Something screamed.The lab was dark.
Not dark like a room with the lights off. Dark like a place where light had been invited and refused to stay. The only illumination came from the floating tank at the far end of the chamber, its amber liquid glowing softly, casting long shadows across the floor.
Inside the tank, a boy floated.
Black hair. Eyes closed. Body still. The bronze plaque at its base read: FREE. Blood splattered across stone walls. Organs slid across a floor. A severed arm bounced once before coming to rest beside a table.
Igor Patrovski sighed.
"Well."
"That didn't work."
He stood over an operating table, his hands buried in the chest of a corpse. The body was fresh—not a cadaver preserved for study, but a corpse recently delivered, still retaining the warmth of the recently living. Its skin was pale, its eyes open, its expression frozen in a moment of terror that would never fade.The grotesque remains of his latest experiment slowly collapsed inward.
Twitching.
Convulsing.
Dying.
Around him, automatons moved. They were patchwork things—sewn together from mismatched parts, their flesh a patchwork of skin tones and textures, their joints reinforced with crude metal fittings. Some had too many fingers. Others had too few. One had a face that was almost human, except for the second mouth where its left ear should have been.
Some were humanoid.
Some were not.
Most looked deeply unsettling.
One resembled a child-sized doll stitched together from porcelain and brass.
Another looked like a walking toolbox.
A third had six mechanical legs and carried surgical instruments on its back.
They all watched.
Waiting.
Obedient.
The underground laboratory stretched endlessly into darkness.
Metal walkways crossed over pits filled with failed experiments. Igor paused and looked around the lab. His gaze lingered on the boy in the tank before he turned back to his work.
The automatons brought parts.
Arms. Legs. Organs preserved in jars. Flowstone crystals that pulsed with dim light. Igor took them without looking, his fingers moving with the precision of a man who had long ago stopped being disturbed by what he touched.
"Honestly, The black market is becoming disappointing." He pulled a Flowstone-infused rib from a crate.
"Used to be you could buy quality materials.Now it's all counterfeit garbage."
An automaton offered him a tray with a torso on it.He pulled a length of intestine from the corpse's abdomen. It was not human. It had been harvested from a beast, its surface covered in small, hook-like protrusions that caught the light.
"Thank you, Button."
Button bowed.
Its head fell off.
Igor ignored it.
"These days I have to make everything myself."
He glanced at the corpses hanging from chains above.
"Fortunately dead people are abundant. . No one checks if a corpse is missing. No one asks where it went."
Another automaton waddled over.
Its nameplate read:
Muffins
Muffins carried a human arm.
Igor accepted it.
"Excellent."
"Fresh."
He attached it to a grotesque half-finished construct lying on the table.
The thing immediately began screaming.
Igor nodded approvingly.
"Good compatibility."
The construct was horrifying. Human flesh, beast organs, flowstone implants, artificial veins.Fragments of armor embedded directly into bone, each component carried residual essence. Each essence hated the others.They fought continuously, trying to consume one another.Trying to dominate. Trying to survive.
The result was profoundly unstable.
Exactly how Igor liked it.
"The Seventh Division was useful."
He smiled.
"Their intervention proved something important."
His fingers danced through the air. The surgical tools he was working with moved independently—transformed, augmented, their fingers tipped with needle-like claws. These were his 'Gifted Hands' , a tool made from the greatest artificer the world hands of the Grand Maker Sigmund Kilgowe. A living artifact can create other living artifacts.
"The process is still imperfect. The conflicting essences makes it extremely volatile. But that can be fixedthrough trial and error."
He reached for a Flowstone crystal and pressed it into the construct's chest. The flesh around it swelled, then settled, as if accepting a new organ. Igor continued operating without concern.
"The Revolution has been wonderfully cooperative."
His tone became amused.
"They think they're changing the world. Hedududududu." He chuckled.
"Adorable."
He attached another Flowstone. The construct shrieked. He stepped back.
"The Revolution is a distraction. Nothing more. Fools, all of them. They believe they are fighting for freedom. They are fighting for our benefit."
He laughed.
"Rivas is a fool. A dangerous fool obsessed with power. One willing to sacrifice countless lives of those he wishes to rule because some imaginary divine mandate told him he was special."
The construct's chest exploded.
Blood covered the room. Igor blinked then wiped blood from his face.
"Well, there it goes."
He snapped his fingers.
Two automatons immediately approached. One was named Biscuit, the other was named Cute. They began gathering remains. Pebble consumed a kidney.
Igor pretended not to notice. His attention back drifted toward the floating tank toward the sleeping boy.
The laboratory seemed to grow quieter.
"Perhaps I should free you."
The boy did not move. Igor studied him.
"No."
He shook his head.
"Not yet."
"I still don't understand enough."
That was the truth. Everything else could be dissected, analyzed, improved.
But the boy remained an anomaly.
An impossible specimen.
A puzzle.
A mystery.
And Igor loved mysteries where all he had to do to answer the question was cut flesh open.
"The next stage requires vessels. Vessels strong enough to retrieve the Oblivion Cube fragment. We do not know what reaction it would have on a normal person. So we must create someone who can survive it."
His gaze shifted back toward the failed creation. His mind wandered to the reason behind his actions.
The Oblivion Cube Fragment.
His life's obsession.
His ultimate proof was that artifact that would validate every theory every experiment, every sacrifice, everyone had laughed.
Scholars.
Researchers.
Universities.
The Church.
The Crown.
All of them.
They called him insane.
Unethical.
Dangerous.
A monster.
Igor smiled.
"Yes. I suppose I am."
His eyes gleamed.
"But I was also right."
Living artifacts existed.
He had proven it by turning his biggest opposition, Sigmund, into one of them.
Now he would go further, much further.
The Oblivion Cube would become an artifact.
Not merely studied.
Not merely contained.
Transformed.
Perfected.
Controlled.
The ultimate object altered by the ultimate artificer.
History itself would be forced to acknowledge him.
"Soon."
He clapped his hands.
The automatons immediately assembled.
"Bring me more parts."
They scattered into the darkness.
Igor laughed quietly to himself.
Above him.
Far beyond the laboratory.
The world continued moving.
Kings plotted.
Revolutionaries schemed.
Pirates fought.
Researchers searched.
And none of them realized they were chasing shadows.
Because the true game had already begun.