Chapter 248 - Prosthetic arm

Bian’s eyelids fluttered, lashes twitching against the sterile air. Slowly, hesitantly, his eyes opened to the familiar softness of a Farian medical bay ceiling—brilliant white, yet diffused so it never hurt the eyes. The light above him hummed faintly, casting a gentle halo over everything.For a moment, he couldn’t move.

Then the warmth registered.

His right hand was being held—firm, steady, fingers interlocked with another’s. Dican’s hand. He recognized it without needing to look. The rough pads of the thumb, the faint tremble of worry in the grip—it grounded him in a way nothing else could.

But when he turned his gaze down to his left...

His breath caught.

Where his arm should’ve been was now a sleek, metallic limb—silver and black, intricate with glowing lines that pulsed like veins under the plating. It was attached at the bicep, perfectly fitted, with barely a seam where flesh met machine. The artificial hand rested on the white sheets, fingers relaxed and still.

He stared at it silently.

Then, with care, he curled the fingers in.

They moved fluidly, like flesh.

Click.

Click.

Each movement emitted a subtle mechanical tick—quiet, but impossible to miss. It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t awkward. It worked.

But it wasn’t his arm.

"Bian..." came Dican’s voice—a fragile whisper, thick with restrained emotion.

He looked over.

Dican was seated beside him, eyes ringed with sleepless hours, face pale but trying to stay calm. He leaned in, cupping Bian’s cheek with his free hand. The touch was tender, reverent.

"We tried everything," Dican said softly. "We couldn’t bring it back. It was... too damaged. Too much tissue loss, and neural links severed. I didn’t want you waking up with nothing, so—so I had the best mech engineers build this."

His thumb gently brushed Bian’s cheek.

"It’s designed to work just like your old arm. I didn’t want you to feel... lesser."

Bian blinked, absorbing every word. His body still felt like it was waking from underwater—numb, slow, and unsteady.

He shifted to sit up.

Dican moved quickly, sliding an arm behind his back and guiding him with extreme care. "Easy—don’t rush it. You’ve been under for two days."

Bian didn’t respond. He allowed himself to be helped, his torso rising as the pillows behind him were adjusted.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, feet dangling slightly. His left arm rested beside him on the mattress, gleaming under the ceiling light.

His eyes lowered again.

A thick metal rod framed the side of the bed, part of the built-in support. Slowly, Bian reached for it with his new hand. The cold tips of the prosthetic fingers curled around the rod.

And then—without effort—he clenched.

A sharp creak filled the air.

The thick rod bent like soft wire, warping visibly under the pressure. The sound of groaning metal echoed for a second before silence reclaimed the room.

Bian stared at what he’d done.

Then he laughed.

It began low—a rasping snort in his throat, like he couldn’t quite breathe. But it grew, rising into a sharp, choked laugh. The kind of laugh that echoed too loudly in sterile rooms. Hysterical. Bitter.

Tears spilled from his eyes as the laughter grew wilder.

He grinned madly, shoulders trembling, mouth curled into something between amusement and agony. The mechanical hand still clutched the bent bar, as if to prove itself worthy.

Dican flinched.

He reached out without hesitation, pulling Bian gently into his arms, cradling the back of his head as he whispered against his temple, "It’s okay. It’s okay, Bian. I’m here."

The sobs that came were raw. Not loud, but deep—like something ancient had broken loose from inside him. His laughter had died by now, buried under the waves of silent crying, tears streaking across Dican’s collarbone as the metal arm hung limply at his side.

Dican held him tighter.

"I’m sorry," he murmured over and over, his voice cracking. "I’m so sorry."

Bian didn’t respond. He clung to him like he was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality, a soul dangling on the edge of fury, grief, and despair.

No, the prosthetic would never replace what was lost.

But Dican would not let him face that loss alone.

After a while, the storm inside Bian began to ebb. The sobs slowed. His breathing steadied. He leaned against Dican’s chest, unmoving, his eyes open but distant. The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was heavy with aftershocks, the quiet hum of a mind recalibrating itself after breaking apart.

He sat back slowly, gently detaching himself from Dican’s embrace.

His face was pale, streaked with dried tears, but his expression was unreadable now—calm. Too calm.

He looked around the room, eyes trailing over the softly glowing medical panels, the unfamiliar walls, the steady pulse of faraway machinery.

"...Where are we?" he asked quietly.

Dican smiled and reached over to the side table. He poured a glass of water from a carafe and handed it to him with care. "We’re in the main fleet," he said, his voice lighter now, relieved. "One of the command cruisers, Tivaras. Fastest in the fleet. We were rescued just a while ago—maybe six hours? You’ve been unconscious for two days."

He pulled up a screen on the wall, which projected a faint map of their route. A sleek silver line cut across the starfield toward a glowing blue orb in the distance.

"We’ll reach Gia in about a day. You’ll get proper treatment there. This is temporary," he gestured to the arm gently, "and so is this room. I wanted you to wake up somewhere quiet."

Bian took the glass slowly, his new fingers curling around it with slight tension. He sipped the water without replying, staring out the wide viewing panel nearby. Beyond, space stretched like a velvet curtain, speckled with distant stars. A Farian satellite drifted lazily nearby, blinking with signal lights.

Then, softly, he asked, "Dican..."

Dican turned to him immediately. "Yes?"

"...Where are my clothes?"

Dican blinked. "Ah—"

He stood up, hurrying to the corner of the room. A cabinet folded open at his touch, and he returned with a neatly folded stack of fresh robes—silken, cream-colored, with thin Farian embroidery across the collar. He set them gently at the edge of the bed.

"You can change into these," he said with a gentle smile. "They’re softer than the uniform kind. I thought—"

Bian didn’t reach for them.

He stared at the clothes, unmoving, clutching the water glass a little tighter. A faint crk echoed in the air.

The rim of the glass splintered under the pressure of his prosthetic fingers.

Dican flinched, startled.

"I said," Bian growled, his voice sharp and low, "Where are my old clothes?"

Dican’s smile faded.

He exhaled slowly and sat back on the edge of the bed, eyes cast down for a moment before answering.

"They were torn badly," he said honestly. "Burned, bloodied... but we were able to retrieve some of your things. I asked the medics to keep anything salvageable."

He stood again and moved to a sealed drawer beneath the wall monitor. With a palm-press and retinal scan, it hissed open. From within, he retrieved a small, smooth container and brought it back.

He placed the box on Bian’s lap.

Bian didn’t hesitate. He opened the lid immediately, rifling through the contents—scraps of dark fabric, his old data chip, a broken knife handle—and then he found it.

A small, dull-colored glass vial, tightly sealed.

The Grayling brood sac extract.

Untouched. Unbroken.

He let out a shaky breath and cradled the vial close to his chest like a relic, fingers curled protectively around it. The artificial hand trembled slightly, but he didn’t care. It was safe. It was still his.

This tiny jar held more than liquid.

It was his future—his proof of survival, of conquest, of value.

His ticket to royal status.

His weapon.

He closed his eyes and drew it close, holding it tight to the hollow where his heart beat erratically beneath the hospital fabric. Nothing else mattered. The arm, the bed, even Dican—they were background noise compared to this.

Dican sat beside him once again, watching in silence. He didn’t speak, didn’t interfere.

He knew better.

Bian had just lost a part of himself.

But in his mind, he’d kept the most important piece.

And sometimes, that was enough to keep going.

Bian held the vial tightly for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the swirling iridescent contents—dark gray with undertones of violet and shimmer, like something alive. His breath slowly steadied, though a tremor still lingered in his left shoulder, the new arm twitching with micro-adjustments.

He set the vial carefully back into the box and closed the lid. The rest of the world slowly trickled back into focus.

"Dican," he said softly, not looking up.

Dican, who had been watching him quietly, immediately leaned in. "Yes?"

"Come closer."

He did. Without hesitation, without fear. He trusted Bian implicitly, completely.

The moment he was within reach, Bian’s right hand snaked forward, pulling Dican by the collar. Before Dican could speak another word, Bian pressed their lips together in a sudden, firm kiss.

It was not tender.

It was hungry—a claiming touch, raw and brief, filled with too much meaning and not enough time.

Dican blinked in surprise, stunned by the force of it, but didn’t resist. He exhaled against Bian’s mouth, just about to lean into it—

—when Bian bit down sharply on his lower lip.

Dican gasped, the sting jolting through him. A trickle of blood welled where teeth had broken skin.

Before he could react, Bian had already pulled back.

And in the same smooth motion, he dipped his right fingers into the hidden fold of the blanket, withdrew a thin sliver of soaked fabric—already smeared with the Grayling brood sac extract—and pressed it with uncanny precision to the small wound on Dican’s lip.

The shimmering purple fluid seeped instantly into the open cut, glimmering faintly before disappearing beneath the skin.

Dican jerked back instinctively, a hand lifting to his mouth. The sensation was instant: a sharp pulse, like tiny firecrackers going off beneath his skin, radiating outward from the wound.

His pupils dilated slightly. "Bian...!" he hissed, half in anger, half in disbelief.

Bian leaned back against the pillow, chest rising and falling slowly, his expression unreadable.

"You hadn’t had a fresh dose," he said flatly. "Since before the black hole."