Chapter 17: Free

Sleep is essential for humans and nearly all living creatures. It's the foundation of rest, recovery, and renewal. Without it, the mind and body unravel, leading to unimaginable consequences.

Food and water are just as crucial. They fuel the body, sustain energy, and maintain the delicate balance of life. Without them, the body deteriorates rapidly, its systems failing until it can no longer function.

Then there are the five senses—sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch. These are often considered humanity's greatest gift, shaping how we experience the world.

While the body can adapt to losing one of those senses, losing all five at the same time isn't just disabling—it's a death sentence.

So, it was no surprise that, throughout human history, at least one of these essentials was often used as a method of control, punishment, or even torture.

Take sleep deprivation, for example. Denying someone sleep—even for just four days—can break the strongest will.

First comes exhaustion, followed by confusion, and eventually hallucinations. The victim starts seeing faces in the dark, hearing whispers, and feeling things crawling under their skin.

Time becomes meaningless. They slip into a dreamlike haze, only to jolt awake moments later—disoriented and terrified, unable to tell reality from illusion.

Removing food and water is a slower, more insidious form of torment. Hunger gnaws at the stomach, while thirst parches the mouth until even speaking or swallowing becomes agony. The body begins to consume itself, draining its reserves until nothing remains but weakness and pain.

But the absence of all senses is perhaps the cruelest fate. In complete darkness and silence, with no sense of touch to anchor them, a person loses all connection to the world. They can no longer tell if they're standing, sitting, or even if they exist at all.

The mind grows desperate, filling the void with horrors. A faint ringing in the ears swells into deafening screams. Imaginary figures haunt the darkness.

To strip someone of all these necessities at once would be to strip away their very humanity.

But what if the subject of such torment wasn't human at all? What if it was a powerful creature—one whose existence alone was said to herald the end of the world?

Would such an act still be cruel? Could it even be called inhuman to break something that was never human to begin with? Perhaps it could be justified—a necessary evil to protect countless lives, no matter how horrifying the means.

This was the reasoning the staff and researchers of the DEM British branch clung to. They forced themselves to believe it, to justify the experiments they carried out day after day within the facility's walls.

Five years had passed since the experiments began.

The test subject, the spirit codenamed Bride, was subjected to the deprivation of three essentials—sleep, sensory perception, and communication—under Westcott's direct orders.

While food and water weren't explicitly included in the orders, it was widely assumed that spirits could survive without them, sustained solely by their Reiryoku, an internal energy source.

But Bride's Reiryoku had already been drained to near zero by the relentless experiments. The researchers aimed to push it into a negative state—a theoretical condition they believed could trigger the spirit's so-called inverse form.

By cutting her off from her primary energy source, they left her with only one alternative: physical sustenance—food and water. Yet even these were deliberately denied.

For five long years, her senses had been sealed away. A specialized helmet encased the upper half of her face, blocking all sight, sound, and smell. It was designed to eliminate every trace of light and external stimuli.

The only sense she could still feel was touch—but it brought no comfort. The only sensations she experienced were the cold, unyielding metal slicing into her skin and flesh.

Taste was nonexistent. She hadn't eaten or drunk anything in all that time.

And sleep? That was a mercy she had never granted, not once since the experiments began.

The helmet designed to deprive her of her senses also ensured she stayed awake. It monitored her heartbeat and brainwaves, and the moment it detected her slipping into sleep, it reacted.

Loud, piercing tones would blare directly into her skull, while bursts of blinding light flashed against her closed eyelids. If that failed, sharp jolts of electricity would jolt her back to consciousness.

No matter how exhausted she became, rest remained just out of reach. For five relentless years, she was never allowed to close her eyes for more than three seconds.

Various methods of torture were inflicted upon her body, all aimed at a single goal: forcing her into her inverse form.

At the same time, these experiments served another purpose—testing the limits of a Spirit's endurance and comparing it to that of a human.

Blessed with regenerative abilities, her body could heal from even the most severe injuries, given enough time. Even a missing organ would eventually regenerate—as long as her Reiryoku wasn't completely drained.

Needles filled with corrosive chemicals pierced her skin, dissolving tissue faster than her body could heal.

Her restraints delivered erratic bursts of electricity, forcing her muscles into relentless spasms. When her screams grew faint, they injected stimulants into her veins, ensuring she stayed conscious at all times.

Even the air in her chamber became a weapon—thinned to the brink of suffocation or thickened until her lungs felt ready to burst.

Her joints were targeted with cruel precision—twisted, dislocated, and wrenched back into place repeatedly. Sometimes they were forced into grotesque, unnatural angles, contorting her body into inhuman shapes.

Her body, compelled to heal itself, would slowly realign the displaced bones and tendons. The process was agonizingly slow, the sickening cracks of her joints echoing even beyond the reinforced glass.

Throughout it all, she was forced to remain fully conscious, forced to endure and witness every harrowing moment.

Her blood was drained in quantities that should have been fatal, only to be pumped back in—now laced with toxins and venom.

Even the chamber's temperature was weaponized, shifting violently without warning. One moment, biting cold would freeze her skin; the next, searing heat would blister her from the inside out.

Yet, despite all these methods—and more—despite cutting, burning, poisoning, and pushing her body to its absolute limits, they still couldn't achieve their goal.

She remained on the brink of inversion, teetering at 99.99%.

She clung to that fragile thread, refusing to cross the threshold. None of the staff could understand what held her back.

She undoubtedly harbored all the necessary negative emotions—hatred, contempt, and a burning desire to kill them all. Even without revisiting the emotional analysis data, her reactions during each session made it clear.

She would curse them, curse herself, and scream threats of vengeance, vowing to kill them and all of humanity. But then, just as suddenly, she would break down, crying and begging for forgiveness. The cycle would repeat—rage, despair, and faltering resolve—until her words became barely coherent, her spirit teetering on the edge of collapse.

But there was one person.

Unlike the others, he seemed to understand what kept her holding on—the missing piece to achieving their goal.

"Even if we managed to turn her into her inverse form, we wouldn't get the perfect type we're aiming for."

"You think so..."

Westcott stroked his chin thoughtfully, his gaze fixed on the scene beyond the reinforced glass. Beside him, his secretary, Ellen, stood in silence, her eyes following his line of sight.

The chamber beyond was brightly lit, a stark contrast to the dim observation area illuminated only by the cold glow of fluorescent lights.

Inside, the spirit codenamed Bride was restrained, her frail form almost unrecognizable beneath the layers of machinery and bindings.

Four staff members moved about the room, preparing for the next round of experiments. Their movements were methodical, almost clinical, as they calibrated equipment and monitored the displays tracking her vitals.

Ellen tilted her head slightly, shifting her gaze to Westcott. "You believe her inverse form would be... incomplete?"

Westcott's lips curled into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cold and calculating. "Not incomplete... Different. Entirely separate."

"Separate?"

"Her inverse form isn't just a twisted reflection of her current self. Think of it as... a separate entity altogether. A perfect inverse would require the complete annihilation of her present consciousness—like overwriting a file rather than corrupting it. But this one..."

He paused, his gaze narrowing as he watched the staff inject a new set of stimulants into Bride's veins. Her body twitched, a faint gasp escaping her lips before she fell still again.

"Consider the case five years ago when we captured her. When she inverted, her inverse form wasn't a manifestation of her deepest despair, but rather a separate being—one that shares her essence yet operates on a fundamentally different level. If we force her to invert now, we might awaken that entity, but it won't be the perfect type we seek."

Ellen crossed her arms, her brow furrowing in thought. "So what you're saying is..."

"To get her into the perfect inverse type, we need to push Bride herself into snapping."

Ellen's frown deepened, her sharp eyes flickering back to the chamber. Then, as if the idea had just slipped through her mind, she snapped her gaze back to Westcott.

"Then why continue? If we can't achieve the perfect inverse through these methods, what's the point of pushing her further? Shouldn't we consider stopping and thinking of a better approach?"

...

"Ah, that's just for entertainment. We'll push a little further before stopping—or keep going until we think of something better... I'm really having fun here."

"W-What?"

Before Ellen could fully process her Westcott words, a hesitant voice interrupted from behind them.

"S-Sir... We're ready to begin."

One of the staff members stood awkwardly, clutching a tablet to their chest. Their eyes flickered nervously between Westcott and Ellen, clearly sensing the tension but unwilling to address it directly.

Westcott's smile didn't waver. If anything, it widened, his tone almost cheerful as he turned to the staff member.

"Excellent. Proceed as planned."

The staff member nodded quickly and retreated to his station, leaving Ellen standing stiffly beside Westcott.

"Hm, something wrong, Ellen?"

"...Nn, nothing wrong, Ike."

As the experiment was about to begin, Westcott and Ellen adjusted their stance, watching patiently from behind the reinforced glass. The room buzzed with activity as the staff finalized their preparations.

Then, something subtle happened—something only Westcott seemed to notice. The spirit's head shifted slightly, lifting upward. Her eyes, dull and lifeless for so long, slowly began to open. It was a small movement, almost imperceptible, and no one else appeared to notice.

Their eyes met—or perhaps it was more accurate to say she was looking directly at him.

"Mm... You know what, Ellen? I think we can move to the next step already."

"Hm?"

Before she could ask what he meant, Westcott suddenly stepped away from the reinforced glass wall.

Ellen's eyes followed as he approached the control panel—a long, sleek console where five staff members meticulously managed the room's functions.

The panel was the nerve center of the entire operation, controlling everything from the environmental settings in the observation room to the restraints and monitoring systems in the experiment chamber.

One of its primary functions was maintaining the locks and settings that kept the spirit restrained on the platform.

Westcott's sudden approach drew the attention of the staff at the panel.

"Sir? Is there something you need?" one of them asked casually, assuming it was a routine check.

Westcott, however, didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned over the console, excusing himself as he gently nudged the operator aside. His fingers hovered above the controls, his cheerful smile never wavered, but there was a glint in his eyes that made the technician uneasy.

"Sir, I don't think you should—" the technician began, but Westcott's fingers were already moving.

With a few quick keystrokes, he bypassed the security protocols. The technician's eyes widened in alarm. "Wait, what are you doing?!"

The other staff members turned, their confusion quickly turning to panic as they realized what was happening. One of them reached out to stop him, but Westcott's voice cut through the growing tension.

"Relax," he said, his tone light and almost amused. "You're not inside to be worried..."

Inside the experiment chamber, one of the staff members responsible for overseeing the procedure noticed the commotion at the control panel.

He paused, his eyes narrowing as he watched Westcott's hands dart across the console.

"Hey! We're about to start—take your place!" the head of the session barked, noticing the man spacing out.

But the staff member didn't respond or move. He simply stood still, his gaze fixed on Westcott. A frown creased his brow, and a sinking feeling settled in his chest. Something was wrong—terribly wrong.

Before he could voice his concern, a loud, piercing alarm blared through the facility. Red lights flashed in rhythmic pulses, casting an eerie glow over the room.

The locks securing Bride suddenly disengaged with a series of metallic clangs, and her restraints snapped open. Her frail body crumpled to the ground, free for the first time in years.