Corrupted Whispers

The relentless hum of the ventilation system filled the air, a constant reminder of the artificial fog it pumped in to lull the beast into slumber. It was maddening, an incessant noise that grated on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Yet, as my mind cleared from the haze, I found a dark amusement in my predicament and couldn't help but scoff at the absurdity of it all.

Imprisoned in this black site, surrounded by purebloods, mutated half-lings, and relics, I was caged behind bulletproof glass like some exotic animal on display. My past life seemed laughably absurd now—well, Nel's past life, anyway. The memories of who I once was felt distant, almost like a dream that had faded with the morning light.

But then, in a split second, my mind was flooded with images and stories of the future. It was overwhelming, as if I lived an entirely new existence in that brief moment.

These visions and the language in my head belonged to another life, one lived by a different personality within me. They were vivid, each scene playing out with startling clarity, leaving me breathless and disoriented.

I found these memories both repulsive and darkly humorous. He had died clinging to foolish notions of compassion, and for what? He was weak.

Why live for someone else if you can't protect them? Compassion should be wielded differently. Why act noble when you can't safeguard the very things you're trying to protect? It was a bitter irony that gnawed at me, a reminder of the futility of his ideals.

To hell with that. This world never granted me compassion. Why was I ever given a body with a fool? And why did he get to live his life instead of mine? He had the audacity to ask if I'd do something different if given the chance. Who wouldn't? The question lingered in my mind, echoing with a mocking tone that made my blood boil.

With a sardonic tone, I tilted my head to gaze at the stars from my memories, only to be met with a clear glass wall and concrete.

Instead of feeling disappointed, I was stunned. The ceiling was visible through the glass with startling clarity, as if the fog didn't exist. It was a cruel reminder of my confinement, yet also a testament to the strange clarity I now possessed.

This wasn't ordinary fog; it was infused with elemental mana, designed to induce peaceful sleep. Its density was extraordinary, yet I could still see through it.

Even when Nel was a vestige holder with inferior ingredients, he never experienced such clarity. It was as if my senses had been sharpened, honed to a fine edge by the very thing meant to dull them.

I tried to dismiss the thought, given my circumstances, but I was too fascinated. For the first time, I could think and move with purpose.

The last 17 years of my existence had been hellish and terrifying. Having glimpsed the future and gained knowledge of what a vestige can do, I had no desire to remain weak. The power I sensed within me was intoxicating, a promise of freedom and strength I could not ignore.

I didn't want to belittle Nel's ideals and hopes; everyone has their own goals. But Nel's path wasn't for me. I despised the idea of gaining power for someone else. 

Even if given the chance, I couldn't fathom degrading my essence just to prove I was different from other purebloods. It was a notion that filled me with disdain, a rejection of everything Nel stood for.

What disturbed me most was Jenny. She was utterly repulsive, yet through our shared memories, I understood why Nel fell for her deceitful lies. Compassion? What the hell is that? Friends? Companions? The words felt foreign, alien concepts that held no meaning in the harsh reality of my world. 

Nel baffled me when it came to emotions. Understandable, since my memories only captured what he saw and heard, not how he felt. His emotions were a mystery, a puzzle I had no desire to solve. 

In this cold, unforgiving place, emotions were a luxury I could ill afford. Here, survival was paramount, and sentimentality was a weakness I could not indulge.

If only you could have seen the world through my eyes, perhaps everything would have unfolded differently. But does it matter now? He's gone—forever silenced. Why should his death weigh on my conscience?

Why should I seek vengeance for him? The people he clashed with and those who clashed with him have been reshaped by time. They are no longer the same; they might even be ordinary souls now. Why should I spill blood for someone who once drove me to the brink?

Yet, despite the clarity in my mind and the justification in my heart, my body betrays me. It still throbs with the ghostly grip of that moment—the excruciating sensation of having my heart ripped from my chest. It's a torment that refuses to fade.

I can empathize with his agony because I, too, tremble. I feel the sting of pain. But even in his darkest hours, he held fast to his ideals, proclaiming it wasn't over, reaching out for something beyond grasp.

If there's one thing I must acknowledge, it's this: he was unwavering in his beliefs. A dedicated fool, indeed. And perhaps, in some twisted way, I envy him for that.

As I sift through the tapestry of shared memories, I find myself ensnared by a particular image—or is it a feeling? It's hazy, like trying to recall a dream after waking, but it lingers, refusing to let go. It was the day Nel first became a vestige. 

I remember the way the air seemed to hum around him, charged with an energy I couldn't name. In that moment of awakening, he discovered something extraordinary within his soul—a name, etched deep, both empowering and debilitating.

The name was Nelsinn.

Ironically, the very person I loathed was the one who helped Nel uncover the significance of that name. Someone had left it behind, inscribed in our soul like a brand, so we wouldn't forget the names bestowed upon us by our parents.

Parents who were little more than ghosts to me. But for Nel, it was a revelation so profound that it shattered him. I watched as he fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. His body convulsed, his mind fractured, and yet his soul… his soul shined. It radiated with a light so pure it was almost blinding.

But I felt nothing. Watching these memories replay endlessly, like a cruel loop I couldn't escape, I was filled with revulsion. It sickened me that he would shed tears for parents who abandoned us, who left us to rot in this hellish existence. How could he cry for them? How could he forgive them?

Did he truly erase from memory the 17 years we endured like this? Seventeen years of hunger, of fear, of clawing our way through the darkness just to survive another day. So what if someone came and freed him? What about me? What about the scars I carry, the wounds that never healed? Why should I cry? Why should I care about a mother and father who left me to perish?

It's unjust. Utterly unjust. And yet… why does our shared body still weep? This body truly is repulsive and needs to change. Even though rage consumes me, even though I despise them, this world, and all it represents—why do tears still fall? What is this? He paused briefly before continuing.

Was I truly forsaken? Did they genuinely not want me? Or were there circumstances beyond my understanding? It might seem childish, but the question lingers, gnawing at the edges of my sanity. My body mourns while my mind remains cold, detached, unwilling to entertain the possibility of hope.

I detest this body. This weakness. Why couldn't I have lived a better life? Why couldn't I have been someone else? Of all the souls in this vast, uncaring world, why did it have to be me?

I crave no power unless it grants me freedom. Freedom from this pain, from this endless cycle of questions and doubts. But this world is no paradise. It's a battlefield, a place where strength is the only currency that matters. If strength is the sole path to dominion, then so be it. I will claim this world as my own.

To hell with rules and laws. To hell with morality and justice. I will ensure my triumph. I will surpass everyone. Anything that dares to obstruct my path or challenge my convictions will be obliterated, erased from existence as if it never was.

His mind grew quiet, the storm of emotions settling into a cold, steely resolve. No longer tormented by the searing pain of memories or the haunting questions of his lineage, he vowed to unearth the truth. Not for them. Not for anyone else. For himself.

"Nelsinn," he whispered, the name tasting bitter and sweet on his tongue. Then, with a solemn resolve that burned like fire in his chest, he declared:

"My name will be Sinn."