The Tapestry of the End

"AAARGHH!!!" — the scream of agony, turning into a rasp, pierced the silence like thunder.

The young black-haired man writhed in convulsions on the surgical table. The skin on his wrists and ankles had long been worn away by the restraining straps. Blood smeared across his face, continuing to trickle from his nose. Once sapphire-like eyes had now dulled. Blood-filled and burst capillaries stained the once white sclera a bright red. Sweat droplets appeared on his previously white skin. Rolling down, they mixed with the blood, staining his already wet and not particularly clean clothes a deep red.

"Ha...ha...ha..." — the young man's tired, raspy breathing was heard. Unable to move his pain-exhausted muscles, he lay motionless.

"It seems the effect of the restorative potion has worn off. So, how do you feel? Refreshed? Full of energy, ready to move mountains?" — Morris asked, seemingly unaware of the mockery in his question.

The young man wearily turned his bloodshot eyes towards him.

"Brrr... what a scary look," the blond man muttered to himself and turned to the table with instruments.

Sorting through various tools, the man continued his monologue:

"You know... watching you writhe is really depressing, don't you think? And yet, deep down, I'm a very kind person. Like a teddy bear, you understand," he said, turning around, holding a clamp, which he waved around while speaking.

"Goodness, you're so gloomy. Cheer up! Both of us will feel better, time will fly by, the experiments will end, and bam! You're free, like the wind on the plain! You can go anywhere! Just think about it, all you need to do is not resist," Morris continued his monologue, actively gesticulating — "What do you think? Have we reached an understanding?"

Receiving only a threatening silence in response, Morris continued:

"Well, okay, I'll start. Umm... what's your name? Your hobbies? Favorite food?"

"I don't have a name. I don't remember," the young man replied, turning his gaze to the ceiling, staring at one point.

"Hmm, that doesn't sound very good. Well, we'll deal with that later, but for now... look at the time! We're behind schedule!" he exclaimed, quickly heading towards the makeshift operating table. In his hands gleamed a metal syringe. With one swift motion, he injected something into the young man's arm.

As soon as the dark green liquid spread through the young man's bloodstream, his vision blurred, and any movement became incredibly difficult.

Morris, watching his subject lose consciousness, smiled slightly.

"Amazing, isn't it? This is a recently developed drug. It almost completely paralyzes the body without hindering vital processes," he said, as if it were the best show in the world.

Despite the inability to move, dulled vision, smell, and hearing, his consciousness remained clear. Every cell of his body, against the backdrop of partial loss of other senses, vividly transmitted everything happening to his body.

Suddenly, he felt a slight prick again.

"Don't worry, this is a painkiller. We don't want you to die from shock, right?" Morris's voice, full of anticipation, was heard.

The unfortunate subject, with incredible difficulty, moved his unresponsive eyes towards his tormentor, only to see that he had already prepared a new tool — a long, sharp scalpel.

Leaning closer, Morris looked into his eyes with curiosity.

"Are you ready?" the phrase echoed in the young man's ears just before sharp pain pierced his left arm again.

With a precise movement, Morris made an incision on his subject's bicep. Warm blood flowed from the freshly made wound. Making a few more cuts, he took out an unknown device and meticulously began to peel the skin, exposing the arm muscles. Completing this process and removing the blood, he revealed a perfectly visible surface of muscle fibers.

Putting away the tools, taking out a notebook, and looking at the structure of the arm, he began to write, muttering to himself:

— Externally, the muscle structure does not differ from normal representatives of our species. Further research requires a deeper analysis.

He set aside the notebook and took up the tools again. Bringing the scalpel, he made another incision, the razor-sharp scalpel slicing through the flesh like a hot knife through butter. For the next hour, Morris separated the flesh layer by layer, delving deeper and deeper. Finally, almost reaching the bone, he separated several skeletal muscles and placed them in a specialized container.

The black-haired young man, conscious throughout the entire ordeal, could neither scream nor move a single muscle. He could only endure this endless torture.

Morris, taking tissue samples from the young man, began to restore his arm, using an unknown method to bind the muscle tissue. Finishing the work, he poured a dark blue liquid on the wound. The affected area was pierced by terrible pain, and the already shaky consciousness of the unwilling subject became even more muddled. The muscles, turned into a strange construct, began to heal, defying all logic, taking the correct position as they fused. The severed fibers reconnected, and blood flowed through the restored vessels again. After a few minutes, a new layer of skin covered the exposed flesh. There was no trace of the horrific wound.

Meanwhile, Morris, placing the samples in a device resembling a microscope, continued his research.

— Even more thorough research revealed no abnormalities. Maybe it's all about the chemical composition? Or something else? According to the available data, muscle tissue can accumulate essence but cannot retain it? And here we are back at the beginning... a more detailed analysis is needed.

Finishing his thought, he turned to the paralyzed young man. Piercing him with a sharp gaze, Morris began asking questions, talking to himself:

"Why do you react to essence this way? Despite all this, the potions have a noticeable effect. Maybe the interaction occurs but differs from what we're used to?"

Returning to the samples and dropping a few drops of purple liquid on them, he continued his research.

— When the essence concentrate interacts with muscle tissue, the latter starts to move. The frequency of sample contractions varies depending on the amount of essence consumed. Will the strength of the fibers increase proportionally to the amount of concentrate in contact?

As soon as Morris came to this thought, his eyes gleamed with a strange light. Using a pair of medical tweezers, he began stretching the sample in different directions. After a few seconds, it was torn in half.

— Hmm. This is interesting. The amount of force needed to tear the subject's muscle tissues significantly exceeds that of the muscles of our world's representatives. Is this a reaction to the interaction with the concentrate? Or a feature of this specific sample? Under normal conditions, such muscle tissue strength is characteristic of second-rank mages.

Writing down his thought, Morris poured a small vial of purple liquid on the second sample. After waiting a few minutes, he repeated the same experiment.

"It has indeed become stronger. The amount of force needed to achieve the same result increased by about three times.

After a few dozen seconds, he repeated the experiment but waited about ten minutes before the final stage.

"Fascinating! Compared to the previous result, the strength of the muscle tissues decreased by half! So they cannot retain essence for a long time," he exclaimed in an excited tone.

"Well, my dear friend. Our experiments are suspended until tomorrow. You go rest, and I'll conduct a few more small experiments and organize my notes," he said with a smile, approaching the young man.

"Until tomorrow morning!" he said energetically and injected the syringe into his arm.

After a few seconds, the young man's consciousness drifted into sleep.