White light hummed faintly above as if even the ceiling itself feared making too much noise. The room was spotless—white walls, white table, white tiled floor—clean to the point of sterility. And seated around the oval table were ten men in perfectly pressed black suits, each carrying the same expression: solemn focus, mixed with a hint of quiet apprehension.
Their gazes were fixed on the young man standing before them.
Dr. Nathan adjusted his glasses with two fingers, his face strangely serene in contrast to the tension in the air. His lab coat fluttered slightly as he shifted his weight, and when he spoke, his voice carried the confidence of someone who had already decided the outcome long before the meeting even started.
"Gentlemen," he began, his tone calm, smooth. Almost too smooth. "As we all know, the fusion with the Divine Beast gene—Calythar—was a success."
Some of the men stiffened. Others leaned forward. But all of them listened.
Nathan's lips curled into a small, almost triumphant smile.
"And with this success," he continued, "we have created what is rumored to appear once in every hundred high-tier gene fusions. A Dreadborn."
A quiet ripple moved through the table, soft murmurs breaking the stillness. The word Dreadborn always had weight—ancient, whispered in military archives, recorded in classified documents, and feared across the world.
Then a middle-aged man lifted his hand. He was dignified, broad-shouldered, with streaks of grey that gave him an air of authority. His placard read: Dr. Paul Renford – Council Head of Bioethics.
"Dr. Nathan," Paul began, voice deep and controlled, "yes, we have achieved what some may call a scientific miracle. But now two things remain gravely unclear."
He stared directly into Nathan's eyes.
"One: most of us do not fully understand what a Dreadborn even is beyond rumors and fragmented reports. And two—" he leaned slightly forward "—you chose a Divine Beast gene, one of the highest tiers known to mankind, and administered it to a pregnant woman. Alone. Without approval. Without involving the Research and Screening Department."
A few men nodded sharply.
Paul continued, voice colder this time. "We do not know the risks, implications, or hidden attributes carried by this gene. Divine-tier beasts are rarely documented for a reason. Their nature is unpredictable. Devouring. Corruptive. And just like every other mythic or divine beast gene, the consequences are—potentially catastrophic."
His words sank into the room like heavy stones thrown into deep water.
Side murmurs erupted again. Uncertainty, fear, anger—mixed into one.
Dr. Nathan stood quietly, expression unreadable. Then he lowered his gaze slightly, face shadowed with an emotion none of them could name. For a moment, it seemed he might apologize or show remorse.
He didn't.
Instead, he straightened, his posture suddenly exuding a darker, sharper confidence.
"I understand your concerns, Dr. Paul," Nathan said, but his tone didn't match the words. "Truly, I do. But science—true science—has never been built on hesitation. It thrives on results, not the journey used to reach them."
The murmurs died instantly.
All eyes returned to him.
Nathan walked slowly toward the center of the room, hands lightly clasped behind him.
"Let me make this clear, gentlemen," he said, voice lowering. "Dreadborns are not myths. They're not stories. They are… weapons of mass destruction crafted by nature itself. Living anomalies of power."
A younger council member raised a brow. "And how exactly do you define such a weapon?"
Nathan turned slightly, eyes gleaming with something sharp.
"It is said," he began, "that one of the Seven Pillars of Humanity—a man strong enough to reshape battlefields—was a Dreadborn. He was born with a seventy-five percent fusion rate with a high-level mythical beast."
The room froze.
A seventy-five percent fusion was unheard of. Most soldiers barely reached twenty. Even elites stopped at thirty or forty.
Nathan continued, a faint excitement in his tone. "Reports say he displayed powers from the moment of birth. And—listen well—his fusion was done through the same method I used."
Paul's eyes narrowed. "Injecting the gene into the pregnant mother?"
"Yes," Nathan answered, smiling faintly. "A method used during humanity's darkest war against the Aberrants."
The word Aberrants made several men stiffen. Memories of cities falling, entire divisions wiped out, and monstrous creatures emerging from rifts were not easily forgotten.
"But," Paul countered, "that method was abandoned. Because—"
"Because the mortality rate was ninety-seven percent, yes," Nathan finished for him. "Both mother and child risked perishing. And even if they survived, the child risked losing control of the fused beast entirely."
"Then why," Paul said slowly, "risk using it again?"
Nathan inhaled deeply, then exhaled with a calmness that disturbed everyone.
"Because we… have surpassed the limits of that era. Technology has advanced. Our neural stabilizers, genetic anchors, and womb-shield frameworks have reached perfection. The chances of losing control are now…" He paused, his voice dropping to a darker register.
"…too slim to matter."
A chill crawled across the room.
Nathan returned to the front and placed both hands on the table, leaning slightly forward.
"Dreadborns," he said, enunciating each word, "are humanity's trump cards. They are simply weapons against Aberrants. Nothing more. Nothing less."
But there was something in his eyes that contradicted his words—an obsession, a zeal, a hunger.
As if he didn't see a weapon.
He saw a masterpiece.
A creation.
A belonging.
One of the council members cleared his throat. "Dr. Nathan… you speak as though you've forgotten something crucial. The Pillar you mentioned—the one created through this method—slaughtered the organization responsible for his birth at the age of ten."
Silence.
Nathan's smile didn't waver.
"We," he said softly, "are not them."
Another man whispered, "But the child… the reports say his birth triggered a Prenatal Surge."
Paul looked up sharply. "Is that true, Nathan?"
Nathan's eyes gleamed.
"Yes," he said. "A Prenatal Divine Surge. Just like the one recorded when the first Dreadborn appeared during the war."
Shock rippled around the table.
Paul exhaled sharply. "Then… what exactly have you created?"
Nathan looked at all of them, one by one, and whispered with reverence:
"A true monster."
The room fell into an oppressive silence.
Somewhere beyond the walls, faint echoes of alarms and footsteps traveled through the facility, but inside the meeting room, everything remained frozen.
Nathan slowly took off his glasses, cleaned them, and placed them back on.
"Gentlemen," he said quietly, "we stand at the dawn of a new era. The era… of Dreadborns."
His final words were swallowed by the room's cold stillness.