Ascension of the Harem King : From Fugitive to Lord

Zedd woke up the next morning to the same suffocating silence that had enveloped him since the night of his surgery. The room was dark, the candle light long melted . The faint burning ache in his body reminded him that he was far from recovered—he was still deep in the process of grafting synthetic tissue onto his left side.

For a moment, Zedd didn't move. He didn't even attempt to stir, knowing that moving too soon could undo everything. The first three weeks were all about complete rest. It was as much a mental battle as it was a physical one. He had to be patient, even though every fiber of his being wanted to rush the process. His left side, covered in tight bandages, felt foreign—almost like it wasn't a part of him.

As he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, Zedd's thoughts drifted—back, always back. To the life he had before this—before the military academy, before the synthetic tissue, before becoming the youngest S-Class fugitive.

He was only 15, but his memories felt like a lifetime ago. It had all started in the academy. The brutal training. The lessons about the limits of the human body. How the instructors had constantly pushed him to see how far he could go—how far the human body could stretch, how far it could be pushed without breaking. But Zedd had seen it differently. He saw the limitations as a challenge, something to be broken through, something to overcome. He saw human weakness as something that needed to be fixed, repaired, transcended.

His thoughts wandered further back, to before the academy. He remembered barely anything about his life before the age of five—just flashes. A blurry face, a warm hand holding his. His earliest memory was of a caretaker in the military academy, someone assigned to look after him, walking beside him with her hand gently gripping his small one.

Everything after that was a blur, until the day he had decided that he wanted more. More than just the sterile, soul-crushing life of the academy. More than just existing in a system built to break people down into mindless soldiers.

The killing had come later. It wasn't something he had planned, not at first. But after years of struggling to fit in, to understand his purpose, Zedd found himself questioning the system he had been raised in. The academy, its instructors—he had come to see them as the problem. The weak, the foolish, those who couldn't understand the limits of the human body, they were expendable in his eyes.

One by one, he had lured and murdered thirty of his fellow classmates and instructors. They didn't see him as a threat, not until it was too late. Zedd had been methodical—quiet, precise. His ability to blend in, to remain unnoticed, had made him the perfect predator. It was only when he was caught by Kayden and Murray, the two friends he had once trusted, that everything fell apart.

The betrayal had stung, but it had also been the catalyst for his escape. In that moment, when the walls had closed in on him, he had felt the weight of his own decisions—and yet, a part of him knew he couldn't go back. The choices had already been made. There was no turning back now.

That was why he was here, lying in this dark room, nursing the wound on his left side as if it were a symbol of everything that had led him to this point.

I should've been born better, he thought bitterly. I should've been born without limitations.

And now, this was his answer. He had created the solution. The synthetic tissue—this new flesh, stronger than bone, more durable than muscle—was his path to becoming what he had always dreamed of. But it was more than just physical strength. It was freedom. Freedom from weakness, from being bound by the frailty of human nature.

He couldn't afford to let doubt creep in. He knew there were risks. He had calculated them. The first few days would be critical. If the tissue rejected the graft, if his body fought back, then there would be nothing he could do to stop the inevitable. But he had to believe it would work. He had to keep pushing forward.

As his mind raced, he heard a dull groan from his own body as if protesting the strain of thinking too deeply. His left side throbbed, and Zedd let out a sharp breath, willing himself to focus. There was no time for weakness, no time for self-pity.

A part of him wondered, briefly, if Kayden or Murray were still looking for him. He had left them behind—his two closest friends, the ones who had stood by him through the worst of the academy's trials. When they had confronted him, when they had finally discovered the truth about what he had done, he had felt something—guilt, perhaps. But he had pushed it aside. He had no room for sentiment. There was only survival.

They won't find me, he thought. Not this time.

The sound of his breathing filled the room, slow and steady, as the pain in his side began to subside—just a little. He could feel the tension in his muscles, but there was also a strange sensation of recalibration, as if the synthetic tissue was slowly integrating itself with his body. He could feel the tissue stretching, pulling, adjusting.

Zedd closed his eyes, trying to ignore the discomfort. He needed to rest. He needed to give his body time to adapt to the changes.

Three weeks of full rest, he reminded himself. Three weeks.

In the meantime, he would reflect. He would think about the future—about what came next. What would he do once the synthetic tissue had fully integrated into his body? What would he become then? Would he be able to return to the academy, to show them all that he was no longer bound by the same limitations as they were?

Or would he just disappear into the shadows, never to be found again?

Zedd didn't know the answer. And maybe he didn't need to know. For now, all he had to do was survive.

He shifted slightly in bed, trying to get comfortable despite the searing pain in his side. He wasn't ready to move yet. He wasn't ready for anything.

But slowly, ever so slowly, he began to drift back to sleep. The painkillers, the herbs, everything working together to pull him under, to give him a brief respite from the madness in his mind.

Tomorrow, or maybe the day after, he would begin again. But for now, he just needed to rest. He needed to let his body heal and accept what he had done.

And when he woke, he would be stronger than ever.