"How much data have we gathered on the candidates for Project Homunculi?" Evans asked, his tone sharp as he observed the grotesque crystal balls embedded in pulsating flesh. Around him, a group of individuals—clearly mages, given their lean builds compared to the bulkier warriors—worked meticulously in the observation lab, their faces illuminated by the glow of various magical screens.
"Almost all," one of the mages replied, jotting down notes while glancing at a screen. On it, Rylan Dastor and a group of mages were shown struggling against a swarm of oversized insects. With no warriors in sight, the mages were at a clear disadvantage, their long-range attacks proving ineffective when the creatures closed the gap. At close range, they were little more than sitting ducks, relying heavily on their mana shields to avoid being overwhelmed.
"Almost all?" Evans repeated, raising an eyebrow as his gaze shifted to the mage who had spoken.
The man sighed heavily, clearly frustrated. "Yes, almost all," he admitted. Turning his attention to another screen, where Cassian's image was displayed, he added, "Some of them are… peculiar. Candidates one are causing delays in analyzing their abilities."
Evans frowned, his curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"
The mage gestured at Cassian's screen, his exasperation evident. "Take him, for example. One of his traits is listed as 'pain immunity.' What does that even mean? How can a person develop such a thing? It defies logic. And yet, there he is, acting like nothing fazes him, no matter the injuries he takes."
Evans grinned, his expression a mix of excitement and arrogance. "Well, they're called geniuses for a reason," he said, his tone dripping with confidence. Leaning back slightly, he allowed a broader smirk to spread across his face. "And soon enough, they're going to be working for us… whether they realize it or not."
The mage standing beside him chuckled, rubbing his beardless chin thoughtfully as a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. "Actually," the mage interjected, "not them exactly." His grin widened as he gestured toward the grotesque setup of crystal balls and fleshy constructs. "We're not interested in the originals. No, we're aiming for something better—more talented versions of them."
"well I know that but.." Evans arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "what you ,mean by more talented versions?"
The mage nodded, his grin turning almost predatory. "meaning way better they ever can be. With the data we're collecting, we'll refine their abilities, strip away their flaws, and create perfect beings. No doubts, no rebellion, no limitations. Just pure, unrelenting talent molded to our needs."
Evans let out a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming with a blend of amusement and malice. "Better than the last batch?" he asked, a wide grin spreading across his face as he followed the mage toward the exit.
The mage pushed open the heavy door, stepping into a vast chamber filled with eerie machinery and glowing sigils etched into the floor. Without missing a beat, he replied, "Far better," his tone brimming with confidence.
As Evans and the mage stepped further into the vast chamber, their eyes were drawn to the towering glass tubes lining the walls, each large enough to hold a fully grown human. Inside the tubes, figures floated in a transparent, bluish fluid, their eyes closed as if lost in some dreamlike state. Their mouths were obscured by strange, organic devices resembling leech-like creatures, each connected to a thin, pulsing tube that extended to the base of the containers.
Evans approached one of the tubes, his grin widening as he examined the figure inside. "Impressive," he muttered, his voice echoing faintly in the cavernous space.
The mage joined him, a look of satisfaction on his face. "They're not just copies," he said, gesturing toward the tube. "They're perfected versions. Enhanced strength, heightened mana capacity, and none of the pesky weaknesses their originals possess."
The mage chuckled, walking further into the chamber as he gestured at the tubes. "Of course, none of this would have been possible without the help of the Artistic Butcher," he said, his voice carrying a note of admiration. "His name might make him sound like some deranged lunatic who enjoys carving people up in a slightly more palatable way, but you'd be surprised. The man is a genius. His intellect and precision are unmatched."
Evans raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "The Artistic Butcher? I've heard rumors, but I always assumed he was just another sadist with a flair for theatrics."
The mage shook his head, a sly smile on his face. "Not at all. His methods may be unorthodox, but his results are extraordinary. The level of detail he achieves is… astonishing. Take this one, for example." He stopped in front of a tube containing a red-haired boy, almost indistinguishable from Cassian. The resemblance was uncanny, down to the smallest detail.
"Look closely," the mage continued, gesturing toward the floating figure. "Not just the hair or the face, but every aspect. The length of his limbs, the scars, even the most intimate details—size, shape, growth patterns. The Artistic Butcher ensured that no imperfection was overlooked."
Evans leaned in, his grin widening as he examined the boy in the tube. "Impressive," he murmured. "So even the... less noticeable features were replicated perfectly?"
"Precisely," the mage confirmed with a smirk. "It's not just about creating a functional copy—it's about making one so perfect that even the original would question their own existence. And yet," he added, tapping the glass lightly, "this one is better in every way. Stronger, faster, more resilient. And, of course, completely under our control."
Evans raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Advanced physiological capabilities, you say? So he's not just some lunatic with a scalpel?"
The mage smirked as he turned back to Evans, gesturing toward the rows of tubes. "The Artistic Butcher's work isn't just about replication—it's about understanding. His knowledge of the human body, especially those with advanced physiological capabilities like your Circle Warriors or us mages, is unparalleled."
The mage chuckled, shaking his head. "Far from it. He's a master anatomist, capable of dissecting not just the physical but the metaphysical aspects of our abilities. He understands how mana circulates through a mage's core, how a Circle Warrior's body adapts to endure superhuman strain, and even how those unique traits can be enhanced. His work goes beyond mere biology—it's an art form."
Evans stepped back, his expression a mix of awe and amusement. "The Artistic Butcher," he said, almost to himself. "A madman, perhaps, but an indispensable one."
If Cassian had seen this grotesque display of floating clones, his sharp mind would have churned with possibilities—each more chilling than the last. The idea of creating perfect replicas of noble children, especially those from prestigious families like his own, wasn't just disturbing; it was sinister. Why would someone go to such lengths? The reasons were numerous, but a few stood out with stark clarity.
The first possibility Cassian might consider was espionage and infiltration. What better way to dismantle powerful noble families and kingdoms than by replacing their heirs with obedient puppets? These clones could walk into noble courts, take their places, and work from within to destabilize alliances, sow chaos, or leak sensitive information.
The second, equally unsettling, reason was weaponization. Noble children, particularly those with extraordinary abilities, were valuable not just as heirs but as potential tools of war. If these replicas were stronger, faster, and more durable, they could serve as elite soldiers or assassins, carrying out tasks the originals never would. It wasn't just about power—it was about wielding that power without resistance.
But the most likely—and most terrifying—reason of all was displacement. The originals weren't just being studied; they were being made obsolete. If these clones were perfected versions, there would be no need for the originals to exist at all. With their replacements ready to assume their identities, the originals could be discarded like broken tools. This wasn't just a violation of their individuality; it was a systematic erasure of their very existence, ensuring the ones pulling the strings held absolute control over the future.
Cassian's mind would reel at the implications. If such a plan were already in motion, the test they were enduring wasn't just a trial of skill—it was a calculated effort to gather the final pieces of data needed to complete this dark project.
But unfortunately, Cassian wasn't there to witness the horrifying scene in the chamber, and the likelihood of him ever stumbling upon such a revelation seemed slim. Instead, somewhere far away, he was caught in a different kind of chaos—a desperate encounter with a crowd of examinees.
These examinees were all running, fleeing from a group of pursuers who were unmistakably other candidates. Yet, what struck Cassian as odd was the air of confusion among the fleeing crowd. No one seemed to know which kingdom their pursuers belonged to. Every group pointed fingers at their rival kingdoms, creating a web of distrust and paranoia.
Amid the confusion, the violence escalated. The pursuers had already killed several of the fleeing examinees. Cassian had seen their bodies, lifeless and discarded, and the shock of it all sent a grim realization through him: this wasn't just a test anymore—it was a slaughter.
What made it worse was the absence of the examiners. On the first day, the examiners had been present, their presence a reassuring shadow that at least someone was watching. But now, there was no sign of them—no footsteps, no mana signatures, no oversight. It was as if they had vanished completely, leaving the examinees to fend for themselves.
This lack of oversight raised a chilling question in Cassian's mind: was this intentional? Was Valtross Academy, complicit in this bloodbath?
This raised another pressing question in Cassian's mind: if the academy truly needed these candidates to present them to their powerful families, why were they allowing them to die?
Cassian couldn't shake the unease gnawing at him. His suspicions about the academy were grim—that they were brainwashing their students, molding them into spies or assassins loyal only to the academy. These students would then be sent back to their families as tools, silently working under the academy's control.
But this theory only deepened his confusion. For such a plan to work, they would need the candidates alive. The deaths he had witnessed made no sense in that context. Why would the academy orchestrate their demise if they were meant to serve a greater purpose later?
The contradiction left Cassian unsettled, his thoughts spiraling as he tried to piece together the twisted logic behind the academy's actions. Whatever the answer was, it only added to the growing darkness surrounding the so-called test.