Harke shifted uncomfortably, his fingers twisting the hem of his robe. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but... are you male or female? I c-can't quite tell."

  I paused, considering the question. Don't know, I projected carefully. Memories. Gone.

  His brow furrowed. "T-truly? All of it?"

  Most. I nodded. Remember. Pieces. Images. Words.

  "You don't even remember your own name?"

  No. The admission stung more than I expected. No Eyes. Works. For now. Until. Remember. Real one.

  "What do you r-remember?"

  Was human. Once. The words came slowly as I gathered my thoughts. Something. Happen. Woke up. In Dark. In Dirt. Clawed through. Dirt. Found way. Here.

  In halting, stilted words slowly projected into his own mind, I told him about my journey west: the battles with the dog-creatures, building my mechanical body, the tragic encounter with the travelers that revealed my monstrous nature. His eyes widened at each revelation, particularly when I described my invulnerable flesh.

  "F-fascinating," he breathed. "A human transformed into something new. The System itself labeled you as a unique species." He leaned forward. "If we ever g-g-get out of here, I'll help you discover who you were. There must be records, or people who knew you before..."

  My. Thanks. I smiled, forgetting for a moment how my razor-sharp teeth affected others. But this time Harke didn't flinch away. Instead, he smiled back.

  "We're both prisoners here," he said. "We should h-help each other."

  "I have to go," Harke said after a while. He stood up, brushing dirt off his robes. "As camp healer, I have v-various duties I must perform. I'll try to return before d-d-dark, though."

  Harke's footsteps faded as he left the shed. The door creaked shut, leaving me alone in the dimness. Shafts of light pierced through gaps in the wooden walls, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air.

  I felt exposed, vulnerable with just my head, partial torso, and single arm. The urge to cover myself, to build something to protect my damaged form, grew stronger with each passing moment.

  I surveyed my prison. Broken crates lined the walls, their wood splintered and weathered. Scraps of cloth, frayed rope, and rusted nails littered the dirt floor. Not much to work with, but perhaps enough.

  My gaze fixed on a particularly sturdy-looking crate. I activated Assembly and felt the familiar tingle of power. The wood began to splinter and break apart under my will, nails pulling free with metallic pops. Scraps of cloth and lengths of twine were all collected together, and I assessed each piece for usefulness. I gathered the material, then let my power guide me into shaping them.

  The work was slower than usual. Each piece had to be precisely fitted, every nail and scrap of cloth used to maximum effect. I wove strips of cloth between wooden supports, creating flexible joints. The nails I bent and shaped into crude pins and fasteners. Bit by bit, a skeletal arm took form. It was nowhere near as sophisticated as my previous work, but it was functional.

  After what felt like hours, I attached the finished limb onto my right shoulder, the mental tendrils from before moving out from the ragged, red flesh and into the newly constructed prothesis. Once I gained full control of the machine, I began to test it. The wood creaked as I flexed the crude elbow joint. The fingers were little more than sticks bound together with twine, but they moved when I concentrated.

  Using both arms, I pushed against the dirt floor. My body scraped upward along the rough wall until I achieved a seated position. The new wooden arm trembled under my weight, but held. I settled myself, finally able to rest somewhat upright instead of lying helpless on my back.

  I flexed my newly crafted fingers, watching the twine tighten and loosen. The arm was weak, barely more than kindling held together with strings and hope. But it was something. A start.

  Now I just had to start assembling the rest of my body.

  The wooden arm, crude as it was, gave me enough leverage to continue my work. I gathered more materials, pulling them closer with my makeshift fingers. The shed held enough scattered debris: more broken crates, canvas scraps, and bits of metal that had fallen from old tools.

  My power flowed through these materials. Wood splintered and reformed under my will. I shaped curved panels, fitting them together like pieces of a puzzle around my damaged torso. The work was delicate as each piece had to protect the raw, exposed flesh on my body without pressing against it.

  Canvas strips woven between wooden segments created flexible joints, allowing me to twist and bend. I reinforced vital areas with metal strips salvaged from broken tool handles and rusty brackets. The construction grew piece by piece, encompassing my form in a protective shell.

  The wooden panels creaked as they settled into place. I adjusted the fit, ensuring nothing rubbed against the sensitive red tissue where my body ended. The makeshift armor was far from perfect; gaps showed between poorly fitted sections, and the whole thing squeaked with every movement. But it served its purpose. My ruined flesh was finally shielded from the air and dirt.

  I ran my original hand over the rough surface, testing each joint and connection. The wood was weathered, the metal corroded, but it held together. For the first time since my capture, I felt less exposed, less vulnerable. The crude covering wouldn't stop a determined attack, but it gave me back a small measure of dignity.

  A familiar blue glow filled my vision as I finished adjusting the wooden panels.

  I paused, my hand still resting on the crude armor. That was unexpected - I'd thought experience only came from combat. My curiosity piqued, I focused on bringing up my status screen.

  Strange. Unlike other level-ups, only my Intelligence and Wisdom stats gained points. Also, Intelligence had gained two points instead of the usual one I gained during a level gain. What did that mean? I resolved to ask Harke about it when he returned.

  My gaze lingered on the title "Original." I still didn't understand what made me the first of my kind, or why being a Dirtborn warranted such a designation. The term itself also felt wrong somehow, like an ill-fitting garment. I wasn't sure why this was. Perhaps it was the fact that I had memories of being human, a sapien? That would make sense, though something about that felt wrong as well.

  There were so many mysteries about myself that I needed to get answers to. How did I become a monster? Why was I buried so deeply beneath the earth? Why did I have all these strange abilities? And most importantly, just who was I?

  The mystical blue box in front of me refused to answer, as if mocking all my concerns.

  Hours passed in the dim shed before the door creaked open. Harke stepped inside, and to my surprise, Mallie followed behind him. Both stopped short at the sight of my transformed appearance.

  "You've b-been busy." Harke remarked with a smile, his eyes tracing the wooden panels and canvas joints of my new coverings.

  I shrugged, the motion now smooth with a pair of shoulders. The crude arm wasn't perfect, but it let me move naturally again.

  Mallie? Here? I directed the thoughts toward Harke.

  Mallie's bright eyes studied me with open curiosity rather than fear. Unlike the other children who shrank away from my cage, she showed no sign of being bothered by my monstrous appearance.

  "I managed to c-convince Belmund that I needed help with all my duties." Harke placed a steadying hand on Mallie's shoulder. "He agreed to let her assist me, at least until the southern c-caravans arrive for the Weath captives."

  My wooden fingers curled into a fist at the mention of the slavers' plans. The thought of these children being sold and shipped away like cattle made something twist inside my damaged chest.

  "He made a new arm!" Mallie pointed, her gap-toothed smile showing no trace of the horror most felt upon seeing me. "And look at all the armor! Did you build that yourself? How did you do it?"

  Yes. I answered her questions through Mind Speech, sending my whispery voice into her thoughts. Have. Ability.

  Her eyes widened at the voice in her head. "Wow, you can talk now!" The girl rushed over to me and sat down next to my half-built body. "You're amazing. Can you make other things too? Like toys or tools or-"

  "Mallie," Harke interrupted gently. "R-remember what we discussed about being careful?"

  She nodded, though her enthusiasm barely dimmed. "Right. Sorry. But it's just so interesting! The other kids think you're scary, but I knew you weren't really a monster. Well, I mean, maybe you are technically, but not a bad one."

  Her guileless acceptance stirred something in my fractured memories. A flash of another young face looking up at me with trust. But like all such fragments, it slipped away before I could grasp it.

  Mallie's gaze drifted to the untouched platter near the wall. "Aren't you hungry?"

  I shook my head no. Don't need. To eat. Or drink. I projected the thoughts to Mallie first, then Harke.

  Harke leaned forward, his healer's curiosity evident. "Fascinating. C-complete metabolic self-sufficiency? I've never encountered anything like it, even among magical constructs."

  "What? But that's terrible!" Mallie's face scrunched up in horror. "You can't eat anything? Not even meat pies or sweet bread with honey?"

  A musical chime escaped me, my version of laughter. The sound rang through the shed like tiny bells.

  Remember. Eating. When human. Before.

  "You were human before?" Mallie scooted closer, her green eyes wide. "What happened?"

  I shrugged, telling her I didn't know. The admission tasted bitter. Remember. Liking food. Sweet things. Cake. Chocolates. Sugar candies.

  Mallie's face lit up. "You must have been really rich! Only fancy folk get to eat sweets like that. Even the baker in Weath only made sweet bread for special occasions."

  Her words struck something in me. She was right; sugar, chocolate, these weren't common foods. I strained against the fog in my mind, trying to recall more details. Had I lived in a manor? A castle? Images flickered: marble halls, gilded mirrors, servants bowing. But were these real memories or just imaginings sparked by Mallie's suggestion?

  Perhaps. I projected the thought carefully. Makes. Sense. Can't remember.

  "Oh! Maybe you were a merchant prince!" Mallie bounced excitedly. "Or a duke's daughter! Or-"

  "C-careful," Harke warned, glancing nervously at the door. "Not so loud."

  I flexed my wooden fingers, considering. The quality of those half-remembered sweets, the richness of the surroundings in those fleeting images; they spoke of wealth and privilege. Yet something felt off about that assumption. The memories carried a weight, a gravitas beyond mere noble luxury.

  Strange. I mused. Feel. Different. Other.

  "What do you mean?" Mallie whispered, leaning closer.

  I struggled to put the sensation into thoughts they could understand. See myself. Different. Standing. Above. Men kneel. Lords kneel. The memory slipped away as I tried to grasp it, leaving only that lingering sense of tremendous height and authority. Everyone. Kneel.

  "Like a king?" Mallie suggested in an awed voice.

  The word sent a jolt through me. King. Something about that word resonated, but not quite right. Not exactly wrong either. I shook my head in frustration as the fragments refused to coalesce into anything meaningful.

  Don't know. Can't hold. Memories. Keep sliding. Away.

  "That must be awful," Mallie said softly, her earlier excitement dimming to sympathy. "Not knowing who you were."

  She brightened suddenly. "Maybe when you get better, when you're fixed, you can eat again! Harke's really good at healing people."

  I chimed softly at her innocent optimism. Maybe.

  Though I doubted any healing could restore what I had lost. Whatever I was now, this broken thing caught between monster and memory, seemed permanent.

  "The metabolic independence could be related to your invulnerable flesh," Harke mused, scratching notes in his little book. "A form of perfect stasis, perhaps? Or maybe-"

  "Stop using big words," Mallie complained. "Just say if you can fix her or not."

  "I- wait." Harke's eyebrows shot up at Mallie's choice of words. "Her?"

  "Well, yeah." Mallie gestured at my face. "Look at those pretty features. The long black hair. She's obviously a lady."

  "That's not necessarily-" Harke tugged at his mustache. "Just because someone appears f-feminine doesn't mean they're female. He c-could be an effeminate man!"

  "Nope." Mallie crossed her arms with the absolute certainty only a child could muster. "No Eyes is definitely a girl."

  My musical chime filled the shed again. The debate over my gender struck me as absurdly entertaining, especially since I had no insight to offer either way. The fragments of memory held no clue about such matters.

  Does it. Matter? I projected to them both.

  "Of course it matters!" Mallie scooted even closer, her knees nearly touching my wooden arm. "If you're a girl, we can be friends and talk about girl things and I can braid your hair and-"

  "Mallie," Harke cut in gently. "Maybe we should let No Eyes decide?"

  I tilted my head, considering. The truth was, I felt no particular pull towards either gender. My body, what remained of it, seemed deliberately ambiguous.

  Don't know. Don't feel. Either.

  "Well, I'm deciding for you then!" Mallie declared. "You're a girl now. It'll be more fun that way."

  I chimed again, amused by her determination. What did it matter what pronouns this child used for me? I had far bigger concerns than gender, like escaping this camp, protecting these prisoners, discovering my past.

  I projected to her the mental equivalent of a shrug.

  Mallie beamed triumphantly at Harke. "See? She agrees with me."

  "I will maintain scientific objectivity on this matter," Harke huffed, adjusting his dirty robes. "The proper classification of No Eyes' biological nature requires thorough study and documentation. Until then, 'it' remains the appropriate term."

  Mallie rolled her eyes. "You're just being stubborn now."

  Harke's blanched at her words, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped his notebook tighter. The reaction seemed extreme for such a minor accusation.

  My chimes filled the shed again, the crystalline sound of my laughter making both of them pause. There was something endearing about their disagreement, about how strongly they each held onto their positions on a matter that meant little to me.

  But watching them, the captured healer maintaining his scholarly dignity even in chains and the bright-eyed farm girl refusing to let captivity dim her spirit, stirred something deep within my broken form. These weren't just slaves or prisoners. They were people, with hopes and dreams and the right to live freely.

  Will help, I projected to them both. Both you. Get free.

  "Really?" Mallie's eyes lit up with hope.

  Yes. Promise. Will save. Everyone. Can.

  The certainty of this decision settled into me like molten steel cooling into shape. Whatever I had been before, king, noble, or merchant, didn't matter now. What mattered was that I knew, with unshakeable conviction, that humans *deserved *freedom. Not just these two, but all the captives in this cursed camp. Even my shattered memories told me as much.

  My wooden fingers flexed as I imagined tearing down the slave pens. The memory gaps in my mind might never fill, but this one truth stood clear: I would not let these people be sold like cattle.

  "That's..." Harke swallowed hard, glancing nervously at the door. "That's a d-dangerous promise to make."

  *Don't care. *

  "See?" Mallie grinned. "I told you she was good."

  PATREON!