POV: ???

  I y bleeding on the facility floor, metal cold against my back. A dull ache throbbed in my chest, the result of the bullet that had ended my escape. Just meters away, the sealed door loomed—my one glimpse at a world I had never touched.

  A man in bck tactical gear stood over me, silent, faceless behind his mask. The weapon still smoked in his gloved hands.

  “Thirteen years…” I choked out, blood wetting my lips. “That’s all I got? No sky, no sun, no... life?” My voice cracked as sobs wracked my broken body. “Why? What did I ever do?”

  No answer came. There never was one.

  I had no name—not at first. I wasn’t born in a home, but grown like a mistake. I was a child of silence, pain, and gloves I was forbidden to remove. A being forged in a cage and tempered in isotion.

  They called me ‘Anomaly’. I wasn’t like the others. In this world, people were born attuned to ‘cosmic energy’, able to strengthen their bodies, manipute the elements, bend the world to their will.

  But I had none of that. Instead, I had something far worse: a death-touch. Any living being imbued with cosmic energy would rot and decay at my touch. Even flesh could crumble. I was told I killed my mother the moment I came into the world. They said my father, overcome with grief, gave me to Carces—the organization that raised me like livestock.

  My hands were bound in reinforced gloves as a toddler. I learned quickly: the gloves stayed on, or people died.

  When I was six, the training began. Swords. Combat drills. Obedience. Always obedience. They said it would help me control my power. But that was a lie. They weren’t training me to live—they were training me to kill.

  When I asked what I was being prepared for, my instructor told me I was destined to be a “hero” of Carces. But even then, I sensed something was wrong. A hero? I couldn’t even hold a hand without killing.

  When I turned eleven, a man came. He told me about the world outside: cities, oceans, festivals, ughter. He said I was being trained to protect those people. I clung to that hope like a child to a bnket.

  One day, I asked him what a mother was. He paused, then spoke gently. “A mother holds you when you're scared. She teaches you to speak, walk… love.”

  I felt hollow. “No one ever touched me unless they had to.”

  He stared at me with something strange in his eyes—pity? Regret? I didn’t know. He left without answering.

  When I turned twelve, he came back, and this time his face was hardened with resolve.

  “They lied to you,” he said. “Carces isn’t peace. It’s cruelty. Murder. Human experimentation.”

  I stared, not understanding. “What’s murder?”

  He looked pained. “It’s what you did to your mother. It means… ending someone’s life.”

  I remember the way my throat closed. For the first time, I understood what my hands really were. Not tools. Not weapons. Curses. I wasn’t meant to protect the world. I was meant to end it.

  He said he would help me escape. But the next day, they dragged me into a white room. He was there—bound to a chair. Bruised. Bleeding.

  “Touch him,” they ordered.

  “No!” I begged. “Don’t make me!”

  They didn’t care. A cmp removed my glove. I screamed and fought. His eyes were filled with tears.

  “Do you forgive me?” he asked.

  “You did nothing wrong!” I cried.

  And then my hand touched his face.

  I felt the energy in him shriek in protest as it decayed. His skin bckened, blistered, peeled away. He screamed—a sound that still haunts my soul.

  He died begging for forgiveness I had already given. And I broke.

  From then on, they made me kill more. Not just with my decay—but with my bde. Children like me. Adults. Beasts. Rebels. I remember every face. Every scream.

  To survive, I had to stop feeling. I dulled my heart until it was steel. Until death was routine. But every night, I dreamt of touch—of holding a hand without ending a life. Of someone calling me by name.

  On my fourteenth birthday, I ran. I made it to the door—only to be shot down like an animal.

  As the cold took me, I smiled. At least now, it was over.

  ---

  POV:???

  I awoke in bckness. No warmth. No pain. Just... nothing.

  ‘Didn’t I die?’

  “Yes,” a voice echoed. It was cold, ancient, and crawling.

  I turned. A figure stood in the dark. Pale skin. White hair. Eyes like coals smoldering in a frozen hearth.

  “I am the Abyss,” he said. “And you are my son.”

  “What?” I whispered.

  “Your decay—your touch—it is not of this world. It is of me. A fragment of my essence passed into you by accident. But now you have returned to me. My blood, my child.”

  I felt sick. “You made me into a monster.”

  “I made you into a god,” he snapped. “And they chained you like a rabid dog. Let them rot for it.”

  He smiled. “But you have another chance. Be reborn. In a new world. And destroy it, embrace who you truly are being meant to corrupt to sughter all of creation.

  “No,” I whispered, I felt sick, was this my true father, this thing telling me to just go and destroy a world I had never seen? I look at him “I don’t want to destroy anything. I just want to live. I want to feel safe. I want to know what love means.”

  The Abyss studied me and a hint of something— amusement, pity? “Pitiful. But I will humor you. You are still mine, after all.”

  He stepped closer. “I will give you this: a new body, and the ability to wield ‘mana’—the energy of that world. Master it, and you will suppress your curse.”

  My heart lifted.

  “But fail…” His voice darkened and my heart fell again. “And your decay will return—uncontrolled. Touch will again mean death. You have two years to form a mana core. No more. After that, you will fall.” His eyes seemed to intensify in their study of me and a small smile was on his face.

  I swallowed hard.

  “And know this, I will offer you what is write fully yours although you have to work for it abyssal energy can make you a god” he added. “You may refuse the abyssal energy I offer. But in doing so, you will be weak. You will suffer. The more you use it, the stronger you become. But the more it corrupts you, too. Every use carves away your humanity and brings you closer to your true being.”

  He extended his hand. “Accept my mark. You will bear the power of a fallen beast—the *Umbra Basilisk*. Its will shall be yours. If you are ever questioned, tell them it is your Beast Will. Lie, deceive—survive.”

  I hesitated. But if I didn’t take this chance, I would never escape what I was.

  So I reached out. I took his hand.

  He smiled. “Good. Now go. Let us see if you can defy your nature. Or if you will burn the world down, just as I have always intended.”

  As I fell into the void, I heard his voice one st time:

  “Find an anchor, my child. One soul you trust absolutely. Only they can stop you, should you fall too far.” For some reason I heard a small ugh in that voice— why?

  And then I was gone.