Starting out as a Dragon Slave
Chapter 137: Becoming a Perfect Weapon

Chapter 137: Chapter 137: Becoming a Perfect Weapon

Cold.

It was the first sensation Mordred experienced each morning, when they extracted him from his cell like a specimen removed from formaldehyde. Not a natural cold, invigorating or purifying. An insidious cold, almost tangible, that infiltrated down to the marrow of his bones. A constant temperature of nine degrees Celsius - low enough to slow metabolism without compromising vital functions. An environment calculated by beings who understood human physiology better than humans themselves. The cold of the draconic kingdom’s entrails, that of a place designed with architectural precision for a single function: to deconstruct the human in order to rebuild him.

To systematically fracture each psychological barrier.

For how long had he been subjected to this treatment? The chronology escaped him. The draconic kingdom did not measure time according to human criteria. No circadian reference points, no clock, no bell, no solar glow. Only the alternation between phases of forced wakefulness, characterized by controlled cortisol release into his system, and periods of total exhaustion, where his body, saturated with lactic acid and residual adrenaline, collapsed into an unconsciousness that had nothing restorative about it. Days were no longer temporal units but biochemical cycles. His body, a malleable organic system. And he, a prototype in perpetual modification.

His exact location remained unknown. Probably an underground section of the palace complex, judging by the barometric pressure and oxygen concentration slightly below normal. A living laboratory dedicated to the transmutation of creatures deemed inferior. A facility whose very existence was denied in official records. But geography mattered little. There were no witnesses, no applicable jurisdiction. Only draconic manipulators with hands protected by mana-conducting alloys, masked observers, enchanted instruments calibrated for each intervention, and pain administered with surgical precision, in measurable neurophysiological increments.

Dragons did not teach. They reconfigured.

Never raised voices. Never arbitrary punishments. Only meticulous observation, adjustment of variables, controlled experimentation. Like metallurgists working a rare alloy, between scientific fascination and ancestral pride. And Mordred no longer belonged to humanity nor animality. He had become a transitional state, a biological artifact in its final phase of optimization.

They strengthened his tendinous structures using myofibrillar compounds, introduced through thermal micro-perforation down to the collagen fibers. The first days, he screamed. Now, his nociceptive receptors had been recalibrated - his nerve pathways having been deliberately damaged then reconstructed during the initial weeks. He was immersed in solutions highly concentrated with liquefied manalytes, whose ionic composition corroded damaged tissues while catalyzing the multiplication of type II muscle fibers, those dedicated to explosiveness. The periods of prolonged fasting - precisely seventy-two hours - were followed by enteral injections of a hyperconcentrated nutritional complex of amino acids and specific proteins, directly absorbable by the intestinal mucosa.

They inculcated mastery of the autonomic nervous system: voluntary slowing of respiratory rhythm down to six cycles per minute, maintenance of muscle tone even during recovery phases, reprogramming of the circadian cycle. His sleep was fragmented into micro-phases of one hundred and eighty seconds, induced by stimulation of theta brain waves. And when he collapsed from exhaustion, they showed no reproach. They documented. They recalculated the parameters.

And restarted the protocol, adjusted.

Sometimes, while he was forced to progress across surfaces heated to exactly one hundred and twenty degrees Celsius - the temperature where skin begins to delaminate but before tissue carbonization - or to suspend his breathing in an atmosphere saturated with non-lethal concentrations of neurotoxic compounds, his thoughts drifted to Isaac. His other self. Immobilized, suspended, locked beneath Paris in a containment structure, under one hundred meters of limestone, with no sensory stimulation other than the awareness of infinite waiting.

Then Mordred would rise again. Because one of the two had to continue the movement.

And because if his body gave in... the other would disappear with him.

The dragons rarely communicated directly with him. When they deigned to do so, it was to formulate clinical observations:

- "Synaptic receptor saturation reaches ninety-two percent. Still insufficient."

- "Spontaneous tissue regeneration shows significant progression, but mitochondrial adaptation to trauma remains below optimal threshold."

- "Bone densification has reached stage three. Induced micro-fractures now heal in thirty-seven hours. We maintain the protocol of maximum mechanical stress."

The notion of duration had lost all relevance. Weeks? Months, probably. Time had dissolved in the relentless repetition. The sensation of cold stone against his skin. The metallic odor of instruments. The icy sweat that beaded along his spine. And the blood. His own blood, whose hemoglobin had been modified to carry more oxygen.

[System Report]

[Acquired Resistances Resistance to pain : Level 9 Resistance to toxins : Level 9 ; Resistance to sleep deprivation : Level 5 ; Resistance to thermal trauma: Level 4 ; Resistance to unstable mana: Level 3]

[Enhancement of physiological parameters]

[Strength: +42]

[Agility: +32]

[Constitution: +46]

[Sensory acuity: +102]

[Magical conductivity: +34]

And each night...

Each night, invariably, when his exhausted organism collapsed onto the slab of his cell, a neurocognitive transition occurred in his cerebral cortex.

And he became Isaac again.

Suspended in his underground prison in the heart of Paris, kilometers beneath the urban arteries, the forgotten galleries, the distant echoes of life. Enveloped in absolute darkness, perfect immobility. Complete sensory deprivation. Breathing regulated by an autonomous biomechanical system. No visual perception. No tactile stimulation. No muscular movement.

He existed.

That was the only truth.

And he waited for Mordred to regain consciousness. For the body to continue its transformation. For evolution to progress toward its end.

After months of physiological conditioning and progressive acclimatization to pain, the protocol evolved. Physical suffering no longer constituted a sufficient parameter. Now, cognitive processes needed to be refined. Create anthropomorphic organisms capable of calculating death with algorithmic precision.

And the first instrument of this metamorphosis was the dagger.

It was presented to them one morning, placed on the damp slab of the exercise room. Simple. Short blade of twenty-one centimeters, carbon-tinted steel alloy, without ornamentation, without inscription. Perfectly balanced, its center of gravity located exactly two centimeters from the handle. A tool of surgical precision. Not a weapon. Not a symbol. Only what was needed to perforate the pericardium, section a tendon’s fascia, or precisely slice the common carotid at its bifurcation.

Mordred seized it without perceptible hesitation.

They were ten in the underground arena. Ten enslaved gladiators who, like him, had survived the initial phase of bodily reconditioning. All emaciated, muscles protruding beneath pale skin, deformed by repeated physical constraints, their gaze either extinguished or burning with contained rage. Facing them, in the circular space, humans were silently introduced.

Not fighters. Not trained adversaries.

Ordinary human beings. Men with calloused hands. Some women with hunched shoulders. Probably agricultural serfs or accidental captives from dimensional portals. All unarmed, vulnerable, condemned. Brought there like specimens for anatomical study.

A draconic instructor, clad in purple scale armor, prominent canines and glowing vertical pupils, spoke in a voice devoid of emotional inflection:

- "Elimination is inefficient if executed without anatomical precision. Today, you will acquire perfect knowledge of human fragility."

He gestured toward the trembling silhouettes lined up at the other end of the arena.

- "Your objective: neutralize these ten subjects. You operate alone. The imperative: no non-lethal injury."

He approached Mordred, his reptilian shadow projecting like a distinct entity.

- "A brachial laceration is a failure. A vocalization from the target is a technical deficiency. Target exclusively the carotid triangle, the precordial region between the fourth and fifth intercostal space, or the temporal fossa at the level of the middle meningeal artery. Any deviation from these parameters... and you will be substituted in their place."

And an oppressive silence established itself.

The first passages were brief and brutal sequences. One executioner. Ten human subjects. The flow of hemoglobin fluid. An involuntary exclamation. And the immediate elimination of the offending gladiator for having touched the deltoid region instead of the jugular. For having allowed a target to move more than three meters away.

The others observed. Not with apprehension. With cognitive assimilation. For the lesson was clear: compassion was temporal inefficiency. And hesitation equated to a death sentence.

When Mordred’s turn came, the atmosphere seemed to densify around him, as if the air itself became a physical resistance.

He entered the space delimited by sand blackened by dried fluids, the dagger maintained in a precise grip. Ten humans facing him. Ten gazes - some fleeting, others pleading, a few already emptied of all cognitive light. They had integrated the inevitability of their end. Only the unknown of the process remained.

He advanced with a measured step. His breathing maintained a constant rhythm. Perfectly regulated. Sleep deprivation no longer affected his motor functions. The sensation of hunger had been neurochemically suppressed. Even thirst was now only a peripheral signal ignored by his central nervous system.

He had learned to detach himself from his own sensory perceptions.

And yet...

When his right quadriceps contracted to initiate the first feinting movement,

When the blade penetrated precisely under the clavicle of an elderly man, cleanly severing the subclavian artery at its origin,

When the vital fluid flowed, warm against his palm, and a terminal rattle rose from the condemned’s respiratory tract...

In Mordred’s throat, a foreign sensation manifested. An acrid, dried taste, as if microscopic particles of cold ash lined his oral epithelium, residue of a fire extinguished for an eternity. Something dead, lodged in his taste buds. And it was not the flesh. It was not the blood. It was the fragmentary reminiscence of his original identity.

The second subject collapsed, younger. A woman who had tried to flee. Mordred did not target the lower limbs. He precisely targeted the C2 vertebra, cleanly severing the upper spinal cord. She collapsed without emitting the slightest sound.

The third. A barely formed adolescent. Blade thrust into the sternal region. Deviation of two centimeters to the right - striking the right ventricle instead of the left, causing a four-second agony instead of instant death. The instructor emitted a growl of disapproval.

Mordred corrected his technique. The next subject did not benefit from this physiological delay.

One by one, they collapsed. Not as adversaries. But as anatomical demonstrations.

Proofs of his mastery of lethal points.

Confirmations of his perfect learning of human mortality.

When only one remained, Mordred stopped. The last survivor was not trying to escape. He observed, pupils dilated by primitive terror. His lips trembled, involuntary vibration of the orbicular muscle. His legs too, essential tremors of the quadriceps exhausted by prolonged adrenaline production. But he remained static. Perhaps a former tracker accustomed to the presence of death. Perhaps simply a man whose survival instinct had been overwhelmed by resignation.

Mordred held his gaze for a long time.

The ashen sensation now irritated his trachea.

And beneath his ribcage, Isaac silently screamed.

But the blade manifested no oscillation.

It penetrated with millimetric precision. Without the slightest superfluous noise.

The body slumped. The mission was accomplished according to the defined parameters.

Mordred straightened up. The sand was impregnated with coagulating hemoglobin. He allowed no reflective thought to form. No regret was authorized to emerge. Not in this environment. Not during this evaluation phase.

But when he was led back to his cell and sensory isolation was established again...

When his body stretched out on the cold lithic surface,

And his consciousness slipped into the other dimension to become Isaac again, suspended in absolute darkness,

He perceived this ash inexorably rising in his esophagus.

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