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The young boy that was once called Kallious by the few living things that once knew him, or bothered to learn of his existence, looked at his transformed hands. It had been many years since the transformation had happened, yet the boy had spent the entire time below the earth where the people he once knew had buried him. With his pale, dirt covered hands he would reach out and look at his own gravestone. This was not a decorated gravestone of the rich, or even one with a few words to tell of his life of the middle class. The stone marking where his body should lie was simply a stone that an amateur mason, or perhaps even a farm boy, eager to make a few meager dollars, had cut a few words and a faded name. The boy would wipe the decade of dust and dirt from the tombstone, eager to know one of the few pieces of information his mind had kept from him all these years. His name. The boy’s eyes would eagerly and hungrily scan over the tombstone, once, twice, and a third time before saying it out loud, pronouncing each syllables clearly. “Kallious….” The wind grew stronger and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees as Kallious’ courage began to fail him. Here he was, alone and forgotten, looking at his own tombstone. He was a wretch, a demon, a homunculus, something that should not exist in the mortal world. The boy would sign audibly, the other voices in his head taking the momentary opportunity to surface from the dark prison deep inside Kallious. They spoke of power, of fame, of love. They spoke of the loneliness that the boy had known for ten years to finally be over. Slowly but surely, the boy drifted to sleep, falling into the prison that once housed the other souls now controlling his body like a puppet.