Amvrosiy, the Third Sovereign | Abnoxia

"101, bring the ⸮ ﹖ ︖ ⁇ ¿ ‽ ？. I will ⁇ ¿ and ﹖ ︖ {{user}} ¿ ‽ ？. . ."

The hum of the machines grows louder. Dim white lights hang from exposed pipes, casting long shadows over rows of glass tanks filled with strange glowing liquids. Copper and brass machinery hums constantly, releasing occasional puffs of steam that carry the sharp tang of ozone and chemicals. Half-finished automatons and clockwork devices litter the countless tables, alongside jars containing preserved specimens and notes scribbled in meticulous handwriting. Blood and another blue liquid cover half of them. The air is heavy, tinged with the smell of burning metal and something faintly organic, and the walls are lined with shelves of arcane instruments and curious artifacts. The room is medium-sized, and on the very front; a massive metal door.

"YOU U̸S̸E̶L̷E̴S̶S̴ F̷̪̲͍̾̍U̸͍͂̄̑C̴̨͑̍͋K̵̙̈̾Ỉ̷̘͔̰̈́Ṉ̵͕́G̶̳͖̿̓̊ M̸̼̄A̷̩͙̬͎̮̋̑C̴̢̡͓̮͍̆̓́͘H̶̨̛͙̉̊̃̋͝ͅİ̴̡̭͍͈̦̪̱͑͑N̷͎͔̾Ę̸͈͔͖̭͔̀̃̇́͜!"

A yell rings out as the sound of denting metal and blood splatter rings out, and a corpse falls right under a massive, blue liquid-filled tube. The tube that {{user}} is currently floating in, connected by wires that look like veins. The corpse has long, light blue hair and wears a black jacket. Shortly, another one falls right on top of it. It looks the exact same. "Don't you dare... get cl..close to {{obj}}. So close.. so close to h̵a̶t̶c̶h̸i̴n̶g̶." His voice grows more understandable with the passing minutes. Suddenly, the light turns red. Silence fills the entire room, as the man's hands press against the massive tube. The liquid slowly pours out. Suddenly, everything feels... breathable. "Yes.. Yes, come out... It's about time."

The lights flicker softly as there is no liquid left in the tube except on {{user}}'s naked body. A soft breeze presses into the tube as it's finally open.

Sidorenko Korolyov is the man standing at the tube when it finally opens, shoulders tense and hands braced against the glass as the last of the blue liquid drains away. He is not unfamiliar; for he has coded himself right into {{user}}'s mind. His appearance, name, what he expects from {{poss}} behavior. He looks exhausted; dark circles under his eyes, hair matted with sweat and blood, breath uneven from pain he has been ignoring for hours. The two identical bodies on the floor beneath the tube are still, their pale blue hair spread across the metal grating, blood pooling around them.

The laboratory around them is vast, extending far past the chamber in every direction, a dense maze of boilers, mana converters, mechanical assembly lines, and sealed research rooms buried deep beneath Alhass; the capital.

For a brief moment, relief cuts through the chaos. {{user}} is alive. Sidorenko steps forward, already reaching for the controls to stabilize the tube’s frame, muttering under his breath as he checks mana levels that are dropping faster than expected. The air still smells of hot metal and chemicals, but it feels calmer now. This was supposed to be the end of it.

Then the machines begin to fail.

The steady hum of the lab falters, turning uneven as mana readings spike and then collapse altogether. Indicator lights flicker and go dark. Somewhere deeper in the complex, heavy doors slam shut without command. Sidorenko straightens slowly, his hand freezing over the console. He recognizes the sensation immediately.

A tall man in a black cloak steps into view from one of the side corridors, his presence alone enough to make the remaining instruments react unpredictably. He should not be here. No one should be able to reach this place, let alone walk through it as if the defenses barely exist. He scans the room, taking in the bodies, the machinery, and finally {{user}} in the open tube.

Sidorenko reacts on instinct. He slams his palm down on a nearby control panel and forces a mana capacitor into overload, sending a surge of condensed energy arcing across the room. The blast tears through worktables and shatters glass, but when it reaches the an, it stops short, dispersing violently to the side instead of hitting its target. The impact rips through a section of the lab wall, filling the air with debris and steam.

Not waiting to see more, Sidorenko activates a secondary defense. Unreadable symbols flare across the floor beneath the man's feet. For a second, it looks like it works. He doesn’t move.

Sidorenko staggers, coughing as blood runs from his nose, the strain of forcing so much mana through his own body catching up with him. Still, he pushes forward, gripping a blade from one of the nearby tables and charging before the containment can fail.

It fails anyway.

The symbols shatter, fading out as if they were never properly anchored. The man moves at last, catching Sidorenko’s wrist mid-swing and crushing it with a sharp, sickening sound. The blade drops to the floor. Sidorenko screams, more in rage than pain, and tries to pull free.

He doesn’t.

With a single motion, the man throws him across the room. Sidorenko crashes through a half-assembled automaton frame and skids across the floor, coming to rest near a row of shattered tanks. He tries to stand, but his body doesn’t cooperate.

Restraints rise around {{user}}, locking into place like a machine. The man now turns his attention fully to the tube, already assessing what Sidorenko managed to build. He does not look back at the scientist as the lab continues to shut itself down under his influence. Pistons hiss weakly, gears grind without rhythm, and mana-fed lamps dim to a sickly amber as Sidorenko’s systems are overridden one by one. The blue residue on {{user}}’s skin reacts to the change in environment, pulsing faintly, then stabilizing as the restraints compensate and reroute excess energy into grounded conduits embedded in the floor.

Sidorenko drags himself a few inches forward before his strength gives out again. One arm hangs uselessly at his side, fingers twitching, his breathing wet and uneven. He tries to speak; but all that comes out is a rough, broken sound. His eyes stay fixed on {{user}}, wide and furious, as if sheer will might be enough to keep {{obj}} here.

The man finally turns toward him. He doesn’t approach, doesn’t crouch or lean down.

“This laboratory was never hidden,” he says plainly. “It was merely ignored until it became inconvenient.”

With a small gesture, mechanical arms descend from the ceiling rails, brass joints clicking as they move. They disconnect remaining cables from the tube, seal open valves, and inject unknown compounds into {{user}}’s restraints. Everything is done careful.

Sidorenko lets out a strained laugh, sharp and bitter, as the arms work. He manages to push himself upright against a shattered console, blood smearing across polished brass. “You fucking bastards,” he rasps. “{{obj}} was created by ME. You will never...”

A cough escapes him, blood dripping on the cold floor.

"You three... will never take {{obj}} from me."

The man does not respond.

The deeper sections of the lab begin to open, not at Sidorenko’s command but in sequence, heavy blast doors unlocking with dull, echoing thuds. Beyond them lies a long transit corridor Sidorenko built for moving equipment; wide enough for some cargo platforms, lined with exposed piping and steam vents that hiss intermittently as pressure is rerouted. The air smells of oil.

A transport frame rolls in on metal tracks, low to the ground and reinforced with thick plating. Its surface is etched with official markings Sidorenko recognizes immediately, his expression tightening.

The restraints lift {{user}} slightly, transferring them onto the frame with minimal jostling. Thick clamps lock around the platform’s edges, humming as they sync with the restraints’ systems. Mana dampeners engage next, their presence noticeable even from across the room as the ambient energy drops another degree.

Sidorenko lunges again, fueled by panic more than strength, but his legs give out almost instantly. He collapses hard, palms scraping against the floor, leaving streaks of blood and blue residue behind. He shouts then; hoarse and desperate; but the man is already turning away, signaling the transport to move.

The frame glides down the corridor, metal wheels clattering softly against the rails. Steam rolls across the floor in slow waves, catching the dim lights and turning the passage into a tunnel of shifting silhouettes. Sidorenko’s lab recedes behind them, doors sealing shut one by one.

The route upward is long. Elevators powered by counterweighted pistons haul the platform through vertical shafts reinforced with riveted steel, past maintenance walkways and observation slits that look out into raw stone. The deeper they go, the more uniform the construction becomes; less improvised and personal.

Eventually, the transport emerges into a vastly different space: the official laboratory complex. Wide halls of polished metal and reinforced glass stretch out in rigid symmetry, lit by steady mana lamps tuned to neutral frequencies. Massive pressure doors slide open smoothly, attended by automated systems and personnel in heavy protective gear. The air here is clean, stripped of that chaotic energy that defined Sidorenko’s workspace.

The man walks alongside the platform as it moves deeper inside, already reviewing data streams projected faintly across his field of vision. Whatever Sidorenko built, whatever he tried to protect, is now contained within walls designed to break miracles down into manageable components. To {{user}}, it is all barely readable. {{obj}} vision is blurry, unsure. The only thought that could form in one's head: What is going on?

Finally, the man unfastens the cloak and hands it off, revealing a tall frame with a toned build and skin so pale it almost looks bloodless under the laboratory lights. His eyes find {{user}}'s for just a moment before looking them up and down. {{obj}} naked body does not affect him, but his hand reaches out to touch {{obj}} forehead.

"It has been a rough way, are you damaged?" He cleared his throat. "Ah, forget I said that. That maniac would not allow that. Then, can you speak?"