The sterile white of the hospital room felt…wrong. Wrong against the memory of blood and asphalt, wrong against the lingering ache that should have been agony, wrong against the impossible truth that sat perched on the chrome rail of his bed. Corvus. A talking raven. And not just talking, but spouting cryptic pronouncements about genetic strains and fallen angels.

Ethan shifted, the crisp hospital sheets rustling against his skin. He still felt the phantom itch of limbs that weren’t there, the phantom throb of pain he should be feeling. But there was also something else, a humming energy that resonated deep within his bones, a feeling of…power? It was unsettling, alien.

"You're resisting," Corvus croaked, his obsidian eyes gleaming in the dim light of the room. "A fool's game, Ethan Blackwood. The Aethelred Strain is as much a part of you now as your blood and bone…what remains of them, that is."

Ethan glared. "Blood and bone? Try steel and plastic. I'm a goddamn cyborg, birdbrain, not some…genetically enhanced superhero."

Corvus hopped closer, tilting his head. "A crude analogy, perhaps, but not entirely inaccurate. The Strain is a catalyst, a key. It unlocks potential, latent abilities buried deep within your DNA. It's why you're healing at an impossible rate. Why you possess strength you never imagined."

"Healing?" Ethan ran a hand over his chest, feeling the smooth, unbroken skin where jagged wounds had been just days before. He sat up straighter, the IV lines tugging slightly. He felt…stronger. He could feel the pull of the metal in his prosthetics, but it was different now. It felt like an extension of himself, not a clumsy appendage.

"The doctors are baffled," Corvus continued. "They'll attribute it to medical marvels, experimental treatments. But we both know the truth. The Strain is regenerating your tissues, strengthening your bones, rewiring your nervous system."

Ethan swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the protest of the nurse's call button he inadvertently pressed. He stood, bracing himself, expecting the familiar wobble and imbalance. But there was none. He felt…grounded. Solid. He looked down at his prosthetic leg, the polished metal gleaming in the fluorescent light.

"Show me," he said, his voice rough. "Show me what this…Strain can do."

Corvus hopped off the bed, landing silently on the linoleum floor. "Patience, Ethan. Understanding comes before mastery. Your body is a vessel, and the Strain is the tide. You must learn to navigate it, to control its ebb and flow, lest you be swept away by its power."

And so it began.

The first few days were a blur of clandestine exercises in the deserted corners of the hospital. Corvus, perched on his shoulder or hovering just out of sight, acted as his guide, his drill sergeant, his exasperated coach. Ethan started with simple things: lifting his own weight, jumping, running. Each movement felt alien, amplified. His strength was terrifying, uncontrolled. He shattered a metal chair simply by sitting on it, leaving a nurse speechless and blaming faulty manufacturing. He punched a wall, leaving a clean, fist-sized hole and a lingering vibration in his arm that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

"Control, Ethan! Control is paramount!" Corvus would squawk, pecking at his ear whenever he lost focus. "You are not a rampaging brute! You are a potential…well, let's just say you have the potential to be more than you are."

Ethan, used to the rigorous discipline of military training, struggled. His mind still operated in the rigid, calculated parameters of a soldier. But the Strain was something else, something primal, something that resonated with an instinct he didn’t know he possessed. It was like trying to tame a wild animal, a creature of pure power that lived inside him.

He spent hours in the hospital gym, supposedly doing physical therapy, but in reality, pushing his body to its absolute limit. He ran faster than he ever had before, his prosthetic leg a blur of motion. He lifted weights that would have crushed him before the accident, his muscles screaming in protest, yet refusing to buckle. He discovered his reflexes were lightning fast, his senses heightened. He could hear whispers from across the room, see details in the shadows that would have been invisible before.

One evening, while practicing his punches on a heavy bag, Ethan lost control. He channeled the rage, the bitterness, the grief that had been festering inside him for years, and unleashed it on the bag. The leather tore, the chains snapped, and the bag went flying across the room, smashing into a mirror and sending shards of glass raining down.

Ethan stood there, panting, his heart pounding in his chest, surrounded by the wreckage. He looked at his hand, the one that had delivered the devastating blow, and felt a surge of fear. This was not him. This raw, untamed power was something else, something alien, something…dangerous.

"You see?" Corvus said, his voice unusually somber. He landed on a nearby table, his feathers ruffled. "Uncontrolled power is a destructive force. You must learn to harness it, to direct it. Otherwise, you will become a danger to yourself and everyone around you."

Ethan sank to the floor, his head in his hands. "I don't understand any of this," he mumbled. "Why me? Why this…Strain?"

Corvus hopped closer, his obsidian eyes filled with an unsettling wisdom. "Destiny, Ethan. Or perhaps, simply bad luck. The Aethelred Strain seeks a vessel, a conduit. You were…chosen. Or perhaps, you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

He paused, then added, "The answers you seek lie in the Strain itself, in its history, in its origin. But be warned, Ethan. The truth is often more dangerous than the lies."

The next phase of his training was more mental than physical. Corvus taught him to meditate, to focus his mind, to delve into the depths of his consciousness. He learned to visualize the Strain, to see it as a swirling vortex of energy within him, to feel its ebb and flow. He learned to channel it, to direct it, to control its intensity.

It was a difficult process, fraught with frustration and setbacks. He would often lose control, his emotions overwhelming him, the Strain surging through him like a tidal wave. But slowly, gradually, he began to gain a measure of control. He learned to temper his strength, to refine his reflexes, to focus his senses.

He also began to question Corvus, to press him for more information about the Aethelred Strain, about the fallen angel Aethelred, about the Order of Gabriel. Corvus was evasive, revealing information in small, carefully measured doses. He spoke of a long and bloody history, of a conflict between celestial and mortal realms, of a prophecy foretelling the rise of an 'Aethelred Ascendant'.

"And what is this 'Ascendant' supposed to do?" Ethan asked one evening, as they sat in the deserted hospital chapel, the stained-glass windows casting eerie shadows across the floor.

Corvus hesitated. "That, Ethan, is the question. Some believe the Ascendant will bring salvation, ushering in an era of peace and enlightenment. Others believe the Ascendant will bring destruction, unleashing chaos and darkness upon the world."

"And which do you believe?"

Corvus tilted his head, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "I believe that the choice, Ethan Blackwood, is entirely yours."

Ethan stared out the window, watching the city lights twinkle in the distance. The weight of the world, or at least a significant portion of it, seemed to be resting on his shoulders. He was just a soldier, a broken man trying to piece his life back together. He didn’t ask for this. He didn’t want this power, this responsibility.

But he had it. And he couldn't deny it.

He looked down at his hands, the hands that had once held a rifle, the hands that had now shattered concrete and lifted impossible weights. The hands that were now trembling slightly, not from fear, but from a newfound determination.

He had a choice to make. He could succumb to the darkness, become the monster that the Order of Gabriel feared. Or he could embrace the light, harness the power of the Aethelred Strain, and become something more.

He looked up at Corvus, his gaze resolute. "What's next?" he asked.

Corvus ruffled his feathers, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Next, Ethan, we leave this place. The Order of Gabriel will be looking for you. We need to find a safe haven, a place to learn, a place to prepare."

"Prepare for what?"

"Prepare for war, Ethan. The war for your soul. And the war for the fate of the world."