NOVEL NEXT Chapter 21: Chapter 21
Zedd woke up to a world shrouded in silence. The air was thick and still, the faint scent of blood and herbs lingering like a reminder of his grim work. His body felt heavy—no, dead weight would be more accurate. It was as though gravity itself conspired to keep him pinned to the mattress. For a brief moment, panic flared in his chest, but he quickly pushed it down.
Calm the fuck down, he told himself.
His eyelids felt like lead as he slowly pried them open, staring at the dark ceiling above. There was no sunlight streaming through the window—because, of course, there was no window anymore. He had sealed it shut before the surgery. The candles, his only source of light, were nothing but melted stubs now, their wax congealed on the floor and table like pale scars.
Zedd tried to move. Even the slightest twitch sent sharp, searing pain radiating through his body, centering on his bandaged left side. It was like his nerves were screaming all at once, protesting the foreign invader grafted onto his flesh.
"Fuck…" he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice hoarse.
He stopped trying to move. His breathing was shallow, every inhale a careful act to avoid jostling his torso. He didn't know exactly how long he'd been asleep—hours, maybe even a full day—but he didn't care. Time didn't matter. Only survival did. The first twenty-four hours were always critical, and he was still alive. That had to count for something.
Lying flat on his back, Zedd forced his mind to work. He needed a plan—a proper fucking plan. The hard part wasn't over just because he survived the surgery. The synthetic tissue was grafted, but that didn't mean his body had accepted it yet. For all he knew, his own flesh might begin rejecting it like an infection.
He closed his eyes and began mentally drafting the next steps, his thoughts sharper than the pain gnawing at him.
Step One: Full Rest for Three Weeks
The first phase was simple. He needed time—time for the synthetic tissue to attach, settle, and integrate into his body. Any movement right now would be catastrophic. His body was in a fragile state, and one wrong move might tear open the stitches, undoing the hours of painstaking work. Zedd would stay in bed, only moving when absolutely necessary.
No strain, no stress, he thought. "Let the damn thing graft."
He would rely on the painkillers and herbs to manage the agony, rationing them carefully to avoid dulling his mind too much. Sleep would be his best ally during this phase. His body needed energy to repair itself.
Step Two: Gentle Movement—Weeks Four to Six
Once three weeks had passed, Zedd would test his body. Carefully. Slowly. Gentle stretches and small movements. Nothing more. He would need to assess how well the synthetic tissue had fused with his muscles and nerves. Could he raise his left arm? Could he twist his torso? Even small successes would be crucial.
If something didn't feel right—if the tissue tugged, burned, or sent his nerves into overdrive—he would stop immediately. Zedd had no intention of rushing this process. One mistake, and it's all over, he reminded himself grimly.
Step Three: Rehabilitation—Weeks Seven to Twelve
The real work would begin in the final stage. Strengthening his body—his new body. The synthetic tissue might be stronger than flesh, but it was still foreign, and it needed conditioning. He would push himself, little by little. Light exercises, increasing in intensity as the weeks went on. Push-ups, sit-ups, shadow sparring—he would rebuild his body, retrain his movements, and adapt to the changes.
Left side first, he thought. The rest will follow.
The synthetic tissue would allow him to surpass human limits eventually, but only if he treated it with respect. If he pushed too hard, too soon, the consequences would be irreversible. He couldn't let impatience ruin him now.
"Three months…" Zedd muttered to himself, his voice barely audible. "Three months, and I'll be stronger than ever."
His eyes flickered open again, staring blankly at the ceiling. He clenched his right fist, the only part of his body he could move without triggering pain. The weight of what he had done—what he had sacrificed—settled heavily on his chest. He had carved away a part of himself, replacing it with something unnatural, something he created.
For the first time, doubt crept into his thoughts. Would it work? Could his body truly handle this? What if the tissue failed—if it decayed, or infected him, or left him a broken shell of what he used to be?
No. Zedd gritted his teeth, anger flaring in his chest. He couldn't think like that. He had come too far to let doubt cloud his mind. He had planned for this—every cut, every stitch, every breath. The synthetic tissue was perfect. I perfected it.
"This will work," he said aloud, as though daring the universe to challenge him.
The throbbing pain in his torso flared again, but he didn't care. Pain meant he was alive, and as long as he was alive, he would keep moving forward. His body would adapt. It had to.
Zedd's stomach growled loudly, breaking the silence. He frowned, realizing he hadn't eaten since the surgery. Of course, he hadn't exactly been in a state to think about food. Now, hunger gnawed at him alongside the pain.
Slowly—painfully—Zedd turned his head to the side. A small wooden tray sat on the floor near his bed, holding a pitcher of water and a few pieces of stale bread he'd left there earlier. His right arm felt like lead as he reached out, fingers trembling slightly.
The first attempt was futile. Pain shot through his torso, and Zedd cursed under his breath, his hand falling limp again. Sweat beaded on his brow as he tried once more, gritting his teeth against the discomfort. Finally, his fingers brushed the edge of the tray. He dragged it closer, the faint scraping sound echoing in the quiet room.
Zedd grabbed the pitcher of water and drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing his dry throat. It wasn't much, but it helped. The stale bread was next—hard and unappetizing, but he forced himself to chew and swallow. He needed the calories, no matter how miserable they tasted.
When the tray was empty, Zedd slumped back onto the mattress, exhausted by the effort. His head swam, and the pain pulsed like a living thing beneath his bandages. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, deliberately.
This is only the beginning, he thought. The hardest days were still ahead.
But Zedd wasn't afraid. The pain, the exhaustion, the uncertainty—it was all temporary. Once he survived this, once his body accepted the tissue and he rebuilt himself, nothing would stand in his way.
"I'll be unstoppable," he whispered to himself, a faint, determined smile tugging at his lips.
The darkness of the room pressed around him, and the faint sounds of his breathing filled the void. Zedd let the weight of sleep pull him under once more, his mind already preparing for the fight to come.
Three months. That was all he needed.
And he would win.