One Handed

Then Wes heard it—a voice, warm yet edged with undeniable strength. "Bring me my children."

The sound of her voice pulled at him, a deep and instinctual need. His sister felt it too, her cries sharp and insistent. Wes didn't hesitate—he matched her, their wails blending into a perfect harmony. It wasn't just mimicry; it was survival, an unspoken understanding that they needed to be close to her.

The nurses swaddled them in soft, pale blankets. The snugness of the fabric pressed against his skin, a gentle hold that contrasted the sudden harshness of the world outside the womb. He let his eyes remain mostly closed, peeking through the smallest of slits as they carried him toward the source of that voice.

When they approached the hospital bed, the world seemed to narrow around the woman who lay there. His mother.

She was striking in a way that transcended mere beauty. Her hair was a cascade of golden blonde, damp curls framing her face and spilling over her shoulders. Each strand seemed to catch the light, creating a halo effect that belied the steel beneath her appearance. Her skin was fair, touched with a natural flush that highlighted the high arch of her cheekbones.

Her eyes were the true focal point—vivid green and unyielding. They moved with a sharpness, cataloging everything around her with an efficiency that hinted at a deeper awareness. There was a strength in her gaze, a depth that suggested not just intelligence but experience—hard-earned and unflinching.

Her physique only reinforced that impression. Beneath the pale linens, he could make out the subtle curves of powerful shoulders and the long, lean muscle of her arms. She had the build of a cultivator—an athlete tempered by battle, a warrior who had trained not just for show but for survival. Even in the vulnerable state of recovery, she exuded a quiet dominance. Her frame was just under six feet tall, giving her an imposing presence even while reclining.

Her hands, as they reached out to take him and his sister, were gentle but steady. He noted the faint calluses along her fingers, the kind left by weapons, tools, or hard labor. There was nothing soft about her except for the way she held them, cradling them with a care that contrasted sharply with the edge in her expression.

The nurse approached with a careful reverence, swaddled babies nestled in her arms. Her voice was quiet, but the weight of her words settled heavily in the room. "Here you go, my lady."

The air seemed to shift. His mother's expression tightened, the warmth of a new mother clouded by something colder, more dangerous. "You know you shouldn't call me that," she said, each word a carefully placed stone, solid and unyielding.

The nurse didn't back down. "You will always be my lady," she replied, her voice steady, a thread of defiance woven into the softness. "I don't care what they say or what ranks they revoke."

A silence draped over them, heavy and absolute. Wes could feel it—a pulse of tension that thrummed through the room, a quiet danger simmering beneath the surface. His mother's grip tightened, not enough to harm, but enough for him to feel the strength coiled beneath her skin.

Wes inwardly sighed, the weight of his newborn body pressing him into the soft blankets. Complicated. His life was going to be complicated. Why couldn't he have been reborn to normal parents, in a normal home, with normal problems? A quiet house, a couple of siblings, parents who didn't attract danger like a magnet—he'd take average over whatever this was.

Warmth enveloped him. His mother's embrace was a sanctuary, his sister's tiny form a soft weight beside him. Their synchronized heartbeats created a gentle rhythm, a lullaby that tugged at his heavy eyelids. Sleep called to him, offering a momentary escape from the sharp edges of reality. He was a baby, after all—sleeping should be his only job.

But that fragile peace shattered.

Danger.

Instincts honed by a lifetime of hardship flared awake. His senses, limited but sharp, extended as far as his tiny, fragile body allowed. The door to the hospital room opened, and a shadow spilled across the polished floor, devouring the light.

A man entered, and the air seemed to shrink around him. His presence filled every corner, an oppressive weight that pressed down on Wes's small world. He was enormous—easily six foot six—with a frame that might have been sculpted from stone. His military uniform bore sleek, reinforced lines of futuristic design, with mana-tech enhancements glowing softly beneath the surface. The suit hugged his broad chest and thick arms, a stark contrast to the cold, metallic sheen of his right hand.

The metal hand was a marvel and a nightmare—a construct of dark steel and soft blue light, each finger articulated with eerie precision. It moved with a quiet hum, mechanical joints purring like a predator at rest. The hand flexed, metal fingers curling into a fist, and the quiet sound cut through the room like a whispered threat.

"Hello, Elena," the man spoke, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the walls. "I see your children were born."

His mother did not flinch. She remained perfectly still, her body a coiled spring beneath the thin hospital gown. "What are you doing here, Victor?"

Victor smiled, but it wasn't a human expression. His lips stretched, showing teeth that were too perfect, too white. His eyes—flat and brown, devoid of warmth—reminded Wes of stones at the bottom of a dark river. His hair was cropped short, his beard neatly trimmed, but nothing about him felt clean. He was a storm waiting to break, a disaster wrapped in the guise of civility.

"I am here for my pound of flesh," Victor said, his metal fingers flexing. Light shimmered along the metal, casting thin, warped shadows across the walls.

Wes's mind raced. "Whoa… am I in Star Wars?" The humor was thin, barely a veil over the rising dread. Victor was dangerous. The room felt smaller with every step he took, the air harder to breathe. His mother was strong—Wes could feel it—but she had just given birth. Even if he released her cultivation, what good would it do? She was vulnerable, and Victor knew it.

Elena's voice was a knife, every word sharpened to a lethal edge. "My children were just born, and you come here now—to take my hand?"

She extended her right arm, the skin pale against the stark white of the hospital sheets. "Do it, Victor. Remove my arm."

Victor's smile widened, and the cruelty in it was almost tangible. His metal hand flexed, and the light from his fingertips cast spiderweb shadows across the room. "The terms were for Adam's flesh. But Adam, sadly, passed…"

Her expression hardened, the grief in her eyes freezing over into something unyielding. "For your sake, you better pray he perished. And if you touch my children—"

"What will you do, Elena?" He moved closer, his bulk casting a shadow that swallowed her. "Your rank is gone. Your family has abandoned you. Adam is dead. You have no backing."

His laughter filled the room, a sound that oozed into every corner, thick and suffocating. "You're nothing. And these children—" His metal hand shot forward, and suddenly Wes was no longer cradled against his mother's chest.

The world spun. Cold metal bit into his soft skin, the crushing grip wrapping around his tiny arm. Wes found himself staring up into Victor's empty, unblinking eyes. The man's pupils didn't dilate, didn't waver—just pools of dull, brown apathy.

His metal hand held Wes by the forearm, the cold metal biting into the fragile flesh just below the elbow. The room seemed to narrow, the walls pressing in, trapping them all in this cruel performance.

The blade pressed deeper, a slow, deliberate pressure. Wes felt the skin break, the wet warmth spreading down his arm as blood welled up. The pain was a white-hot lance, searing through his nerves. His screams erupted, raw and unfiltered, the only weapon he had.

Pain was an old companion, an unwelcome friend he had endured a lifetime with. But this—this was something new. His infant body could not process it, not the way his old self would have. His mind was a storm, the sharp agony mixing with confusion and the primal instinct to survive. He forced himself to focus, to hold on to that small, hard core of his identity, the piece of him that refused to break.

Elena's sobs filled the room, a jagged counterpoint to his cries. She was bound by something stronger than chains—by fear, by the weight of her fallen rank, by the helplessness of a mother who could do nothing as her child was mutilated before her eyes.

Victor didn't rush. He drew the blade in a slow arc, the edge biting through flesh, muscle, and bone with a methodical precision. Wes's tiny hand hung at a wrong angle, the bone severed, the skin peeled back to reveal raw, red meat beneath.

Finally, with a twist of his metal hand, the hand came free. The room fell into silence, a vacuum that sucked the breath from every chest. Victor held the severed hand up, the tiny fingers still curled, still holding on to whatever they could.

His mother didn't move. Her body was a statue, rigid and cold, as silent tears traced thin, gleaming lines down her cheeks. The world around Wes had shrunk to the size of that room—the metallic scent of blood, the hollow echo of his own screams, and the suffocating weight of his mother's grief.

Pain flared in his right arm—no, not his arm, not anymore. His hand was gone. Just below the elbow, nothing remained but raw flesh and bone wrapped hastily in gauze. The nurse had stopped the bleeding with a flicker of void energy, her hands clinical and detached, but nothing could stem the loss. It wasn't just flesh. It was freedom. It was control.

What the actual fuck.

Wes's mind raced, a storm behind his newborn eyes. His mental voice screamed even as his body continued to wail. Babies were supposed to cry, so he did. He let it out, raw and desperate, hiding the calculating edge beneath the surface. The pain was nothing new—he had walked through hell before. Pain was his oldest friend, and it would not break him now.

He had suffered worse. He had lost more. His family had died. His future had been stolen. He had become a Null. And now, in this new life, barely minutes old, he had lost his hand. The universe, it seemed, was determined to keep him under its boot. But Wes had learned long ago how to breathe through agony, how to turn suffering into steel.

Victor stood over them, his silhouette a dark blot against the sterile light. The metal hand, stained with Wes's blood, rested casually at his side. His grin was wide, a predator's satisfaction gleaming through. "The debt is settled," he said, his voice smooth and cold. "The restraint on your cultivation will remain for another fifty years. Then it can be removed."

Elena said nothing. She sat, a tear tracing a slow, deliberate path down her face. The sorrow in her eyes burned, hot and deep, but it was the rage beneath it that made the air feel sharp. A silent promise. The kind of threat that lingered, waiting for the right moment to sink its teeth in.

Victor turned and left. The nurse, her face pale and eyes averted, gently laid Wes back into his mother's arms. Her presence faded quickly, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving only the soft hum of the machines and the broken remains of a family.

Elena looked down at him, her expression unraveling into a tapestry of guilt and grief. "I am so sorry, Elijah," she whispered, her voice fragile. "Your mother is a failure…"

Her gaze shifted to the tiny form of his sister, swaddled and quiet. "Esther, forgive me for not protecting your brother."

Wes blinked up at her, his mind still sharp, still raging. He could see the lines of pain etched into her face, the hollow shadows under her eyes.

But they didn't take my sword arm.

A flicker of satisfaction wound through him. His left arm—the one he had trained to wield a blade, to strike and defend—remained whole. Victor had stolen from him, but not everything. The bear-man had made a mistake, and mistakes could be turned into opportunities.

Wes flexed his mana ideal, letting it ripple through the air. It wasn't loud or showy. It was a brush of something deeper, a hum beneath the noise, a promise that hung in the room like a shadow. His mana ideal moved through the space—not an explosion, but a creeping inevitability. It settled into the walls, into his mother's skin, into the very air they breathed.

Elena's eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. The room felt heavier, like the gravity had thickened, like every atom had slowed just a fraction. Her son—a newborn—was looking at her with an awareness that defied explanation. And that feeling, that ideal—it was not just power. It was not just a promise. It was the weight of a future that could not be moved, a truth that could not be denied.

Her fingers tightened around him, her knuckles white against his soft skin. The edges of her world blurred, and for a heartbeat, everything was still. She had felt mana ideals before—strong ones, terrifying ones—but this was different. It wasn't just strength. It was a direction, an arrow notched and ready to fly. It was the quiet, unyielding march of fate.

Wes let go, his tiny body sagging as exhaustion pulled him under. His eyelids drooped, the world narrowing into a tunnel of soft, muted light. He had done enough. He had shown her. He had planted the seed

Elena sat frozen, her mind an echoing void in the wake of what she had just felt. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with an impossible weight. Her son—a newborn, not minutes old—had touched her with a mana ideal. Not a whisper of potential, not a flicker of raw energy, but a fully-formed ideal that pressed against her very being. It was like standing before a tidal wave, knowing there was no escaping it.

Her fingers hovered above his cheek, not quite touching. She felt the warmth of his skin radiate against her hand, a fragile heat that defied the cold stillness that had taken root in her chest. Her mind raced, struggling to process what her senses were telling her. This couldn't be real. It shouldn't be real. And yet, it was.

Elena's breath shuddered in her throat. The sharp scent of blood lingered, a reminder of what had just happened, of the loss and violation. Her arm, cradling Wes's small, swaddled body, felt numb. Everything did. Except for that lingering hum, that imprint of inevitability that clung to the air like smoke.

She couldn't speak. Her lips moved, but no sound came. She was caught between the horror of what had been done and the bewildering, terrifying hope of what her son had shown her. His tiny eyes had met hers with something old, something knowing, and that impossibility tightened around her heart.

Her grip on him firmed, gentle but unyielding. She could feel his tiny heartbeat against her skin, the steady thrum that pulsed through the thin barrier of flesh and cloth. She held him as if he were the only real thing in the world—as if, by holding on, she could keep the edges of her shattered reality from crumbling further.

Silence settled over the room. The machines hummed softly, a backdrop to the soft, rhythmic breathing of her children. But beneath that, beneath everything, a thread of certainty wound through the quiet. A current that moved, slow and steady, beneath the surface.

Wes's eyelids drooped, exhaustion finally pulling him under. His small body went slack, surrendering to the weight of sleep. His presence, however, remained—an unseen pressure that whispered promises into the stillness.

The room seemed to dim, shadows pooling in the corners as if reality itself bent around that impossibility. Elena sat motionless, the world reduced to the fragile warmth in her arms and the echo of something greater, something inevitable.

As Wes drifted into the depths of sleep, his final thought curled into the darkness:

My rise is inevitable.

And one day, he would drink wine from the skull of the bear-man who had cut off his arm.