Dominic Solari didn't remember collapsing.
But he remembered the cold.
It clung to him like a second skin the moment he woke, a sterile chill that reeked of antiseptic and steel. The room was dimly lit, a faint blue hue pulsing along the ceiling—bio-lights powered by filtered beast core residue. The walls were thick, reinforced, and seamless, humming faintly with low-frequency pulses designed to keep out ambient Realm interference. Even the air tasted synthetic—cleaner than it should be.
A low chime echoed softly.
Name: Dominic Solari
Power Level: Dormant
Stats: STR 17 | AGI 15 | END 18 |
Absorption:
Feral Tier — 100%
Dire Tier — 0%
Genetic Mutation: ACTIVE
Source: Unknown Energy Signature
Effect: Cellular restructuring, neural expansion, removal of potential limiters
Result: Evolution potential increased. External mutation observed. Mutation removed after first evolution.
Excess stat point: 3
[ VITALS STABLE]
Dominic squinted at the soft UI flickering just above his vision. The words hovered like faint glass etched in the air. Not everyone could see theirs like this—most needed neural taps or projection panels. But Dominic's came instinctively. Ever since the mutation.
The heavens favors the genius—free stats, probably a glitch in the system.
Assign it to agility before it disappears...
Wait—where is my intelligence stat? Did my intelligence degrade?!
—While still brooding.
A shadow loomed over him.
"He's awake," came a voice. Female. Flat, professional. "And you owe me a new set of lungs, kid. That stench might've traumatized my immune system."
Dominic blinked, eyes focusing. A Federation medic stood at the foot of his cot, arms crossed, respirator mask hanging loose from her neck. Her eyes were tired. He couldn't tell if it was from stress or his personal contribution to air pollution.
"Sorry," he croaked. "Beast gland. Veilroot. Swamp... stew."
She didn't laugh. "No shit. You caused a biohazard panic. We had to sterilize the whole hallway. Twice."
He coughed, sitting up slowly. Muscles screamed. His skin felt like it had been peeled and glued back by a drunken butcher.
"I'm... still in the Stronghold?"
She nodded. "Stronghold-17: Karthun. Edge of Dormant Sector Seven. Lucky your body didn't melt in that concoction. We had to dump your clothes. Burned them, actually."
"Tragic loss," Dominic muttered.
"Don't be cute. You nearly died. Twice. You've got traces of genetic override in your bloodstream. Looks like a mutation. How rare."
Dominic's blood ran cold.
"That's... not supposed to happen unless—"
"—Unless you do something stupid. Like bathe in beast fluids and mix it with veilroot." She raised an eyebrow. "So. You gonna tell me how you're still breathing?"
He gave her a half-smile. "Accidental genius."
She sighed, tapped something on a glass-like tablet—manual interface, bio-nano readable only—and walked off. "You've got three hours. Then you're getting kicked back to the civilized world. Don't stink up the Realm again, Cadet Solari."
The showers were located in the lower section of the Stronghold. Reinforced ceramic-plated walls, scent scrubbers, and ozone blast rinsers all lined the sealed decontamination zone. It took an hour—three full cycles—to get the stench out of his pores.
Each blast of steam stung like acid, but he didn't complain. He needed it. Badly.
His thoughts wandered in the silence: the chase, the beasts, the forest's whispers, and that moment when the pack ran from him.
It wasn't luck. It wasn't skill.
His body was changing.
He stepped out of the chamber, skin red and raw, muscles taut like drawn cords. A uniform had been laid out—simple grey cadet attire, fresh boots, reinforced gloves. He dressed slowly, wincing at every motion. A single swipe of his palm across the terminal opened the chamber doors.
—
The teleporter wasn't much to look at. A simple raised platform built into the center of a dome-shaped room. No flashing lights. No humming cores. Just a single crystalline node above the platform glowing with quiet intensity.
A lone technician stood by a side console, tapping coordinates into a curved panel. He looked up as Dominic entered.
"You're late. Thought you passed out again."
"I did."
The tech gave a dry chuckle. "Figures. Got your home sector on file. Central District—Terros Mainline. Everything's set. Step on and don't puke."
Dominic stared at the platform, heart tightening.
Home.
He exhaled and stepped into the beam.
The crystalline node above flickered once—then surged with pale, pulsing light. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to vanish. No sound. No feeling. Just that flicker of displacement, like slipping between the spaces of reality.
Then came the whiplash.
Light slammed into Dominic's eyes, his stomach lurched, and suddenly—he was standing on a similar platform in an open plaza nestled in the middle of a residential dome. The air here was fresh—filtered, clean, and so full of warmth it made his knees buckle.
Terros Mainline.
A sweeping biodome stretched overhead, simulating soft daylight even though it was probably dusk outside. Gentle wind from circulation vents carried the scent of home-cooked meals, fresh soil, and blooming shuttlegrass trees—an invasive species turned urban decoration. The sound of children playing, voices chattering, distant hum of trams and irrigation systems. The real world.
Dominic staggered off the platform, dazed.
He looked like a mess—uniform scorched, boots torn, hair matted with dried beast fluids. His stench had been mostly neutralized by the decontamination wash, but some foul echo still clung to him, like a warning label life forgot to peel off.
A pair of civilians nearby slowed as they passed, noses wrinkling.
"Ugh, what is that smell—?"
"Hey—hey, is that… is that a cadet?"
Dominic ignored them, eyes sweeping across the familiar row houses lining the dome's inner curve. One of them—third from the corner, red-paneled window shutters—home.
He broke into a limp-jog.
Each step felt heavier than the last, memories crashing in with every stride.
—His previous life before transmigration.
—The night of this body before the teleportation, his mom hugging him so tight he thought he'd snap.
—His little sister chasing him around the dome because he stole her synth-berry tart.
—The promise he made when he left: "I'll be back before you blink."
He'd been gone for a months.
Dominic skidded to a stop before the door. He didn't knock. His hands were trembling too much.
So he just raised his fist.
The door slid open before he could touch it.
A woman stood in the frame. Slender. Dark hair tied in a messy bun. The soft lines of her face carved deeper by exhaustion. But her eyes—those wide, brown eyes—locked onto his face.
She didn't say a word.
Dominic's throat tightened. "...Hi, Mom."
She didn't hesitate.
One second she was still. The next, she'd pulled him into a crushing hug, arms locked tight around his shoulders.
"You're real," she whispered. "You're really—Dominic, you're—!"
A shrill voice shrieked from inside. "EWWWW! HE SMELLS LIKE DEAD SNAIL JUICE!"
Dominic managed a laugh as his little sister ran out, her tiny form colliding into his side even as she held her nose.
"I knew you weren't dead," she said proudly. "I told Mom you'd come back. You smell like poop though."
"I missed you too, Zella," Dominic croaked, tears sliding down despite the grin.
His mother pulled back just enough to cup his face. "What did they do to you?"
He tried to answer—he really did—but the knot in his chest broke open. All the fear, the silence, the pain, the Transmigration, the nights alone with death pressing at his back… it collapsed into a sob as he leaned into her shoulder.
And for the first time since entering this world, he let himself be a boy again.
Home.
The house smelled of spiced root broth and fresh synth-wheat loaves—real food, not nutrient paste.
Dominic barely made it two steps in before Zella shoved him toward the bathroom.
"No mutant hugs 'til you bathe! Mom's rules!" she declared, arms crossed like a mini enforcer.
"I literally just got sprayed down in a government chamber," he protested.
His mom's voice came from the kitchen: "That wasn't a real bath, and you reek of gene residue."
Dominic groaned and dragged himself into the compact washroom. The moment the door sealed, the environmental scrubs kicked on—warm jets, molecular cleansers, and mineral-rich steam.
He leaned against the wall, letting the heat strip away everything.
Blood.
Sweat.
Fear.
And whatever chemical cocktail that beast gland mix had turned into.
Maybe next time, he thought, don't marinate yourself in beasts pheromones.
By the time he emerged, fresh-clothed and scrubbed, his room looked exactly how the body—he left it. Posters of Federation heroes. His collection of old terra-mining chips. Zella's handmade "Do Not Touch My Stuff" warning still taped to the footlocker.
He collapsed onto the bed with a groan.
I really have to stop thinking this way.
Dominic Manon is gone.
I am Dominic Solaris.
Not five seconds later, a tiny figure crept through the door.
Zella.
Holding a long, thin device that looked suspiciously like a med-scanner toy from a cereal box.
She poked his leg.
"What are you doing?" Dominic muttered, not even opening his eyes.
"Scanning for tails."
He cracked an eye open. "What."
"You came from the Dormant Realm. There are rumors, you know. People mutating. Growing extra arms. Tails."
"You're the only mutant here, besides that condition is rare." he said, grabbing her and pulling her into a noogie.
She squealed, giggling, trying to squirm free. "Mom! Dom's bullying me!"
"I'm decontaminating you," he said solemnly. "This is a certified Federation procedure."
An hour later, as Dominic sat cross-legged on the couch, sipping soup, the door chimed—