I had no soul.

That was not some grim musing I had shuffled away into a diary at a low point in my existence. Neither was it melodrama brought on by ‘alcohol’ or the other trappings of normal mortals.

To put it simply, I was not born into this world.

Instead; built. Crafted by hand by the one I called Father. In his image, to a degree. By the time I had the capacity to see, my reflection told me that he had perhaps had to change some things. Either the human form was too complicated, or his designs lacked.

A blank glass surface had returned my eager glare in the attempt to find out who I was. No eyes, nose, nor mouth to show of. Nothing that resembled Father. Yet I could perform all the functions with other constructions within my head. Limbs and torso, mostly the same. Slightly taller and more athletic. Perhaps, in his older years, he had made me in his ideal image of himself.

Motion came easily to me. After all, I was made for such purpose. Arms and fingers flexed. Feet stumbled slightly and then were widened. Stable, now. No pain in the process, but I had some basic understanding of it. A warning when a feeling was detrimental. I had things for that too, different from the skin and nerves Father told me living beings were usually composed of.

At first, I felt sorry for them. To know agony and decay. The very visceral feeling of something being wrong with their precious beings. It was all they knew, just as I only knew my ability.

But did I know my purpose?

Father began with simple tasks. I was his assistant, and dutiful at that. How could I not be when he had granted me this opportunity to exist? I lifted boxes and moved tools. Partly a test of my strength and dexterity, I was sure. Once he was content with my progress, he moved me onto something much more important.

He told me that I was precious to him. Irreplaceable. Despite my lack of soul, I was enamored by how Father cared for me. Wanted me to be stronger and safe. Often, his lecture on how dangerous the outside world was drove the necessity for me to practice. With a shield. A sword. Spears and axes.

I longed to see this outside world. As safe as home felt to me, it was drab. Cluttered, yet sterile. Chaos had no place at home, but I yearned for it. The books Father had me read painted pictures of verdant fields, bustling cities, and great mountains. The sound of birdsong and soft rivers painted my imagination. A dangerous thing, he would tell me, but it didn’t feel that way. He could see the rebellion in my blank face even if I couldn’t emote it.

Perhaps he was soft, however, as he didn’t attempt to adjust that attitude. He was, of course, looking out for my best interests. As far as I knew at the time.

One evening I rejected his command to go to rest. I wanted to spend more time with the books and my imagination. From the pod-like bed, my legs took me quietly from the side room and through part of his lab. The books had to stay on the bookshelf when not being read. Such a strict rule I didn’t see the necessity for. More the fool he, for in keeping up this rigidity eventually played a part in his undoing.

I paused at the doorway, the next room over holding the tomes that I coveted so much. My trepidation was not over breaking the rules, but due to a sound that came from the hallway to my left, heading to Father’s quarters.

Fate had a strange way of joining threads together, something that intrigued me. Beyond my understanding. I wanted to understand things.

My feet took me slowly towards him. The dull grays of the lab barely illuminated by a single lamp. Still, I stuck to what shadows it allowed me, just as I had been taught. Footsteps as silent as I could be. The sound became louder the closer I got. He was talking to somebody. Odd.

Three more steps and I was beside his bedroom doorway. I glared blankly at the painting on the opposite wall to me, something I had created myself, yet detested. Father’s door was slightly ajar and sidled my auditory sensor up as close as I could get.

Whoever he was talking to didn’t seem to be very happy with Father. Likewise, he too seemed frustrated.

They were talking about me.

I had caught the tail end of an update about my training. At first, I was elated that there were others out there that cared and had a vested interest in my safety.

But the conversation continued, and my true nature was revealed. My purpose. Why life had been granted to me.

War.

I was nothing but a prototype. A soldier to kill. To ruin the beauty and peace of the world. Could I even believe that? Yes. There was no nuance to the conversation. I had hoped to be incorrect, but Father was insistent. That I would be ready soon. He was ready to sell me to this other voice and start making more.

But I just needed my field training first. Proof that I could fight and kill. Obey.

Father got his proof shortly after. I remember wiping the blood from my glass face. The way it smeared around and tainted me. His body lay cold, and I left the bloodied sword beside him. Neither a thank you nor an apology, but it was all I could gift him in return for bringing me to this prison. His death had become the key to my freedom.

Did I feel guilty for killing him? No.

Why would I? When I didn’t have a soul.

He had been talking to a small, round stone, rather than another person actually present. It had been glowing blue but now sat inert. Gray and slightly rough to the stone. I could sense something within it, beyond my normal senses, which confused me. It did not smell of anything in particular. It was mine now and would accompany me on my journey.

From the corner of his room, I brought a backpack. It smelled of leather, which I had learned was from the tanned hides of less fortunate beings. Macabre. I wondered if Father would make a good carrying case once properly dried out.

I looked back at him. Probably too wrinkled, and I was not sure of the process. Neither could I be sure to have the right tools or the patience to complete the act. Instead, I emptied the dirty clothes from out of this backpack onto his bed, and place my talking stone inside.

While most of the books were factual in nature, there was one I coveted perhaps when Father had not been looking. A short novella about an adventurer who defeated the forces of evil and saved the innocent. Goreblaster in the Land of Turmoil.

Why couldn’t Father have brought me up to facilitate that manner of destiny? Protect and keep safe the weak, destroy those would bring them harm. Become a hero.

Like how Father should have been for me.

I next went to the lab and dug through the drawers and cupboards that he did not allow me to touch. Large reams of paper with detailed sketches of my anatomy and construction lay within. Most of them were below my current interest. I was aware of what I was comprised of…

Until I found the black ledger. The cover adorned with more animal skin; it had no further detail on the front nor spine to forewarn me of the contents.

But as the pages reflected across my dull glass face, I learned something new.

I was capable of growth. To become more powerful, more proficient in bringing the ruin they had expected of me. While the equations did not mean anything to me, and he had used some vague shorthand in his notes, some parts I did grasp.

My left hand raised, and I looked down at my inner wrist. Where before I thought was just some detailing or random flare Father had blessed me with, I now knew the purpose. Stripping away the translucent covering, I revealed the star shape beneath in its intended vibrant color. Golden yellow with an outline of black. A button to be pressed.

Unlike my whole, I allowed it to fulfill its intended duty, and my extended digit pressed it down with a soft click.

[Souls: 1]
[No Current Bonuses]
[No Options Available]

I could see the words as if they were imprinted on the inside of my face, solely for me to read. If I could get my books in here too, that would be pleasant. As it stood, the current text did little to my mood. In killing my Father I had gained his soul, or at least had been rewarded for my betrayal.

Logic would point me toward gaining more souls to unlock bonuses or options, whatever they may be. Even a second flick through his notes did little to avail me of what I could truly be capable of.

It smoothed over some of the gaps in my intentions, though. My dreams of being an adventure were solidifying. Destiny putting the blocks together to make the shape of something. They had wanted me to be a machine of war, empowering myself as I mowed through whoever they pointed me towards.

But I could be a hero.

Take the lives that the worst of the outside world had to offer. Save the weak and grow strong so that I could provide safety to others. It seemed… like a fantasy still. Other than the few books I had read, there was no real knowledge in my head that could prepare me for what lay behind the locked doors.

Maybe Father was making me a strong warrior because the world was nothing but conflict, that everything had been ruined by war. That trying to eke out a life as a noble hero would just bring me to the same level, the same purpose as what the talking rock wanted from me.

Unfortunately, I had little choice, even if that was the case. The alternative being sitting in the lab and trying to tan Father’s hide until I too eventually decayed. I wasn’t keen on that. Despite the horrible nature of my existence, I had become quite fond of living. Or at least existing.

Now it was up to me to forge my own purpose.

I paused, unsure of what else to put into the backpack. There was no need for food, nor water. Tools - that would be an idea. In the eventuality that I took some damage, I would need to be able to patch myself back up. Not something I was an expert in, but I had watched Father work on me countless times, and after retaining the information from the schematics, I had a decent idea of how I functioned - excluding all the soul-words.

From the workbenches, I scooped anything that looked useful. Small hammer, a clamp, screwdrivers of several sizes. All a dark gray metal with blue accents. Some of them gave off a similar feeling as the talking stone. All fell into the depths of my carrier.

I walked back to a tall cupboard and opened it up. Weaponry. Now missing one sword, but otherwise untouched. In some ways, it now disgusted me. Tools, but for a more malign purpose. Part of me wanted to leave them here to slowly erode over time, forgotten and unquenched.

But even heroes wielded a favored sword or bow.

I withdrew a two-handed axe into my hands. Despite my admonishment of the foul objects, this one brought me some comfort to hold. Not as dextrous as some, but weighty and sharp. Father said I was strong. Some humans would struggle to heft such a weapon around - certainly he even struggled with it. But what of monsters?

As if hearing my inner monologue, the sound of banging came from down the far hall. Where the doors imprisoning me sat. My freedom could be earned. Muffled voices combined with the repeated strikes against the reinforced door. Angry ones.

The talking stone had betrayed me, and without my Father my worth had run dry.

Well, I had a soul now. And it would not be taken from me.