Dark Parasyte

Corvin stood in the cold, sterile glow of his underground laboratory, the air thick with alchemical fumes and the faint hum of arcane wards. As always, John hovered nearby, quill in hand, his neat script already half a page ahead of the experiment itself. This time the work was focused on a new virutic strain, designed in theory, to enhance natural regeneration for both the living and his expanding undead legions. The numbers had grown staggering: more than forty thousand covenant bound units at his command. If they could heal naturally, without constant magical intervention, they would become not merely an army, but a force of attrition no foe could withstand.

The current subject, a human rebel taken from the southern fringes of Iron March under what Corvin cheerfully referred to as "legally acquired volunteers" was strapped down on the test slab. In reality, they were nothing more than bandits, the sort of men whose disappearance would only improve society. At least, that was the justification Corvin offered himself while preparing the test.

As the virutic strain coursed through the subject's veins, the man convulsed violently, his muscles seizing with unnatural rigidity. John, Bob, and Corvin all watched with the sort of detached patience usually reserved for the weather. After a minute of violent spasms, the rebel dissolved into a sloppy mess of liquefied tissue, leaving behind nothing but a bubbling stain on the restraints.

Bob dipped a clawed finger and tasted the goo. "urgh" said the kind bearkin and John quipped next "Test number thirty eight: catastrophic failure," flatly, already recording every symptom with the precision of a man who had long since lost any sympathy for the squeamish.

"A perfect assessment, John," Corvin replied, his tone halfway between dry amusement and academic boredom. Then, without missing a beat, he raised his voice. "Bob. Another subject, if you would."

At the far side of the chamber, a cage rattled as the surviving rebels shrank back, trying and failing to hide behind one another. Their fear only made Bob's task easier. He swung the cage open and, with all the gentleness of a storm, seized a burly man who kicked and shouted uselessly. Dragging him across the stone floor, Bob ignored the others as they whimpered and pressed themselves against the bars, praying to be overlooked.

John dipped his quill in fresh ink, eyes never leaving his parchment. "Test number thirty nine," he murmured in the same dry, clinical cadence. "Subject: Alive Human Male…"

--

It had been three days since the Aurelian Elves settled into the castle, and exactly three days since Valyne had been pouting like a wronged child, sulking so spectacularly that even the maids avoided eye contact. Archmagus Seliorna, with every ounce of her High Elven dignity, had spent those days dragging the three magistras across the domain as if they were prize hounds in need of regular exercise. They inspected the courtyards, the walls, the libraries, everything but their host, who seemed to have mastered the ancient art of never being where one was supposed to be.

By the afternoon of the third day, their patience had worn thin. When the group finally flopped down on a stone bench in the gardens, a maid appeared with impeccable timing, carrying a tray of chilled wine as if she had been waiting around the corner the entire time. Seliorna accepted her glass with the stiff politeness of someone one twitch away from a fit and asked yet again, "And where is your master at this moment?"

The maid, face as blank as polished marble, replied in the exact same cadence Seliorna had heard from every servant for three days. "The master is busy at this time, Archmagus. If you have any inquiry, I will be sure to convey it."

Seliorna's eye twitched so hard it looked ready to detach. "They are rehearsing this, aren't they?" she muttered, loud enough that Elydria and Thalira both exhaled the kind of long suffering sighs one only hears from well trained courtiers.

"Archmagus," Elydria said, her tone dipped in weary elegance, "if the Planarch is not available, may we at least return to the Dominion's mansion? It would be more… comfortable there." At least there they will be among their kind instead of this mad house full crazy ravens and Synod Elves.

Thalira chimed in with a soft, "Indeed, the air here feels… stifling." A raven cawed at her, which made the fair magistra to flinch.

Seliorna pinched the bridge of her nose so hard it was a wonder she didn't bruise herself. "Fine. Maid, arrange a carriage for them please." The servant curtsied and floated away with the grace of someone immune to High Elven dramatics. Elydria and Thalira swept off after her, heads held high, though their retreat looked suspiciously like flight.

Left behind with only Serenya, Seliorna sat in brittle silence. Fate, or perhaps Raven's Nest's talent for impeccable timing, soon provided entertainment. Archmagus Vaelorin the Black rounded a corner, Magistra Valyne trailing at his side. He inclined his head politely; Serenya practically bounced out of her seat, hurrying toward Valyne like an overeager apprentice seeing her idol.

"Magistra Valyne," Serenya said in a tone that practically sparkled, "may I borrow some of your time?"

Valyne, cheeks puffed from three days of sulking, gave a stiff nod and allowed herself to be tugged off toward one of the smaller sitting rooms. Vaelorin, meanwhile, turned to Seliorna with the kind of sly smile that screamed mischief.

"I hear you've challenged the Planarch to a duel, Aurelian."

Seliorna's tone could have frozen the entire hallway. "You heard correctly, Synod. Yet it seems Planarch Corvin is far too busy to acknowledge it." The smirk that followed was a masterwork of High Elven disdain, implying rather boldly that she thought Corvin was running from her.

Vaelorin's grin spread wider, teeth flashing. "Oh, I am going to enjoy this. You really have no idea what you've asked for. Especially when it comes to lightning." He chuckled to himself, then sauntered off humming as though he'd just been handed free entertainment of the month.

Seliorna scoffed so loudly it echoed, tossed her hair like a whip, and marched toward her quarters, muttering something about "arrogant Synod tricksters" under her breath.

Meanwhile, Serenya and Valyne sank onto a sofa in the sitting room. Serenya leaned close, voice lowered conspiratorially as though the walls themselves might gossip. "Do you know where the Planarch is?"

Valyne, still in a pout so deep it could be measured, shook her head without looking up. Serenya pressed on, hopeful. "Then do you have some way to send him a message?"

At that, Valyne's eye twitched so violently she looked ready to combust. Her gaze darted around the room until it landed on the inevitable: a raven perched on the windowsill, glossy feathers gleaming, head cocked at an angle as it stared straight at her. The bird blinked once, twice, as though daring her to deny its presence.

"Cursed birds," Valyne muttered savagely. Then, louder, she told Serenya, "If you want him to hear you, just say it. Loudly. I promise you, he'll know. He always knows."

Serenya blinked. Then nodded solemnly, as though she had just confirmed that yes, the Synod were all utterly insane. Drawing in a deep breath, she spoke quickly, her cherub like face flushing redder by the word. "Then… please tell him I've agreed to this assignment knowing what is expected of me and after meeting his grace, willingly. Planarch Corvin said you serve him here in this castle, Magistra. I don't know your exact role, but please, if you see him.. convey my message. I would very much like to request some of his valuable time."

Valyne nearly choked trying not to laugh. Oh, you poor thing. You're going to regret this, she thought, grimacing at the raven still perched on the sill. The bird tilted its head again, unblinking, as though laughing right along with her.

--

It took Corvin another two days of painstaking adjustments before the virutic strain finally reached a point of stability. He had tested dozens of iterations, discarding most after catastrophic failures, until the sequence that now lay inscribed across his notes began to make sense. The breakthrough came when he restructured the lattice of the strain to interact not only with the body's inner mana reserves but also with the atmospheric mana that suffused Raven's Nest and Verthalis itself. The revised design allowed the strain to act as a living converter, absorbing ambient energy through newly engineered receptors and transmuting it into a continuous pulse of restorative magic. The logic was simple in theory but devilishly complex in execution: the world itself would serve as the reservoir, reducing strain on the host's core. The bloodstream became a living conduit, the strain weaving mana into regenerative threads as naturally as blood carried oxygen. With every heartbeat, the subject became both vessel and spell.

The rebel strapped to the slab was the unfortunate proof of concept. His body trembled violently, his voice ragged from hours of screaming. Each spasm reverberated against the stone walls of the laboratory, though to Corvin, John, and Bob, the sound had long since become background noise. Corvin stood at the side, his steel grey gaze cold and analytical. "Bob," he said evenly, "break more bones. I want recovery times logged against blunt trauma specifically."

Bob obeyed with mechanical calm, stepping forward to grip the man's arm and snapping it with a crack that echoed in the chamber. The rebel howled, his body thrashing against the restraints. Yet, astonishingly, within moments the strain surged into motion, veins glowing faintly as mana rushed through them. The shattered arm began to align, bone knitting together with unnatural speed, flesh tightening and reforming as though nothing had happened. The strain was doing exactly what Corvin intended: feeding off the atmosphere, pulling mana into the body, and translating it into raw healing.

John, precise as ever, did not even flinch at the screams. He dipped his quill into ink and continued recording. "Subject number eithy six. Strain designation RGR1.0. Healing confirmed across multiple forms of damage, including full limb removal. Reaction time: under two seconds. Healing speed scales with the volume of strain saturating the bloodstream. Notably, higher saturation appears to accelerate tissue regrowth and healing speed exponentially."

Corvin nodded slowly, arms folded, his expression unreadable but his thoughts racing. This was progress finally, the beginnings of something viable. "Bob," he said at length, his voice edged with command, "bring ten more subjects. Begin parallel trials immediately. I want comparative results logged by tonight. No delays."

Bob gave a grunt and turned toward the cages at the far wall. The rebels inside shrank back, pressing against each other in vain attempts to avoid his looming grasp. The rattling of the iron bars mingled with whimpers, but resistance was useless. Bob seized one at random and dragged him out, while the others cowered, knowing their turn would come.

Corvin, ignoring the noise, turned back toward the runic arrays sprawling across the walls of his laboratory. His mind was already leaping ahead. The next challenge was no longer the living, it was the dead.. or undead to be precise. To make RGR1.0 function within them, he would need to embed the lattice into their covenant bound cores, weaving regenerative properties directly into the runic circles that sustained their animation. It would mean reshaping the very essence of the strain, bending it to thrive in the unnatural husks of his creations.

His quill scratched rapidly over parchment, diagrams of cores and aether flows forming beneath his hand. If he succeeded, then forty thousand undead soldiers would be a tide of self healing machines, to shrug off damage that would annihilate mortal armies. Not just an army of the dead, an immortal legion, an endless host, reborn in regeneration and bound to his will.

--

By the end of the sixth day, both RGR1.0 and its counterpart RGR1.1U, for undead hosts were complete. The strains had endured relentless testing, experimented on multiple races, subjected to every type of wound and trauma Corvin could devise. Slashes, blunt force, elemental damage, poison, ruptures of organs, and even dismemberment. All had been inflicted, catalogued, and analyzed. Through each trial, adjustments had been made until both strains proved reliable. Satisfied at last, Corvin prepared the final and most important step: himself.

He drew a large volume of the strain into a crystal syringe, its liquid glowing faintly within and drove it into his own veins. For a tense moment, the chamber was silent as the strain surged into him, embedding itself like roots, latching onto his blood and core. The hum of his mana shifted, harmonizing with the foreign presence, until it felt less like an intruder and more like a second heartbeat. Then, as the conversion lattice settled, Corvin felt his body bloom with regenerative potential, small cuts on his hands sealed instantly, a lingering bruise faded before his eyes. A slow, victorious smile spread across his face. He had done it.

Turning to John and Bob, he inclined his head with rare sincerity. "Brilliant work mates, both of you. My thanks." Without another word, he dissolved into a ripple of space and reappeared in his study above.

Once there, Corvin summoned his maids. "Prepare a feast," he commanded, "and ensure every guest of the castle is informed. Their presence is required." The servants bowed and hurried away, their footsteps echoing faintly as they vanished down the hall. Corvin allowed himself a rare, indulgent smile. For once, he could enjoy the fruits of both science and strategy.

First, Valyne. Six days of sulking had turned her pout into a permanent feature. He remedied it with what he privately termed a 'two hour marathon of diplomacy,' after which she was far too exhausted to remember she had ever been upset. While doing the deed Corvin talked to her about being jelaous and hoped she heard half of it and stop this cute behaiovur. Next, he turned his attention to Archmagus Seliorna. A maid was dispatched with a simple message: the Planarch was finally ready for the duel she had so boldly demanded. Lastly, he recalled Magistra Serenya and her shy request for a private conversation. Another maid carried the answer, that her time would come after the dinner was concluded.

With these affairs arranged, Corvin retreated to his private bath. Steam rose thick and fragrant, curling along the ceiling as he sank into the water. He let the heat seep into his muscles, washing away six days of tension. He leaned back, eyes half closed, waiting to see whether dinner or combat would claim him first. He had not long to wait. A ripple brushed his thoughts, carrying the echo of Seliorna's answer. She was ready, and she would meet him in the training hall.

Corvin rose from the bath, dressed himself in simple but elegant robes, and began his slow, confident walk through the corridors of Raven's Nest. His stride was unhurried, every step resonating with the certainty of one who already knew the outcome. A faint smirk played upon his lips. This will be enjoyable.

Elsewhere, Seliorna seethed. The Planarch had disappeared for six whole days, only to treat her duel like a scheduled chore upon his return. Her pride would not allow her to decline. She had accepted instantly. At least her fruitless search of the castle in those days had left her with a detailed knowledge of its halls and even the hidden passages.. better, she mused bitterly, than even some of the butlers who worked there.

She donned a light dueling armor, polished to a mirror sheen and traced with her personal runes of lightning and flame. Her movements were sharp, her expression like carved stone, as she marched toward the great hall. Along the way she caught sight of Vaelorin and Valyne, both headed the same way. Seliorna arched a brow at the Synod Archmagus. "What might be so amusing, Synod?" she asked coldly.

Vaelorin's grin stretched wide, predatory. "It always pleases me to see a High Elf especially one with a high status humbled. And today," he said with relish, "I expect to be pleased."

Seliorna's scoff could have frozen fire. She swept ahead without another word, her pride holding her spine rigid. The three High Elven magistras soon joined their group as well, curiosity glittering in their eyes. Whispers of anticipation filled the air between them.

When they reached the training hall, Corvin was already waiting. He stood at its center, robes hanging loose around his frame, steel grey eyes steady. With a single, casual gesture of his hand, multiple layers of space and defensive runes sprang to life. They unfurled around the chamber like shimmering veils, weaving themselves into a barrier that enclosed the dueling ground. Each layer pulsed faintly, harmonizing with the others in a symphony of controlled power. The sheer precision stunned not only Seliorna but others as well. So effortless, so confident. Few magi could conjure such wards at all, and fewer still with the ease of breathing.

Corvin stood unmoved in the center, arms loosely at his sides, calm as a mountain before a storm. He turned to Vaelorin, his voice smooth. "Archmagus, kindly serve as referee."

Vaelorin bowed slightly, eyes gleaming like a man about to be entertained. "It will be my pleasure, Your Grace." He took his post at the barrier's edge, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

Corvin turned back to Seliorna, the runelight reflecting in his eyes. Vaelorin's voice rang clear, carrying through the great hall. "Whenever you are ready, Archmagus Seliorna," he said with a smile, "the duel may begin."