What is this?

A year? The man's words echoed in his mind like a sledgehammer. Was I unconscious for an entire year?

He looked at his body. His blond hair had grown so long it spilled over the stretcher, trailing onto the floor, stained with dust and rust, forming a tangled, threadbare heap. He brought his hands to his face; his fingers traced a sharpened jawline, sunken cheeks. His skin was pale, almost translucent; his bones bore the marks of hunger and time. His eyes caught their reflection in the dim light—once vibrant blue, now dull, a shadowed desert. Shock, fear, and alienation swelled in his chest like a lump. His body felt foreign; a year had reshaped him into a ghost.

His right arm was locked in a glass capsule on the stretcher. The capsule was transparent but stained; inside, a whitish, slightly murky liquid rippled—moving as if pulsing, tiny bubbles bursting on the surface. The liquid emitted a vile odor—sour, chemical. The capsule was connected to a machine; pipes, gears, and humming mechanisms operated like a beast's stomach. The arm was different from the other—bright red, almost translucent, with veins stark like a web. This right arm seemed like the machine's creation. What have they turned me into? His heart clenched with fear and curiosity; his mind searched for answers but found only chaos.

The short figure, his robe tattered, eyes gleaming with wild excitement, began dismantling the capsule. His thin, trembling hands deftly unlocked it; the glass parted with a crack. The whitish liquid flowed onto the floor—thick, sticky, as if alive. The moment it touched the ground, it evaporated; a sharp salt smell flooded the room like a wave. The vapor danced in the air, refracting the dim light and making shadows quiver. Michael felt the stench burn his nostrils but didn't care. His mind was still reeling from the shock of a year. The short man and the statuesque armored figure stepped back, as if giving him space. Michael raised his arm; the muscles moved with a familiar yet alien strength. He flexed his fingers; the skin was smooth but coated with an odd coldness. The same, yet not. Was it the ritual's curse or the machine's work? He didn't know.

"What happened to my arm?" he asked, his voice cracked, hoarse, alien even to his own ears. The armored man paused, a red glint flickering in the slit of his helmet. "We don't know," he said, his voice heavy, echoing. "We hope you can explain it to us. But explanations can wait. Come, let's get you dressed." The man supported Michael's shoulders, lifting him from the stretcher. His legs trembled; the scars of his melted soles had long turned to white marks. The armored man's hand was cold and hard; the short figure followed silently. The door opened with a creak; the outside world engulfed Michael like a flood.

Stepping out, he was met with a chaotic dance of blue, yellow, and red hues. The sky was still red but pale, as if its blood had been drained. On the horizon, a dark mist swallowed everything; the brown earth, different from the gray desert, still carried a menacing barrenness. Around him, small buildings rose—haphazard, hastily built, a mix of stone and metal. Roofs were covered in rusty sheets; walls were stained with dust and mud. It was like a newly urbanized village sprouting in the shadow of war. People bustled—some armored, some robed, wielding strange tools to cut through the green liquid. The liquid rose like a wave in the distance, trying to reach the village, but it no longer carried flesh—it was now just thick, vile sludge. The people's tools sliced it, releasing vapor and a salt smell into the air. Far off, the coffin floated in the sky—its obsidian surface gleamed with golden veins, but its lid tilted, hiding its interior. Its sound was less sharp now; a faint moan, like a beast in slumber. The green liquid left by the Titan was still there, but silent.

Michael's heart clenched as he looked at the coffin. What happened? A year, the war, the Titan—his mind found no answers. He fixed his eyes on the horizon; the darkness was so dense he could see nothing, as if the world stood at the edge of an abyss. The armored man guided him to a building. The door was a mix of wood and metal; inside, it was dim but filled with warm light. In the center of the room stood a man wearing a fedora. His black vest and blue-white striped shirt gave an artistic air, but he was no artist—his face was weathered, his eyes sharp, like a hunter's. His hands were striking—calloused as if carved over years, slightly darkened, with green, vile stains on his fingers. He had touched the liquid, but his hands resembled a sculptor's.

The man greeted him with a smile. "How you doing, kid?" he said, his voice warm but carrying a hidden weight. "You look new around here. Come, let's get you some new clothes. Those look worn out." Michael glanced at his tattered robe. The man sat him in a red armchair; the chair was velvet but worn, its edges frayed. The measuring process was quick but meticulous. The man produced a tape measure, sizing his arms, shoulders, legs. He lifted him, sat him down; his movements were mechanical yet masterful. Michael was silent; his mind still reeled from the shock of a year. Where is this? Who am I? When the measuring was done, the man said, "I'll be right back," and slipped into a dark room at the back of the shop. The door closed with a faint creak.

When the fedora-wearing man returned from the shop's shadowy back room, he carried a stack of white clothing. The fabric shimmered with a silky sheen; silver buttons gleamed like stars in the candlelight, and delicate, wavy embroidery along the edges seemed like remnants of a dream. The clothes emitted a clean, fresh scent—lavender and freshness. The man handed them to Michael; his calloused, green-stained hands contrasted with the fabric's purity. "Come on, kid," he said, his voice warm but authoritative, like a father encouraging a small child. He gave a gentle push; the gesture was kind but firm. Michael headed to a small room; a thick gray curtain closed behind him with a creak, leaving him in dim solitude.

The small room was cramped and stifling; the wooden walls were cracked and dust-covered. A single candle flickered in the corner, casting dancing shadows that made the room feel like a cave. Michael placed the clothes on a chair; his hands trembled. He looked at his body. Without a mirror, he gauged himself by feel. His penis was larger than a year ago—a strange, alien change, as if his body had reshaped itself by its own will. His legs had lengthened; thin but muscular, they bore the marks of hunger and exhaustion. Weight loss had sharpened his bones and muscles; his chest was etched with the shadow of ribs, like a diseased statue. His skin was pale, almost translucent; veins stood out like a blue web. Is this me? But the clothes' scent calmed him for a moment. Keep going.

He put on the clothes. The white fabric was cool and soft against his skin; the silver buttons were smooth under his fingers. The shirt fit his shoulders perfectly; the pants hugged his legs with a slight weight. The embroidery gleamed in the candlelight—wavy patterns, like a river's reflection. The clothes felt like armor after his rags—protective, yet foreign. He parted the curtain and stepped out. The fedora-wearing man gave a thumbs-up; a approving smile spread across his weathered face. The short figure—his robe dusty, eyes still gleaming with wild excitement—clapped his hands, the sound echoing in the room. Michael glanced at a cracked mirror on the wall. His reflection was ghostly—long blond hair spilling over his shoulders, pale skin, sharp jaw, dull blue eyes. But the clothes lent him a nobility. Wow, they really suit me.

Silence enveloped the room; the candle's flickering flame played with shadows. The fedora-wearing man spoke with a smile. "Actually, they're on me. They really suit you." His voice was sincere, but a weight hid beneath—as if the clothes were more than fabric, a responsibility. Michael didn't consider refusing; his rags, stained with blood, dust, and liquid, were like a grave shroud. "Thank you," he said, his voice cracked but resolute. The man nodded with a smile; the short figure and the armored man silently headed for the door. Michael followed, stepping into the village's chaotic world.

The street was alive but eerie. Blue, yellow, and red hues danced on the rusty tin roofs; the brown earth, different from the gray desert, was still barren. The air was thick with meaty aromas—roasted, spicy, a tantalizing burn. Michael's mouth watered; unknowingly, saliva dripped down his chin. He hadn't eaten in a year; his stomach growled like a beast, but he felt no shame. Hunger had long erased embarrassment. The armored man led him to a shop; the wooden door opened with a creak. Inside was a restaurant—warm, steamy. The walls were a mix of stone and metal, cracked and stained with dust and grease. The tables were worn but clean; candles flickered in every corner, casting shadows in a dance. The ceiling was low, as if compressing the room. The air was filled with the smell of meat, spices, and charred wood; steam rippled with the warmth of the food.

The armored man sat Michael at a table; he ordered without asking—quick, authoritative, a few words. The short figure stood silently beside them. Twenty minutes felt like an eternity. Laughter muddled his mind further. But hunger drowned everything. His stomach growled again; this time, the candle on the table flickered.

The food arrived, steaming. Plates adorned the table—roasted meat coated in spicy sauces, accompanied by roasted root vegetables, a thick, dark soup, and slices of fresh but strange bread. The aromas burned Michael's nostrils; his mouth watered uncontrollably. At that moment, the armored man removed his mask-like helmet. Red hair spilled to his shoulders—not too long, not too short, slightly wavy, gleaming like fire in the candlelight. His hazel eyes were sharp but weary; freckles dotted his pale skin like a star map. His face was young—perhaps Michael's age—but his armor gave him a commander's air. Stately yet human; authoritative yet fragile. Michael froze. The man smiled; his freckles became more pronounced with the smile.

The short figure lowered the hood of his robe and removed his mask. A strange emotion erupted in Michael's chest—as if spring had pierced a year's darkness. Happiness, so sudden, so alien, his mind struggled to grasp it. Why? The figure was a girl. Her red, curly hair reached her shoulders; each curl danced in the candlelight. Freckles matched the man's, scattering across her cheeks and nose bridge. Her small, delicate face carried a fragile, protective air; her long, slender neck was graceful yet strong. Her eyes were slightly red—absurd but mesmerizing, as if a mark of a curse or miracle. Her gaze pierced Michael; soft but deep, like a lake. She smiled; her lips were thin but vibrant. Michael's heart stopped for a moment. What is this?