The underground lab reeked of burnt flesh and decayed magic.
Flickering light from enchanted sigils cast a sterile glow over the cold chamber, where a group of devils stood in hushed anticipation.
Proceed.
At the center of the room, Subject No. 12 convulsed violently.
His body—restrained by magically reinforced steel bindings—twitched as the final stage of the Death Factor infusion took hold.
His veins, dark as dried ink, pulsed unnaturally, spreading corruption through his flesh.
Near him was a fallen sigil bearing the crest of House Agares barely visible, half-buried beneath dust and old blood—forgotten, or perhaps deliberately ignored.
The researchers, a collective of outcast devils obsessed with surpassing Ajuka Beelzebub, watched in measured excitement.
If this worked, they would ascend beyond his genius.
And yet…
Nothing.
The lead scientist, an aging devil with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, scowled.
"Another failure."
He waved a dismissive hand.
"Dispose of him. Prepare the next subject."
One of the assistants stepped forward, activating the disposal spell—
Until something shifted.
Thin, nearly invisible threads extended from the subject's fingertips, drifting like strands of mist in the dim light.
They swayed in the air, weightless.
Silent.
Unseen.
Then—
A whisper, barely perceptible, filled the chamber.
A second later, one of the restraints collapsed.
The lead scientist's expression darkened.
"What was that?"
The assistants exchanged uneasy glances.
They hadn't seen the threads cut anything.
The bindings had simply… fallen apart.
"Look closer, sir."
One of the younger researchers swallowed hard.
Their eyes followed the thin, spectral filaments now curling around the subject's hands.
The threads moved—erratically, as if alive.
The lead scientist narrowed his gaze and stepped forward, examining the fallen restraints.
The severed edges were smooth.
Unnaturally clean.
There were no jagged fractures, no shattered remnants.
Even the sharpest blade would have left some sign of resistance.
But this…
This was as if the bindings had never been connected to begin with.
He examined the cuts further—some ran straight from crest to trough, while others veered diagonally at unsettling angles, intersecting with surgical precision.
After a moment of thought, the lead scientist broke the silence.
"A flawed ability."
The others hesitated, confused.
"His power has no force behind it. If these threads carried true Death, they would reduce matter to dust. Instead, they only slice… at their weakest points."
To prove his point, he grabbed a scalpel from a nearby table and swung it at one of the floating threads.
Snap.
Most researchers expected the scalpel to be cut apart.
Instead—
The thread broke.
Murmurs rippled through the chamber.
This was not the overwhelming power of a true Death-Wielder.
This was something lesser.
The lead scientist scoffed.
"Strings? That's all he can manifest? A failure that barely functions."
The subject remained still.
Kneeling.
Silent.
His silver-tinged eyes flickered, studying the threads in his hands—as if only now beginning to understand.
Then, carefully, he moved his fingers.
The threads trembled, shifting like serpents through the air.
A tilt of his wrist—
And the threads curved toward the lead scientist.
A heartbeat later—
The lead scientist froze.
A thread had barely brushed the sleeve of his robe.
A thin black line appeared where it had touched.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
The fabric peeled apart, splitting open like a surgical incision.
The lead scientist tensed.
Even though the thread had only grazed him, the skin beneath felt… cold.
Numb.
He immediately pulled away.
The researchers whispered among themselves.
This power was not useless.
It wasn't raw force. It wasn't destruction.
It was precision.
The threads sought out weakness—and unraveled it completely.
Yet, it was still a far cry from what they desired.
The lead scientist exhaled, regaining his composure.
"Tear him apart. Extract the core sample."
A long silence filled the room.
Then—
The subject, still kneeling, lowered his head slightly.
A gesture of submission.
A sign of obedience.
The lead scientist smirked.
Perhaps this one knew his place.
And yet…
Something nagged at him.
Something about it unsettled him.
But no.
That would be impossible.
Wouldn't it?
The lead scientist let out a quiet hum of amusement, pushing the thought away.
"You will serve us, then. A prototype."
The subject said nothing.
He merely closed his fingers, letting the threads vanish.
And behind him, in the shadows, unseen by the researchers—
A single thin strand remained.
It curled ever so slightly—
Like a puppet master testing his strings.