity and concern. Myla didn't even glance his way. Her posture was rigid, face impassive, as if pretending he wasn't there made it easier.
McEvoy gave no welcome. No congratulations. No mention of the Trial of Death. No recognition that Bren had survived something meant to break him.
Nothing.
That silence hit harder than any insult.
"So that's how it is," Bren thought, jaw clenching. "I wasn't supposed to come back. And now that I did… no one knows what to do with me."
He stared straight ahead, spine rigid, but he could feel it—eyes boring into him, whispers cloaked in silence. The courtyard had never felt so small, and yet he had never felt so isolated.
"They think I'm a fluke. Or worse—a mistake. A reminder that something slipped through their control."
Leia broke the silence first.
Her voice was low, but it sliced through the fog like a blade.
"What did they do to you?"
The words were sharper than they should've been. Not just curious—suspicious. Maybe even afraid.
Bren didn't answer. He couldn't. Because he didn't know the answer himself.
"What did they do to me?" he thought. "I survived the trial.I healed. I lived. But the voice… the sigil… the black patch in my hair… What am I now?"
Kovan stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You feel… different," he said, frowning. "Like your mana's heavier."
Bren's breath caught.
"Heavier?"
He hadn't even tried to channel his mana since waking. Not once. But if Kovan could sense it without him doing anything…
His fingers twitched instinctively, then curled into fists at his sides. A faint tremor ran down his forearm, as if something under his skin stirred in response to being noticed.
"I'm leaking mana without meaning to? No. That shouldn't happen. Not unless…"
He edged away slightly, just enough to create space between himself and Kovan. Space they might not realise he needed—but he did.
"Keep your distance. Don't give them a reason to fear you. Not yet."
McEvoy's voice snapped through the tension, barking orders like a whip. Hunters straightened instantly, formation tightening. The spell was broken, momentarily.
But the tension didn't fade. It hovered like the fog itself, clinging to skin, to thoughts, to unspoken questions.
"They think I'm changed. They're right."
Bren kept his posture locked, his breath even, his expression unreadable.
"I didn't ask for this power. But if it's mine now…"
A flicker of black shimmered across his thoughts. Nythor's laughter—soft, distant, waiting.
"Then I'll decide what to do with it. Not them."
Later that morning…
Bren sat alone under the canopy near the mess hall, picking at a half-eaten meal he couldn't fully demolish.
The sounds of metal clashing in the nearby training yard rang in his ears, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Back to that trial. To the demon. To the moment everything went black.
And to him.
"Mind if I sit?"
Myla's voice cut through his fog.
He didn't answer, but she sat anyway, sliding onto the bench beside him.
For a moment, neither said anything.
Then:
"I checked the infirmary this morning. You were gone."
Bren glanced at her sideways. Her expression was calm, but her eyes flicked quickly to the dark patch in his hair. She noticed.
"You're not okay," she said, low. "No E-Rank walks away from a C-Grade demon like that. Not without… changing... or dying..."
"I didn't walk away," he muttered. "I was carried."
She frowned. "Don't be cute. You should be dead, Bren."
"I'm aware."
He didn't look at her, but he could feel her gaze.
She lowered her voice further. "Your voice, that hair... seems like you're changing..."
Bren sat silently. Not knowing what to say.
"Also your mana... it feels wrong. Not bad, just… it's not the same."
He finally turned, met her eyes.
"I don't know what I am anymore."
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Myla didn't speak for a while.
Then: "Well... figure it out before someone else does."
She stood, walked away without waiting for a reply.
Bren let his head drop into his hands. He was unravelling. And the worst part? He wasn't even sure he wanted to stop it.
He was starting to like the way he was changing but was scared of what he could become.
Bren made his way to his cabin as the end of guild training was over. He still felt the anxiety clinging to his bones. People noticing changes and mana being heavy.
"I need to find more out about you," Eden thought to himself.
Night fell quickly.
Too quickly...
Bren lay on his bed in the cabin, staring at the ceiling as the quietness, peaceful.
He noticed everyone was keeping their distance.
He'd become something else in their eyes.
Maybe he was.
Just as he started to drift off, another chime echoed faintly in his skull.
[ALERT: Unknown entity has attempted to scan your soul.]
[Warning: Nythor's Presence partially revealed.]
His heart slammed against his ribs.
He bolted upright, glancing around. No one was around.
Then the voice came. Smooth. Cold. Inside his mind.
"They see the cracks in your mask. But the real danger… is already inside."
Bren swallowed hard.
"Nythor." Bren whispered.
"You speak my name so freely now."
"I'm not yours."
"No. But you're not theirs either."
The voice faded. But the chill it left behind didn't...
Eventually sleep came, though it didn't bring peace.
Bren found himself standing in a vast, crumbling cathedral.
Black stone stretched into the sky above. The windows were shattered, letting in no light.
And at the far end stood a mirror. Cracked. Flickering with shadow.
He stepped toward it. Slowly.
In the reflection, he saw himself.
Then another version of himself beside it.
Same face. Same body.
But the second had pure black eyes and wings of shifting smoke.
—Nythor.
Bren clenched his fists.
"What do you want from me?"
The reflection smiled.
"This world fears what you'll become. But I fear what you'll forget."
"I'm not like you."
"You are me. You just haven't accepted it yet."
Bren turned away—but the mirror didn't let him go. It stretched. Warped.
Sucked him in.
He fell.
And woke up gasping, drenched in sweat.
The black patch in his hair had grown again.
And under his shirt, the sigil on his chest pulsed, faintly glowing.