Metal

Stephen lay in his bed, his breaths shallow and quick, a sheen of sweat slicking his skin. The air in his room felt stifling, heavier than the usual stuffiness of a spring night. His body radiated heat, an unnatural warmth that seeped from his core, as if a furnace had ignited within him. He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead, expecting the clammy chill of a fever, but found only a dry, scorching surface. Oddly, he didn’t feel ill—no nausea, no weakness. Instead, a strange vigor pulsed through him, a vitality he hadn’t known since before the accident. His muscles hummed with latent energy, like a coiled spring ready to release.

Then, a faint twitch caught his attention. His big toe—moved. He felt it, a deliberate curl that sent a jolt of sensation up his leg. “No fucking way,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, laced with disbelief and a flicker of hope. He stared at his feet, willing the toe to move again. It did, joined by its neighbors, each wiggle a tiny miracle that defied years of numbness. His heart pounded, not with fear, but with a wild, reckless excitement. The heat intensified, a deep, thrumming warmth that seemed to knit his body together, cell by cell. It was as if his very nerves were reawakening, stitching pathways long severed.

A sudden itch flared along his spine, sharp and insistent, like a thousand tiny needles pricking his skin. Instinctively, Stephen reached back, but the motion felt different—easier. Bracing himself with his right hand, he pushed against the mattress and sat up, his torso rising with a strength he hadn’t possessed in years. The movement was so fluid it startled him, but before he could process it, a metallic clank rang out, sharp against the quiet of the night. Something hard had struck the bedframe. Frowning, he steadied himself with his right arm and reached back with his left, fingers brushing against something cold and unyielding. He grasped it and pulled, his breath catching as he brought the object into view.

It was grotesque, absurd, and utterly impossible: a titanium rod, glinting faintly in the dim light, accompanied by a scattering of screws—eight in total. The hardware that had once braced his shattered spine, surgically implanted to hold him together, now lay in his hand, expelled from his body like unwanted debris. His skin bore no fresh wounds, no blood, just a faint redness where the itching had been. Stephen stared at the twisted metal, a laugh bubbling up from his chest, equal parts disbelief and dark amusement. “How the fuck is this possible?” he muttered, turning the rod over in his hand, its weight both foreign and familiar.

Then it hit him, a realization as sharp as the clang of metal: the dream hadn’t been a dream. Quorathal, the wheel, the word Regeneration—it was real. The heat, the movement, the expulsion of the titanium—it was all part of the superhuman trait bestowed upon him. His body was rebuilding itself, casting out the artificial and restoring what had been lost. For the first time since the fall, Stephen felt not just hope, but power, coursing through him like a river breaking free of its dam. Whatever this cosmic contest was, it had chosen him, and he was no longer bound by the limitations of his past.

Stephen’s laughter faded, replaced by a rush of giddy excitement that made his heart race. He clutched the expelled titanium rod, its cold surface grounding him in the surreal reality of his newfound ability. His toes wiggled again, almost playfully, as if mocking the years he’d spent yearning for such a simple act. But the thrill was tempered by a creeping unease. “A war of the worlds?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s realms…” The word hung heavy in the air, conjuring images of alien landscapes and unimaginable battles. Quorathal’s words echoed in his mind—realms competing, only one surviving. The scale of it was dizzying, and a flicker of fear tightened his chest. What did it mean to fight for his world? And what was Regeneration truly capable of?

He eased back onto the bed, the mattress creaking softly under his weight. The heat in his body had subsided to a gentle warmth, like embers glowing after a fire. Staring at the ceiling, he began to dissect the god’s cryptic message. Realms, traits, boons—what were the rules of this cosmic game? How many others were out there, spinning their own wheels, gaining their own powers? His mind churned with questions, each one spawning a dozen more. Just as he tried to focus, a faint shimmer disrupted the darkness of his room. A translucent window materialized before his eyes, hovering like a hologram, its edges faintly glowing with a soft blue light. Words scrolled across its surface in crisp, white text, as if typed by an invisible hand.

“Congratulations on your unique ability,” the message read. “I am ‘The System,’ created to facilitate and guide participants in the Realm Contest. If you have any questions, I am here to assist.” The words lingered for a moment, formal yet oddly welcoming, before new text appeared. “Let’s get started on the basics, shall we?” Below the prompt, two options pulsed gently: Yes or No, each word framed by a faint outline, waiting for his response.

Stephen blinked, his breath catching. The System? It was like something out of a video game, yet here it was, floating in his bedroom, as real as the screws scattered on his sheets. His fear mingled with curiosity, the weight of the unknown pressing against the spark of possibility. He stared at the window, its glow casting faint reflections on his walls. This was his chance to understand—to grasp what Regeneration meant, what the contest demanded, and what role he was meant to play. His hand twitched, itching to reach out, though he wasn’t sure if he needed to touch the screen or simply speak. The choice loomed, simple yet monumental, a doorway to answers or a step into the abyss.