"One thousand five hundred sixty-two. One thousand five hundred sixty-three. One thousand five hundred sixty-four."
"Will you shut up?!"
"One thousand five hundred sixty-five."
Inside St. Vernon's prison, Count Vorath Droselmire — or rather, the former Count, was counting the number of push-ups that he was doing.
Although he was at the very bottom of society as a prisoner with nothing to his name and no freedom, at the very least, he looked youthful and handsome.
Or was he handsome?
There was something uncanny about the way that his body was made of other people's limbs and flesh. Although every piece of skin that was attached to him came from someone attractive, when it came together, it formed a very eerie image.
The first week that he was arrested, he spent his days screaming, crying, begging for a fair trial as he claimed that he was being framed or that it was a misunderstanding.
But once he realised that nobody cared to hear him out and he was beaten up by his cellmate for being too loud, he began focusing his attention elsewhere.
'Someday I'll be free.'
"One thousand five hundred seventy-two."
'And when I get out, I'll get my revenge.'
Regardless of how many times he was beaten up, he never stopped talking. Was he losing his sanity, or was this the only way for him to keep it?
"One thousand six hundred seventeen."
He would do this every day. At the beginning of every morning, he would reset his counter to zero and begin working his way up to the highest number that he could reach before he went to sleep.
Some days his arms and chest ached too much to workout so he would do squats. On days that his legs and arms hurt too much, he would spend them plotting for the perfect revenge.
'Darn bastard,' he cursed as the image of Bell Agnus appeared in his mind. 'When I get my hands on you, I'll strangle you and watch as your life bleeds from your eyes. Then I'll drink your blood, eat your flesh, and suck on your bone marrow.'
"One thousand six hundred nineteen."
Vorath's arms trembled as he lowered himself again, his breathing getting harder and harder. Each inhale felt like he was pulling in fire through his nose, each exhale louder than a clap.
His palms were trembling, sweat dripped down his face, and he was reaching his limit for this session.
He would have to come to a stop, rest for a bit, then resume later.
"One thousand six hundred twen—"
A voice suddenly spoke to him.
"For someone who has lost everything, you sure have a lot of free time on your hands."
Vorath's palms slid across the cold floor and his face planted on the ground, his nose nearly breaking.
Now that he wasn't counting out loud, for a second, the prison was a little quieter. The only thing that could be heard was people coughing, the banging of metal bars, and a few prisoners reading their books.
"Who… Who said that?!" he demanded, scrambling to his feet, holding his precious nose that came a handsome 19-year-old man.
No one answered his question.
"Hey!" he shouted, grabbing the bars. He pressed his face against the metal and screamed, "Which one of you bastards said that?!"
Groans erupted from nearby cells.
"Shut up!" someone yelled, slamming their fist against the wall.
"Keep your mouth closed for once, you damn freak!"
Thud! Thud! Thud!
One of the prisoners was banging their head against the wall in frustration. Another buried their face into a pillow, screaming into it.
Somewhere down the corridor, a frail dude muttered something about handling him once they were out there in the yard later that day.
Vorath turned to his cellmate, who was beaten black and blue. Their eyes were so swollen that they could barely see.
"Was it you?" he asked. Then he shook his head as he kicked the man in the head, sending him flying towards the wall.
Bang!
"You're my bitch. You wouldn't say that," he muttered.
Just as he thought that maybe he was going crazy and was hearing things, the voice spoke to him again.
"They can't hear me fool. Only you can."
He flipped his head to the side. No one was there. He turned to the other side. Also, no one.
Gulp.
The sound didn't seem to have come from the corridor. It actually didn't sound like it had come from any one direction at all. It sounded like it was everywhere, but most of all, it sounded like it came from inside his skull.
Vorath hissed and walked backwards until his shoulders hit the wall. "I'm going crazy."
"No you're not."
"You… you're not real. Whoevers speaking to me, you're not real!"
"I'm as real as it gets."
"...I'm just tired. Yes. That's what it is. I'm tired. I should rest."
"You are exhausted," the voice agreed gently. "But that doesn't mean I'm fake. I'm not just some mere voice in your head."
"...Get out of my head," he said as he began digging his nails into the follicles of his hair.
"Are you sure you want me to get out?" the voice asked. "I'm the only one who can help you. The only one here who wants to save you."
Then the voice laughed.
"Count Vorath Droselmire, I've been watching you."
Vorath's eyes widened. It had been weeks since he had heard that name.
The only name he was called was some variation of "bastard".
Vorath's heart began to pound.
"Why have you been watching me? What do you want from me?" he asked, demanding an answer with his tone.
"Nothing," the voice replied. "At least… not yet."
'Lies,' Vorath thought. 'It wants something from me right now. It's just trying to let my guard down by pretending to want it later.'
"Forget what I want. Let's focus on you. You want something, don't you?"
"...Of course I do. Everyone wants something."
He swallowed his saliva as his mind began flashing images of Bell Agnus, that darn bastard who was the reason why everything he had built collapsed into smithereens.
"You want revenge, don't you?"
Vorath's pupils shook, and so did his vision.
"I can help you get it. Whatever it is that you desire, I can help you achieve it. Forget all of these push-ups and squats you've been doing. If you want power, I can give you real power. The power you need for your revenge."
Vorath couldn't see the source of the voice, but he could hear it smiling.
He began thinking about the offer and what was being promised to him. Then, his mind pointed to something. "You're… you're a demon, aren't you?" he asked.
"Ding ding ding. Congratulations," it answered without attempting to cover the truth. "Yes. I am a demon."
At the confirmation, a cold dread crawled up Vorath's spine.
"Then I'll have to reject your offer. I won't hand you my soul. I won't be your puppet. I won't—"
"I don't want your soul," the demon interrupted, laughing. "Your soul means nothing to me."
"...Then what do you want?"
"I may have lied earlier," it laughed. "I do want something from you. Just a small favour. If you can grant it for me, the power I grant you is yours forever. No takebacks. No soul needed."
* * *
Recently, Bell has been sparring with multiple people rather than just one.
The boost that Diana gave him had allowed him to reach a level that he didn't think he was going to reach so soon.
As a matter of fact, he had progressed so far that the next star in his skill tree had already appeared. Now, it would only be a matter of time before it lit up and materialised into another ability.
But that wasn't enough. Just because he was physically strong didn't mean that he couldn't improve in other aspects.
For one, he had no weapon. Yes, he could use any weapons as a result of his hyper-analysis skills that allowed him to perceive information and turn it into something that he owned, but those were just ordinary weapons.
What he needed was something superior. He needed an artifact.
Artifacts had many ways of being formed. It could be created by applying runes to a weapon or tool, it could naturally form in the world, or it could be the result of a starwalker's soul being absorbed into the weapon they wielded for decades.
There were other ways an artifact could form as well, but the particular artifact he was seeking was a result of the third option.
Junipa was the name of the starwalker whose soul became one with their sword.
It was the weapon that he had wanted to claim for some time, but was unable to because the conditions of acquiring it hadn't been met yet.
But now it was time.
"What's your name?" asked a burly, hairy man. The pen in his hand looked like he was holding a toothpick.
"Asher Lee," Bell answered.
The man wrote down his name, then handed him a nametag with a number.
"Use the tag to access the waiting room for the fighters. Good luck and try your best not to die," he said before gesturing for the next person to come up.
"Are you sure about this?" Maya asked. "I hear that many elite starwalkers will be participating."
"It's fine," Bell responded. He wasn't going to trust that everything was going to remain the same as in the novel, but from what he did read, there were only five to seven participants that he would have to worry about.
Although the artifact was one of the prizes that could be won, no one knew that it was an artifact. They just thought it was a really sturdy and a very well forged blade.
When the original protagonist acquired the weapon, he hadn't even won the tournament. He got third place and the sword was the prize that he was left with after the winner and runner-up picked their selection.
"Asher Lee? What's with that name?" she asked.
The two of them were a few hours away from St. Vernon. It was currently the weekend and she decided to accompany Bell on his trip simply because she was nosy and bored.
"Just an alias," he responded.
Currently, Bell was in disguise. He had drunk a potion created by Sarakit that made his hair a bright pink colour.
He was also wearing glasses and changed his posture so that it would be harder to recognise him.
Why the disguise?
It was just to avoid drawing more attention than necessary.
Ernit, still recovering but doing much better, his arm no longer in danger of being lost, was also with them. He had been the driver, and on three occasions, he nearly crashed the vehicle.
He asked Bell, "What's so special about the prize that you're going to fight just to win it? Can't you just buy it off the winner?"
Maya nodded. No matter how valuable the prize he was aiming for, he had enough wealth to overpay for it without even flinching.
"I just want to kill two birds with one stone," he answered.
He could not only acquire the artifact that he desired but also get firsthand experience fighting other starwalkers.