Chapter 157: Teklavit: New Hope

The man covered in white cloth was having a thick accent. Coincidentally the same accent as Teklavit have. Words wear spoken clear, strong, and precise. He then left.

Teklavit followed. For one last time, he threw a solemn looked at the scarred man and the Northern guy. "So long," he muttered. "Isashil guide you."

The passage was white. No doors, just long and winding passage. The crystalline bulb shone white as well. Aside from one or two, the rest of the bulb didn't flicker. The smell was alcohol, sweet and demanding, and refreshing.

Teklavit followed the man in all white. Hand crossed his chest, preventing his steps to reconnect the pain. He glared up and down. The ceiling, the wall, the floor—even the floor was white. He squinted his eyes, now that it was clear. Teklavit felt his vision blurred to his left. He touched his eye, it was swollen. He hissed together with the pain. He smiled.

It was a long walk. After a series of passages, Teklavit saw the first door after they left their room. Sleek, silver, and heavy. It looked heavy. The man in white pushed the steel door. It hissed, then went quiet. The silence was eerie. Teklavit felt a chill ran down his spine. Not now, he thought. It's too late to go back. He followed the man in white and entered the room.

The same as the passage, the room was white. Teklavit gawked at the cleanliness of the room. No speck of black dot on the floor, now even dust. His late mother would scold him bringing his soggy feet. He was accustomed to it. No shoes, barely clothing, and less food. He was accustomed. Yes, it was hope that kept him going.

The man in white bowed. Teklavit frowned. Why would he bow at the wall? Yet, looking at the wall, Teklavit felt someone was looking at the back. Behind the thick wall, there must be someone. He shook his head. Seven men, covered in white, stood in a perfect line looking at him. They bowed to Teklavit and the gestured stunned him. Why? Why would they bow to a farmer? He who got nothing. Why?

Then, the scene behind the standing white men even stunned him more. He walked toward the center of the white room. The men in white gave way to Teklavit like a noble passing, but he didn't saw their gesture. What he saw were three identical cylindrical glasses.

Thick glasses, fixed on a metal thing. At six, It stood almost the same high as him. He circled the glasses, breath condensed at the rim. The three glasses were identical, yes. Even the green murky liquid bubbled almost the same. But not what was inside.

A lump of meat throbbing like a heart. It wasn't connected to any tubes, but it beat. Like alive. Could it be? Teklavit thought. He looked at the white men and back at the throbbing lump of meat. The meat was covered in thorns, looked like skeletal thorns. It shone white as Teklavit moved even closer to it. His face felt cold touching the glass. Then he spun and moved to the other cylindrical glass. The lump of meat was different, it was glistening with green light and it was pure. It thumped very faintly, like sleeping.

He then crouched, writing was written in thin metal, but Teklavit was unable to read the label. He was a farmer, no education. None would teach him how to read or write. Simply because all his villagers don't know how to do both.

He looked at the men in white, he expected an explanation—None he got. He sighed and moved to the last glass behind him. It was... Dead? It thumps as Teklavit leaned closer, and thumped again. Then crack. The meat was cracking while thumping. He felt an eerie feeling looking at the cracking meat.

One of the men approached Teklavit and gestured toward a bed. A steel bed, like the room: clean and glossy, the bed was the same. Besides the metal bed were machines Teklavit couldn't understand. Tubes ran in and out of the machine, one of it vibrated and spew liquid at the tube. Inside one of the rectangular machine was a stone. It lit blue.

The man in white gestured Teklavit to undress his clothing. Like he needed it, with all the torn clothes, and holes, he looked almost naked. Without a second thought, Teklavit undresses all his clothing. Swollen eye, swollen chest, bluish limbs, and wounded legs. Some of his nails were taken out. Blood dried on the old wound. Yet, Teklavit smiled. And moved to lay against the bed.

White light shone from above. The ceiling was white. The men were white. Everything was white, except for him and the green murky glasses. Soiled clothes were thrown by one of the men. Then they moved back to the wall and bowed. Seven bowed all at the same time. Then the wall spoke—or whoever behind the wall spoke. It was calm and dignified.

"Is that him?" The man behind the wall said. His voice echoed in the white room. Like a roar followed by a boom in a quick stop.

One of the men retracted from bowing, the rest remained bent. "Yes, Lord Ferel," the man in the white, in the middle, said.

"Proceed," the man behind the wall said. They called him Ferel. Teklavit thought, what a name for a man of empire. He smiled.

The rest of the men walked with careful footing toward Teklavit. Three of the men circled him. And as always, they pulled brown leather straps under the steel bed. They then tied Teklavit with the strap. Blood strangled his wrists, his forehead, and feet against the pressing strap.

One of the men returned with a piece of paper clipped in a hard piece of wood "Name: Teklavit. This was his fourth month and will be his last. Longest remained awake was four days." The man nodded to the man beside him and left.

Minute of two, the man returned with the cylindrical glass. He wheeled it right next to Teklavit. It was the glass with the soft thumping lump of meat. It was a pure one.

"Core twenty-eight," the men with the paper said. With a strange quill, he scratched something on the paper. "Core from an elf. Aged around one hundred to one-hundred-fifty." The men then nodded to the rest.

Teklavit was naked, yet he didn't feel cold. He closed his eyes ruining the scene of white that turned dark.

"Yes," he muttered and thought. This is what I want. People create fire, people blew the wind out of nothing, spawn magical beast with a gesture of a hand. Yes, I envy them. For I don't have it. I don't have it. My people called me a clown. No man could create fire out of nothing. No man could create waves in thin air. It was pure nonsense—No. Not anymore. I am what the people called a Hollow. But not anymore—not anymore. After this. I will become one with the Maker. The Core, as what they called, will be me.