The river didn't care. It never did. Akshat's broken body tumbled through the churning white water like discarded meat, battered against submerged rocks, spun in eddies that threatened to drown what little life remained. Blood trailed behind him in lazy crimson ribbons, diluted by the furious current. His right arm was gone—torn away at the waterfall's edge. His left foot was missing too, severed somewhere in the fall. Teeth were shattered, bones felt like ground glass beneath his skin. The world was a blur of cold, pain, and roaring oblivion.
Then came the sharp hiss of an injector.
The watch bracelet on his left wrist—salvaged from the lab alongside Veronica's glasses—activated with mechanical precision. A concentrated paste of coagulants, adrenaline, and emergency stabilizers punched into his veins. Veronica, the AI companion housed in the cracked but functional smart glasses still clinging to his face, had triggered the last-ditch protocol the moment vital signs hit critical.
Akshat didn't feel it at first. Consciousness returned in fragments: cold water filling his mouth, the metallic taste of blood, the distant thunder of the falls fading behind him. He gasped, coughing violently as the river finally spat him onto a rocky bank downstream. Mud and sand clung to what remained of his battlesuit. Blood clouded his vision, turning the jungle around him into a smeared nightmare of green and shadow.
"V-Veronica…" he rasped, voice barely audible over the river's persistent growl. His tongue probed the gaps where two teeth had been knocked out. Pain lanced through every inch of him—ribs cracked, shoulder dislocated on the remaining side, spine screaming from the impact. Nearly every bone felt fractured or bruised. The missing foot left a stump that throbbed with phantom fire. He was half-conscious at best, the world tilting in nauseating waves.
"Master," Veronica's voice came through the glasses, calm but edged with urgency. Her holographic avatar flickered weakly in the corner of his vision—a youthful face etched with digital concern. "Vital signs critical. Intervention administered. Do not move excessively."
Akshat tried to push himself up with his left arm. The world spun harder. "Where… where the hell am I?"
The AI paused, processing. "Master, I don't know. I only have an offline world map installed at this moment. No access to internet or satellite data."
Akshat's bloodied face twisted in exhausted confusion. "What💀"
A weak, broken laugh escaped him, turning into a cough that sprayed more red across the sand. The absurdity hit like another blow. After everything—the lab, the soldiers, the Purple Sun God, his mother's scream as his arm tore free—he was lost in some nameless stretch of jungle because the fancy AI glasses were offline. The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it fueled a strange, bitter resolve. He wasn't dead yet. Not quite.
He crawled—dragging the ruined stump of his left leg, using elbows and his remaining hand—toward the nearest tree. Bark scraped his cheek as he leaned against it, chest heaving. Rest. Just a moment. His good hand fumbled across his body, inventorying what survival had left him.
The single remaining titanium syringe pressed against his chest, intact. Flawless Mistake, his magnum still holstered and heavy. The tactical hatchet and combat knife remained strapped to his belt. And in the sealed pouches of his suit—miraculously preserved through the fall—about 280 rounds for the magnum. Not enough for a war, but enough to fight.
Veronica's avatar reappeared, her expression grave. "Master, according to the offline map, we are in a remote section of the reclaimed jungle zone, approximately twelve kilometers downstream from the falls. You are dying. Blood loss, multiple compound fractures, systemic shock. I strongly suggest injecting the Perfect Body Initiator immediately. It is your only viable chance."
Akshat stared at the syringe in his trembling hand. The last one. The one he had guarded with his life while handing the others to his mother. Images flashed—Gunjan's horrified face as his arm ripped away, the roar of the waterfall, his father's distant shout. They thought he was dead. Maybe they should. The pain was a living thing now, eating him from the inside. But dying here, alone in the mud? No. Not after everything his bloodline had cost.
Without another thought, he uncapped the syringe and jammed it into his thigh. The serum burned like liquid fire as it flooded his system. His vision whited out. He passed into darkness, the river still murmuring its indifferent song nearby.
---
13 hours later, Akshat's eyes snapped open.
The pain was still there—deep, grinding, relentless—but it had dulled from white-hot agony to a heavy, manageable throb. The bleeding had stopped completely. His body felt… different. Stronger in places it had no right to be. The stump of his left leg no longer wept. Cracked ribs held firmer when he breathed.
"Veronica," he muttered, voice rough. "How long?"
"Thirteen hours, Master. You were unconscious. The Initiator serum has taken initial effect."
Akshat sat up slowly against the tree, wincing. "Explain it to me."
Veronica's avatar nodded. "The Perfect Body Initiator is the first step in the program. It grants ultimate immunity to pathogens and accelerates treatment of near-fatal injuries. Tissue regeneration, clotting optimization, neural stabilization. It is not a full transformation yet, but it has stabilized you. Some bones remain fractured. Full recovery will take time but it still can't regrow lost limbs."
He flexed his remaining fingers. The serum worked. It hurt like hell, but he was alive. Thoughts of his family clawed at him—his mother's scream, the way she'd clutched his severed arm. Did they search for him? Were they safe? The Purple Sun God had one syringe now. The weight of that failure settled heavy in his gut. Anger simmered beneath the pain. He wouldn't die here. He would crawl back if he had to. For them. For the bloodline that refused to let him go quietly.
But first, he had to move.
Without a left foot, walking was impossible. Akshat scanned the surroundings and spotted a thick fallen wooden trunk nearby—sturdy, weathered, about the right length. Sitting propped against the tree, he drew his combat knife and began carving. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the serum's aid. Each stroke sent jolts through his broken body, but he shaped the wood into a crude barrel-like prosthetic: hollowed at the top to fit his stump, tapered at the bottom for rough balance.
The real problem came next. How to keep it attached while moving? If it slipped, he'd collapse again. Mental calculations raced through his fogged mind—leverage, pressure points, friction. He positioned the barrel against his stump, aligning it as best he could with his remaining right leg's length for even gait. Then, with grim determination, he raised the combat knife.
"Master, this is inadvisable—" Veronica began, voice rising in alarm. "Risk of further vascular damage, infection despite immunity....."
Akshat ignored her. He took off the glasses, setting them aside on a root. Silence. Just him, the knife, and the pain he refused to let win. With a sharp breath, he drove the blade through the side of the wooden barrel and into the flesh of his calf, pinning the makeshift leg in place. The scream that tore from his throat was raw, animal. Blood welled around the knife, but the serum slowed it gradually. The pain was excruciating—a white blaze that threatened to drag him under again—but he endured, twisting the blade just enough to lock it securely.
Tears mixed with sweat on his face. Not from weakness, but from the sheer, brutal reality of what he'd become. A one-armed, one-footed wreck pieced together by hatred and legacy. His mother's face haunted him. His father's protective anger. Kurana's endless games. He whispered a broken promise to the empty jungle: "I'm not done yet."
The knife held it and he also wrapps a vine around the leg. The barrel-leg was crude, painful, but functional. Akshat tested it, pushing himself upright with his good arm and the hatchet as a crutch. It hurt. Gods, it hurt. Every step sent fire up his leg, but he could move.
Veronica's voice returned as he slipped the glasses back on, her tone softer now. "Master… are you stable enough to travel. What is the plan?"
Akshat didn't answer immediately. He looked downstream, toward whatever waited beyond the river's bend. The jungle stretched endless, but so did his will.
"Survive," he said quietly, voice thick with emotion. "And find my family."