Eternal Undying Chronicles

Chapter 54 The Good Doctor

Dr. Stein woke up amidst the ruins of his lab, the aftermath of Wrath's rampage. The once-sterile environment was now a chaotic battlefield. Broken glass, twisted metal, and the remains of his strongest chimeras were scattered around him in a discarded pool of dismembered flesh and blood.

Blood caked his body, seeping from deep gashes and bruises. His right arm was mangled, barely usable, and a deep cut across his forehead blurred his vision with a steady stream of blood.

"Why... Alicarde... why did you betray me?" he whispered, tears mixing with the blood on his cheeks.

His voice was hoarse, filled with the agony of betrayal and the weight of his injuries.

Stein struggled to sit up, leaning heavily against the wall. Each movement sent waves of pain through his body, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. He glanced around the lab, his heart sinking at the extent of the damage. The machines he had spent years perfecting were now twisted wrecks, and the chimeras he had meticulously created were nothing more than lifeless heaps.

He made his way into the hallway, a trail of blood in his wake. The sterile halls were no different, now ravaged by battle.

"I hope... I hope the human researchers made it to the safe rooms," he murmured.

Despite his own suffering, he felt a pang of gratitude toward the researchers who had stayed loyal to him. He imagined them huddled in the hidden bunkers, away from the chaos. The thought gave him a sliver of solace in his otherwise forlorn state.

As he dragged himself through the wreckage, he felt the edges of his vision blur, his consciousness slipping. Blood loss was taking its toll, and he began to see flashes of his past, memories surfacing from the depths of his mind. This was a sweet escape.

"Master," he groaned, a whisper too quiet for anyone to hear.

Victor's mind drifted back to his childhood. He remembered the days now long gone. His family had lived in a quaint town, nestled in the hills. The small mansion on the outskirts was a solitary figure against the landscape. His family's legacy was a source of pride and pain.

Descended from the illustrious Victor Frankenstein, his family bore a name both revered and reviled by many. They had too many enemies, but it was more scorn than hate, so they had kept to themselves in a hidden town, changing the family name to hide their past.

"When did it all begin?" he wondered, his father's stern face coming to mind.

His father had named him Victor, a heavy burden meant to restore the family name.

"You must be perfect, Victor. You are a genius, Victor. The family name rests on your shoulders," his father had often said, pushing him relentlessly.

From a young age, Victor was immersed in alchemy, his days filled with study and research, isolated from the laughter of other children. If he dared to play with them, he would be considered a disappointment, and that came with its own toll.

On days he disappointed his father, the punishments were severe. Beaten and locked in the attic, he would often go without food, his only companion the cold and the rats that called the attic home. He recalled the pain of the bruises and the rats nibbling at his feet when he slept.

Forbidden from playing with other children, his life was a cycle of relentless study and harsh discipline. But Victor convinced himself he loved research, that it was his calling, even if it was merely a coping mechanism—the delusions of a child trying to survive. Thinking about it now, did he truly love alchemy as a child?

Now, those memories were faint and distant, overshadowed by his struggle to reach the elevator before death reached him first, his bloody trail an omen of what was to come.

The rumble of battles echoed through the labs, shaking the ground beneath him. He took deep breaths as he gritted his teeth, struggling to move.

Victor wasn't alone in his childhood misery. His younger sister, Helen, was his only light in the bleak world. He remembered she had beautiful long blonde hair and deep blue eyes. She had the scent of summer and the air of freedom and joy.

Helen was a sweet girl, always there to console him after their father's beatings. She would sneak food through the attic window, climbing the mansion roofs in rain or shine to reach him.

She spoke of the town, the people, bringing a piece of the outside world to her isolated brother. Her company was everything to him, he loved her more than anything in the world, his only lifeline.

But those days were long gone. Victor's knees buckled, and he fell, his strength waning. He needed to reach the sixth floor, where the master was. There he could also find healing potions. Pushing through the vertigo, his mind was dragged deeper into the sea of memories.

His family's alchemy collection was mostly lost, so he didn't have all the required knowledge, and alchemy was quite expensive. Even so, he remembered his father spent what little they had on procuring ingredients and better books. He would study relentlessly day and night, all for the family's name.

When he was fourteen, everything changed. The town was struck by a plague, claiming lives one after another. His family remained untouched, which only fueled the villagers' suspicion.

Fear turned to anger; it wasn't hard to begin a witch hunt. All it took was one person pointing fingers. The mysterious family on the outskirts became the target. The good neighbors his sister had talked about brought death and suffering to their doorsteps.

Flames and pitchforks came with rage and accusations. The supposed kind neighbors Helen had spoken of set their home ablaze. His father, despite their strained relationship, risked his life to save Victor and Helen.

He remembered as the man held both of his children as he found a way to sneak them out, his usually strict eyes filled with worry.

"Restore the family name, Victor. Please forgive me for passing on my failures to you. I want you to know, I love you both very much," his father's final words echoed in his mind.

Those words pushed Victor more than any beating ever had. As he fled with Helen, the screams of his parents being consumed by the flames haunted him, as his childhood home was left in ash and ruins.

They fled the town to destinations unknown, all they had was each other, and nothing else. For two children that had lost it all, it was plenty.

For two years, they were street rats, surviving on scraps and sleeping in alleys. Victor did whatever it took to protect his sister—begging, stealing, but never crossing the line into murder. Perhaps he hadn't felt the dire need, or perhaps it was the embers of his morality. He just felt if he crossed the line, he would never be able to face his sister.

After years of hardship, they secured a small, rundown room. Victor remembered it was small and cramped, and when it rained, the roof leaked, soaking them most of the time. In winter, it was quite drafty, but they found small happiness there.

But street gangs soon evicted them, and they were back on the streets.

Winter was harsh, and Helen fell ill. Victor tried everything, but no doctor would help them without money. Helen, always kind, smiled tenderly at him, even in her suffering. It all came down to money—a doctor caring more about money than a person's life. His sister's kind words were a constant echo in his now despairing mind.

"Vic, when I'm gone, you need to be okay. Don't give up on yourself. You need to live without a burden like me, okay? Promise me," she had said.

Victor would always reply with hopeful lies, "Don't worry. There has to be a doctor who will help poor street urchins like us. You'll be fine."

But in his heart, he cursed his limited alchemy skills. If only they had practical use, his sister wouldn't be suffering. He hated the books he learned from—it had no practical knowledge. If only he could turn iron to gold.

The old doctor reached the elevator, collapsing inside. "Helen," he whispered.

A year had passed in such hardships, and one day, Helen didn't wake up. He didn't want to believe his only sibling had died, so he kept trying to wake her.

"Helen, you need to wake up... it's already noon... please wake up... you're scaring me.... Helen... Helen," the young Victor forced a smile, his voice trembling.

"Are you angry that I keep coming back late? I promise... I wasn't involved with the local gangs, so please... don't be angry," he whispered as tears streamed down his face, his heart refusing to accept what his mind already knew.

But no matter how he begged or pleaded, Helen would never wake again. She would never make broth and eat it with him, nor scold him for getting involved with the dangerous members of the local gangs just to make a quick buck. The reality was suffocating, an unbearable weight.

Victor held her cold, pale corpse for hours as he wept, his tears falling onto her lifeless skin. Dawn turned to dusk, and as night fell, he knew he had to face the cruel truth—his sister was gone forever.

He had no money for a funeral. With no other choice, he carried her into the woods, his heart heavy as he gathered wood for a cremation. Bitter tears streamed down his face as he cursed the heavens, man, and even the devil for not saving his sister.

As the flames rose, a desperate urge to burn with her nearly consumed him. But he pressed on, pushing the dark thoughts away. Once the fire had turned to ash, he carefully gathered her remains into a small sack made from his own clothes. He wore it around his neck, a constant, painful reminder of his failure. Helen would always be with him now, in death as in life.

Victor kept her ashes close to his heart, a silent witness to his despair. But instead of succumbing to the overwhelming grief, he found a grim motivation. He remembered his ancestor's goal—the resurrection of the dead—and made it his own.

Returning to alchemy, he knew it would require resources. Though he was brilliant, a spitting image of the original Victor Frankenstein, genius alone wasn't enough. His despair twisted into determination—he would perfect his ancestor's work and bring Helen back to life. He would accomplish what even the first Frankenstein could not.

Yet, he was only a broke 24-year-old. Helen had died at 18, leaving him alone in poverty. He hated the ignorant masses who had destroyed his family, and the doctors who had refused to help without payment. Their cold indifference only fueled his resolve.

One day, he swore, "I will become a doctor who saves lives without asking for money." He thought back to what he had promised Helen so long ago.

"I believe in you, Victor. I know you can do it," Helen had once said, her faith in him unwavering.

His days of despair couldn't last forever. He fell into petty crime, driven by survival. One day, desperate and starving, he tried to pickpocket a man whose appearance reeked of opulence—exactly the kind of person he despised. The man was dark-skinned, flawlessly beautiful, not a single blemish on his radiant complexion.

The man caught him with ease. Victor expected anger, but instead, there was surprise, almost curiosity, on the man's refined face.

"My goodness, what do we have here? Any relation to my old acquaintance, Frankenstein? Yes, there's an uncanny resemblance," the man spoke with a cool, refined tone, stepping closer to study him further.

"Even your blood... it carries the same essence. You are undoubtedly a descendant of that loveable eccentric," he said, the faintest trace of amusement in his voice.

Victor didn't trust the man, but resistance was futile. He was taken away by force, marking the beginning of the second wave of his tragic life.

The elevator dinged, pulling Victor back to the present. He dragged himself out, every movement a painful reminder of his injuries. The sixth floor was dark, cold, and unwelcoming, but his goal was near.

He pressed on, the memories of his struggles trailing behind him, propelling him into this new phase of his tormented existence.