Hair black with a healthy gloss. Notable eye colour black. Skin pigmentation light but not pale. Biological age approximately sixteen summers. Sodium and phosphate levels normal and consistent with Forneas's observed data of the food he consumed. Cholesterol and glucose levels within an acceptable range. No obvious allergies. Light tests proved no sensitivity negating the Night Vamprous genus.

A manly and stoic voice delivered a prognosis. Was I caught in another juxtapositioner's lair?

His words were clearly expressed; they didn't appear to be of a third person narrative.

I realised I was conscious, but my eyes were closed, and I was lying incapacitated. The surface beneath me was solid and cool to the touch.

"Further blood tests detected an intriguing amount of elevated testosterone and epinephrine. On the other hand, his mana levels were too low for magical abilities." The clinical voice rambled on.

"Your conclusion." I recognised Leinard's voice.

The clinical voice sighed. "I envisioned the worst that would've befallen our Captain is sexual exhaustion. Apart from an overexcited libido triggered on a whim, the boy's readings concluded a perfectly healthy and normal human."

I heard a frustrated sigh released from Leinard before he raised a question on why demons called skrit were going to such lengths to capture me when I wasn't anything exceptional.

The skrits's attempts had seen to the injuries or deaths of eight of his squads so far with the remaining able body knights fighting for their lives to hold back an onslaught occurring across the entire landscape of Hell's Labyrinth.

My heart picked up in beat when I learned of the high damage and loss of life among the human prisoners. I gathered an impression that the statistics were not a normal pattern.

"If the boy is common, as you say, why smuggle him into Apocalypse and place him in Hell's Labyrinth without—" Leinard's voice paused.

His breath burned against my cheek. The sensation was replaced with a stinging slap.

"Argh!" I yelped.

"How long have you been listening?"

My eyes met Leinard's, which were filled with rage. I felt a lie to his question would put me into a coma.

"Since the start of your recipe list for a devilishly handsome guy." I spat out. "Your analysis was kind of off. I'm eighteen."

I gradually sat up and was introduced to the voice behind the clinical recipe list.

Dr Samuel Abe Mercer of the EKO Medical Unit was a wiry man in a white overcoat. His features were gaunt and close to being skeletal. A black eye-patch covered his right eye, but it couldn't hide the deep scaring around his brow bone and upper cheekbone. His free eye carried a bizarre tint of red that accentuated the morose tone of his pale skin and small ears.

"Oh, and he's aesthetically pleasing to the eye," Samuel added to his diagnosis.

I glanced around the room I was contained within.

Glass cabinets (storing rows of labelled vials) were lined up against one wall. 

Opposite to where I sat stood tall benches supporting strange bronze and bulky apparatuses. 

Free-standing lamps burned in the corners; their white light focused on the metal slab that I rested on.

The walls that I could make out were a sterile grey and unadorned.

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