Root

The room was dimly lit, with only the faintest light trickling in from cracks in the ceiling. The air was thick with a nauseating stench—a mix of decaying flesh, metallic tang, and dried blood. The oppressive atmosphere pressed on the prisoners . Groans reverberated through the block, a unified cry of pain and despair that never truly ceased.

Eryndor sat on the cold, unforgiving floor of his cell, his back against the wall. He was licking his wounds, both physical and emotional, from his last fight. Despite the bruises blooming across his body, his mind wasn't focused on the pain. Instead, his attention was fixed on the sleek, black terminal hovering before him.

To anyone else, it would have seemed useless—a blank, black screen, devoid of purpose. But to Eryndor, it was everything. Root had appeared during his first week in this hellhole, activating just as he'd hit rock bottom—literally. He'd been lying on the floor, battered and broken after his "welcome" beating, when the terminal emerged before his eyes.

It granted him something incredible: root access—not to computers or networks, as he'd once wielded—but to his own body. Every biological process, every genetic sequence, every physical limitation—it was all laid bare and editable. Root wasn't just a tool; it was the key to survival.

Today, he was putting the finishing touches on his latest creation: a virus designed to infect and manipulate the biology of anyone it touched.

The faint echo of footsteps down the corridor pulled Eryndor from his focus. Instantly, the constant groans in the cell block fell silent. The air grew heavier. Everyone here knew what footsteps meant.

It could be your next fight.

It could be the nutrient serum delivery.

Or it could mean someone was about to become a guard's personal punching bag.

Eryndor's pulse quickened. He had just fought earlier today—a brutal encounter with a flesh-coil aberrant. He'd barely escaped its snapping jaws and toxic breath. Surely, they wouldn't throw him into another match so soon.

The footsteps grew louder, closer, until they stopped right outside his cell. Through the narrow slit in the door, the silhouette of a guard appeared. The sharp clink of a key turning in the lock made Eryndor's muscles tense.

The door swung open, and the guard stepped inside, his face twisted into a sadistic grin. Eryndor's stomach churned as old memories surged to the surface—kicks to his ribs, stomps on his chest, insults hurled like daggers. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe steadily. Tears threatened to escape, but he blinked them away. Tears were a weakness these guards fed on.

The guard approached him, syringe in hand. Eryndor's mind raced. A serum? That meant he wasn't the target this time.

"Enjoy your reward for the show," the guard sneered, injecting the nutrient serum into Eryndor's arm before turning toward the corner of the cell.

There, a shapeless mass of flesh lay slumped on the floor. It was his cellmate—another boy maybe, just eleven, like Eryndor. The boy was barely recognizable as human, his body full of scars and bruises all curled up into a ball.

"You waste of space!" the guard barked, delivering a vicious kick to the boy's flesh. The boy let out a pitiful whimper but didn't move. Another kick landed, then another. The guard's laughter echoed through the cell.

Eryndor watched, his face expressionless. Sympathy flickered in his chest, but he crushed it. Caring for others here was a luxury he couldn't afford. Instead, he shifted his focus to the terminal, the serum's energy boost already kicking in.

The guard finally stopped, spitting on the boy's crumpled form before turning and leaving the cell. The door slammed shut behind him.

Eryndor exhaled, his jaw tight.

He returned to Root, ignoring the shallow, labored breathing of his cellmate. The serum coursing through his veins provided the energy he needed to finalize his malware. It was nearly ready—an adaptive virus that would integrate seamlessly with any biological system it touched. Once deployed, it would be his weapon, a means of leveling the playing field against the monsters who ran this place.

His lips curled into a faint smile. He'd come a long way since his first days here. Back then, he'd been helpless, another victim of the guards' cruelty. But now? Now he was something else entirely.

His thoughts drifted to his last fight. The flesh-coil aberrant had been a nightmare—an amorphous creature capable of splitting its body into independent, deadly segments. Its regeneration and adaptability had made it nearly impossible to kill. Eryndor had barely survived, relying on his healing factor and enhanced reflexes to outlast it.

In the end, he'd been forced to annihilate its genetic code completely, using a personalized virus to erase it from existence. It had been a waste—he'd wanted to extract the code for its segmentation ability. Still, the fight had been a valuable lesson: he needed to streamline his tools.

He opened a new subroutine in Root, beginning work on a graphical interface. His command-line system, while powerful, was too slow in the heat of battle. A GUI would give him the edge he needed, reducing critical actions to the press of a button.

Suddenly, the familiar echo of footsteps interrupted his focus. His heart skipped a beat. They were coming back.

This time, Eryndor wasn't afraid. The plan was ready.

He closed Root, his expression calm.

This was the day he'd been waiting for.