Chains rattled with a low metallic echo as the young man stirred. His body hung limply, wrists bound above his head to a thick metal pipe embedded into the cold, damp wall. His once-pristine academy suit was stained, the fabric stiff with dried blood.
Crimson crust clung to the edges of torn wounds, some so deep and neglected that they festered with signs of infection. His breath came in shallow, uneven draws, and though his eyes were half-lidded with exhaustion, they still held a spark of life and defiance.
Across the room, a man stood hunched over a table, the overhead light casting harsh shadows on his scarred face. His lab coat was too clean, contrasting with the grim place, as if he took pride in the work he was about to do. His mouth twisted into a horrible grin, it teetered on the edge of madness.
"Who would've thought," the man muttered, stirring a vial with trembling fingers, "that the genius heir of the Jing family would one day fall into my hands? None of them predicted my revenge! They all deserve to die!"
Where am I? What is this place? Who is that man? How long was I trapped here? The young man blinked, his voice weak, rasped by thirst and days of screaming in his last mission. "Who… are you?"
The older man chuckled, the sound dry and sharp like cracked glass. He turned, holding up a syringe filled with a glowing blue serum. His eyes gleamed with excitement under the harsh light. "I am your worst nightmare," he said. "But don't worry, child. I come bearing gifts."
Gifts? What is he talking about? I see nothing but darkness.
He flicked his wrist, and with a soft beep, a holographic screen unfolded between them. The screen glitched, then cleared, displaying footage with a clarity that made Azihiro's stomach twist.
A mission. His mission.
How did he obtain a copy of the mission? Who is he? The one he had been sent on as part of his final S-ranked evaluation before graduation. He stared, breath catching in his throat as familiar faces, his teammates and friends, appeared on the screen, one by one.
There were thirteen of them. Smiling. Confident. Ready. And then, the chaos began. Azihiro's heart pounded louder with each passing frame. Explosions. Screams. The sound of metal being torn apart.
One teammate fell, then another. Blood bloomed like demonic flowers across the terrain. He recognized their faces even in death. Every one of them. They had trusted him. They had followed his lead. He had failed them.
"No… no, this isn't right," he muttered. "This wasn't how it happened…"
The older man only laughed, stepping closer, the syringe forgotten in his hand. "Oh, but it was. Starnet broadcasted this footage three days ago. It's the number one trending tragedy in all ten sectors. Haven't you noticed the military's seal on the edge of the video? Your eyesight must be bad."
Azihiro's eyes widened. "Starnet?"
"Yes," the man replied gleefully. "The backbone of interstellar communication. You, Azihiro Jing, are now infamous across the galaxy. The genius who led his entire team to slaughter. A fallen traitor!"
"I am not a traitor!"
"But you killed them all!"
"I didn't!"
"You did!"
Tears burned at the corners of Azihiro's eyes, blurring his vision. He clenched his jaw, trying to suppress the scream building in his throat. "Why… why are you doing this?"
"Because you don't know what it's like to lose everything," the man hissed, stepping into the light. The scar across his cheek warped as his expression twisted. "I was once like you. A genius. A creator. But your precious parents destroyed that. Stole my research, buried my name. So I buried them instead."
Azihiro froze. "What… did you say?"
The man turned back toward the console and tapped again. "Let me show you gift number two."
The holographic screen flickered again, this time displaying a news broadcast. The anchor's voice was calm, impersonal, and heartless.
[Breaking News: A high-level warship under the Jing command has been destroyed in Sector Nine. On board were Generals Xeren and Althea Jing. No survivors.]
"No," Azihiro whispered, shaking his head. "That's not possible. That's..."
The video continued, linking their deaths to the earlier mission failure. The anchor stated that Azihiro's poor leadership compromised the fleet's strategy, indirectly leading to the destruction of the warship. His parents had died… because of him.
"No!" he screamed. "They... They can't blame me! I wasn't even..." He yanked at the chains, struggling wildly now, blood from his raw wrists smearing against the metal restraints. "You're lying! I'm still alive! Why would they say I'm dead?"
The older man was practically glowing with delight. "That's the point, child. You are alive, yes. But to the world, you no longer exist."
The screen glitched again. Azihiro flinched as the third video began to play. It showed the Jing estate. Once a symbol of nobility and prestige, now reduced to ruins. Fires raged. Soldiers marched. Noble seals were stripped from the walls. The family crest was shattered beneath the boot of a government official.
"All assets seized. All members executed, imprisoned, or vanished," the voice of the broadcast said. "The Jing clan has been declared dissolved."
Azihiro stared, wide-eyed. His voice had fled him.
The Jing clan… his family… was gone.
Wiped clean.
Erased.
"This is your third gift," the older man said softly, approaching him now, standing just inches away. "Despair. The kind I've carried for years. It's poetic, really. Now we are the same, you and I."
Azihiro's lips parted, but no sound came. His chest rose and fell rapidly, panic clawing at his throat.
His team was gone.
His parents were dead.
His name… forgotten.
His existence… erased.
The man reached forward and grabbed his chin, forcing Azihiro to look into his eyes. "But don't worry. I'll take good care of you. We have much work to do, you and I. You'll help me build a new kind of mecha. The kind that burns everything it touches."
Azihiro's vision blurred. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. There was nothing left. Only pain. Only loss. Only fire.
"I'd rather die than serve you!"