Hope's world was dark.
Not the kind of darkness that came from closed eyes, nor the kind born from a lack of light.
It was something else.
A void.
A deep, boundless abyss that stretched infinitely in all directions.
Then—
A voice.
The same voice that had spoken to him before.
A voice woven into the very fabric of his being—the voice of the Veil.
> "You have slain a Sacred Beast..."
The words sent a shiver through his very soul.
A Sacred Beast.
A creature beyond mortals, a force of nature itself.
And yet, he had killed it.
> "Your soul grows stronger, and your essence is refilled."
A surge of power coursed through him.
Like a dam breaking, energy poured into every fiber of his being.
His wounds—his pain—his fatigue—it all vanished in an instant.
Then, before he could even grasp what was happening—
He felt it.
A pull.
Not gentle, not gradual—but sudden, violent, absolute.
He was falling.
No, not falling—plummeting.
It felt as though reality itself had tilted, as if the world had been ripped away beneath him, sending him hurtling through an endless descent.
Then—
Light.
Hope's eyes snapped open.
For a moment, he couldn't see, couldn't think—his mind was a blank slate, struggling to process where he was, what had happened.
The last thing he remembered was—
The throne.
The explosion.
The Centaur's destruction.
His fingers twitched—his body jerked slightly as awareness rushed in.
A flood of memories crashed over him, drowning his senses.
His eyes darted around, scanning his surroundings.
It was a room—clean, sterile, and filled with humming machines.
Bright overhead lights illuminated the space, their cold glow making everything feel artificial, like something out of a nightmare.
Then—
A realization.
His arm.
His hand had been cut off—severed at the shoulder, reduced to nothing but a stump.
Yet, as he looked down at himself—
His breath caught.
His arm was there.
Whole. Unscathed. Perfect.
No scars, no marks—just flesh, bone, and muscle.
For a moment, his brain refused to understand.
Then—
Straps.
Thick leather bands bound his wrists, chest, and legs, pinning him down against the bed beneath him.
His pulse quickened—his survival instincts kicked in.
He tried to move—tried to struggle—but the restraints were tight, unyielding.
Panic flared in his chest for a brief second—before a voice cut through the air.
A distant voice.
> "Oh, he's awake."
The words were casual, almost uninterested, but they dripped with authority.
Footsteps echoed—controlled, precise.
A figure stepped into view, moving toward him.
It was a woman—young, probably in her mid-twenties.
Her sharp eyes studied him with clinical detachment, her lips pressed into a neutral line.
She wore a form-fitting combat suit, dark and reinforced, with a two-star insignia on her shoulder.
An Ascended.
A soldier far above normal men, someone who had touched the Veil and come back changed.
Hope remained silent, his mind racing.
Who was she?
Where was he?
More importantly—how long had he been unconscious?
The woman didn't wait for him to speak.
She stepped closer, withdrawing a small penlight, then flicked it on with a click.
The bright beam cut into his vision, and he flinched instinctively.
> "Follow the light," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
She moved the penlight left—he followed.
Right—he followed.
Up. Down.
Satisfied, she clicked the light off and tucked it away.
> "Vitals are stable," she muttered, half to herself.
Then she met his gaze.
> "I'm Cara."
Her voice was even, professional—but there was something underneath it.
Something that told him she wasn't just a medic.
Hope stayed quiet, his eyes narrowing slightly.
Cara exhaled through her nose, then reached for the straps securing him in place.
One by one, the thick leather restraints came undone, the buckles clinking softly as they were loosened.
Freedom.
But as Hope sat up, feeling the weight of his own body again—
His gaze flickered to the machines beside him.
Monitors. Tubes. IV drips.
Someone had been watching him.
Studying him.