It did not matter the deeds done as long as it abided within the empire's efficiency and grounded codes.
Among the other Nyrhaean children who succeeded the trial, Zakair may be the foremost testament to that cynicism.
There was no reason to say that he fell short. He considered himself more than quite the opposite, in fact. Yet despite, the reason for having him chosen to be sent to the Chamber has already been wholly buried in the dirt.
From that day on, catching a glimpse of the Luna has become a once in a blood--or in human terms, blue--Moon instance.
There wasn't a day when the needles hadn't explored deep into the soft exposures of his skin until there grew the foreign feeling when not a piece of metal skewered reached into his flesh. Fluids sizzling, boiling, cooling, or however it can behave were pumped into his body through the tubes affixed to them.
Even the facilitators in gas masks shifting on and about in the lab made him feel the light Orbital was his only companion. No one asked how deep the needles were plunging or painful the electrocutions were.
As if the isolation wasn't enough, being induced to a sleepless slumber in a cryonic had not only left him aimlessly drifting in his subconscious abyss but also leaving him on the verge of death.
Nearly dying during those processes was the easiest part of that following day.
Breaking out of that hell took more than a few obstacles begging to be eliminated.
Once out of the lab, the revolution was already at its climax. Like a lost fish at sea, there was only the option to join the masses of cryptids fleeing from Nyrhaea as they crossed over to the Deep Divide.
Its silken waters punctured deep into his worn-out skin he could still taste the salt and grime clinging into his memory's taste buds. Its dew harshly sprinkled into his face until one could imagine his surprise when he was met with a blue sky and the Sun overhead at the same time.
There and then, there was no turning back the moment their fleet set foot on the waters of the human world.
But just like any fragile foundation, a crack in the stone could bring the whole assembly down. Small suspicions amassed into paranoia, ratting out spies among themselves.
It wasn't long before Zakair was discovered. Apparently, there were other former Crusaders who also sought to flee the imperious monarchy.
Only Zakair survived that massacre.
Rowing to the nearest shore of Zephyr, the streets made it a wild ordeal out of his wandering in the darkest corridors of the boroughs. Living off a stolen freshly haunted calf was the first priority in surviving.
Winding and dispersing from one area to the next, it wasn't long until fate--in its sadistic pleasure in which he regarded this point as its gratifying mistake--granted him a tattered, nonetheless protective, roof over his head to sweep him over to a stature in a luxurious mansion.
A chest of gold for a copper coin. A fortuity he more than bargained for. And what a journey it was acquainting himself with the merchants' manner of living.
Even with the absence of junk and bloodshed on almost every front of the street, far from the everyday customs of Nyrhaea and human plebeians down the streets, settling in was not as easy as the refugee had thought.
Firstly, encountering mahika on a daily basis was nothing new. But having to witness its vivacity come from the human body itself apart from anywhere in the heavens to the soil was something to get used to.
Naturally, Nyrhaeans didn't have magic. And only a few were gifted the skin to shape into the ideal human form. But it was the mind that performs the perfect human impression.
Even before chancing upon the affluent lifestyle, Zakair was already supplied with the basic gears of cover on a silver platter: a working vessel for the somatic constituent--courtesy of his shapeshifting ancestors--and a willing aid as the extension to borrow the essential mahika from.
But most importantly, all that integrated knowledge of the enemy flawlessly put to use. Trained to be the wolf among sheep. The perfect disguise.
Second, discovering that humans have made a pathetic fabrication of Nyrhaeans into overexaggerated fairytales of creatures was something he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cringe at. Claiming to be devourers of children that prey on their mischief was a hammer of absurdity to his head.
At least they were trying with the appearance aesthetics, getting more depictions of the classic faeries and lycanthropes right than he thought. Even the terminologies did not disappoint.
It's a shame, however, that they haven't had a name for him.
How could they? They had only regarded them as narrative old wives' tales passed down from one generation to another, altering along the way to fit into their belier of explanation.
Mystical cryptids. Urban legends. And no more. Let alone would they know about his species of which there had only been up to five known to exist in each generation. Though, the numbers have waned over the centuries.
He doesn't even know if he's the last of his kind.
And that's not the worst of it.
While the human world spurs on to boast of their technological advances pushing into the industrial rise, enriching themselves in enlightening philosophy, science, and mathematics across borders, each day a Nyrhaean would lose its ability to comprehend conscience to a cause no one could even determine whether it was a disease...
Or a symptom of an unveiled innate instinct as the product of perpetual evolution. But they called it the Madness Plague.
Demetamorphosizing, as the other creatures would generally describe. Slashing their claws and baring their fangs to any who come close. Hissing and running wild as if they themselves have become beasts of the earth.
Just like the prisoned creatures in the cage back at home.
And from where he is now, all Zakair knew, is that he is far away from all the madness of what once was his homeland.
Only that it was too late for him to know he could never truly escape.
Stuck in a skin that once had been his armor and now its prisoner to this cycle of how his life came to be. Wondering--anxious of--when he, too, will submit to the feral urges.
More so than ever.
And more so did he linger within the academy grounds. But, of course, he wouldn't allow himself to be caged where there is no room for a tad amount of thrill.
Good thing for him, the academy was a party ground of exorbitant tournaments. From who can last in a battle royale and who will break their bones for the title of the Annual Champion of the Magnate Arena.
An emulation of fun Zakair can entertain himself with for his meantime of staying in the academy and finding amusement beyond bland lectures and school drags. Show them that real battles are far beyond hitting dummies and perfecting forms.
Some--or, admittedly, almost all--of which he may have been a bit quite guilty of overstepping his charade of subtlety.
But sometimes, in the minutes where his mind wandered off, he had thought of what had been going on outside of the academy gates.
The modification in transport from animal-powered sources to batteries. The local parades in every two months' turn. Establishment of the metalmold buildings. How the other students shift from wearing wool-folded suits--Zakair swore were only meant to be for the wrinkled folks--to satin and thin cotton pants and upper garments donned individually.
At that moment he thought, what harm can going against his one rule do?
Had he known what that one lone slip-up could cost may perhaps have steered him from unfolding the demise to the unbothered life of his own making.
The memories were yet jittering out of place. But the daunting emotions let him know that mistake will haunt him for the rest of his abhorrent life.
As if the consequences couldn't get any more penalizing, he was pondering these as gravity dragged him down. Knowing whether or not he would be relieved that the impact upon contact with the raging waters below would not kill him but sure would leave damage requiring quite the time to regenerate.
A cursed life, indeed.
The last his senses could proffer him was the resounding crack of his bones as the waters claimed him into its burrows. Though the cold felt inexistent to him, the chill snaked down into his open wounds. Numbing all that brought about sense.