Alfonso awoke from the train of memories to the sound of movement behind the iron cell door.
Inside, everyone stirred as well. Those who had been leaning stood up. Those who were sleeping woke.
The door opened, letting in a gust of cold air. Alfonso, like the rest, responded instinctively.The last thing he wanted was to draw more attention to himself.
"Wake up, you filthy rats! Today's dish is rat meat stew with a side of intestinal broth!"Two men entered, clad in black hides covered by rusted chestplates.
The speaker stood nearly two meters tall, his dark skin emphasizing the deliberate mockery in his tone.
Following him was a shaggy-haired man carrying a charred pot. On top, some pieces of dry white bread rested.With a mocking grin, he stepped forward and set the pot down in the center of the cell.
In a flash, all the prisoners gathered around it—But they kept their distance, waiting for the guards' signal.
"Alright, alright. No problem. You may begin," the bald one said, after noticing their desperate stares.
The prisoners complied, and the first to step forward was a pale, lanky man with long hair, his bones jutting from under his skin.Just as he reached for the pot—
"Ughh!"A powerful kick struck his chin, sending him tumbling to the side.
"Hahaha! I said you may begin, not that you may eat," the bald man laughed, drawing back his leg—a flimsy excuse that clearly wasn't meant to justify anything, only to mock.
That's humanity—here or in any world.At the first sign of power, they'll abuse it to satisfy their rotten souls.
Then, with deliberate steps, the bald man approached the skinny prisoner,who was still trying to understand what had just happened, blood dripping from his mouth as he tried uselessly to stop it.
The guard raised his leg again and slammed it down onto the man's head—once, twice.
"Hahaha!"He laughed as blood splattered across the floor. The prisoner tried to resist, but it was hopeless.The difference in strength was obvious. Eventually, he curled up on the ground, covering his head and praying for the pain to end.
But it didn't.
The bald man kept laughing and beating, his kicks growing more brutal.
Alfonso stood by the wall, calmly leaning against it, arms crossed like someone watching a play.He didn't look sad. He didn't care. It was all natural.The strong do what they want—Within the limits of their strength, of course. And the weak... well, who cares about the weak?
He could intervene, sure. Try to stop it.But what's the point? Wouldn't that only make him the next target?
Alfonso did have moderate combat skills—Back in his childhood, when his body still allowed it, he had learned some martial arts and fought daily in the streets.
He smiled as he remembered it.Ah... those were beautiful days—when fists alone could solve everything.
(From an outsider's perspective)
Alfonso stood in the corner, a strange smile curling on his lips,like a madman delighting in sadism.
The old man from earlier had partially raised his hand, as if wanting to help—But something, invisible perhaps, held him back.He opened his mouth and shut it again: "A-A…"He stammered, genuinely wishing to intervene. Or maybe he was just a very convincing actor.
Meanwhile, Carol lay on the floor, licking his stick and staring at the ceiling—Contemplating perhaps which was darker: his skin… or his future?
Then he muttered,"At least I shine."
Hahaha, in your dreams, darling.
Suddenly, the stick slipped into his throat.He jolted up, coughing violently: "Kh—kha-khahh!"
Orwell sat silently nearby, his eyes dead and empty.
To the left, a boy between fourteen and seventeen, with glowing white hair and pale skin,stared at the ground.
If you looked closely, you'd notice a red glow surrounding his hand—flickering on and off.
"Just a little more… I just need a little more time… haaah," he muttered, gazing at his hand, then up at the ceiling.
As for the rest of the prisoners—They all watched with caution, each one praying he wouldn't be the next.
All these elements combined into one absurd, surreal painting—a grotesque depiction of this world.
Fearing the skinny prisoner might be killed, the shaggy-haired man placed a hand on the bald one's shoulder.
"That's enough. You know if he dies, we'll have to pay a fine," he reminded him.
At those words, the bald one sighed and backed off.
"Fine, rats. Your food's right there. Bon appétit,"he sneered, spitting into the pot before walking off.The shaggy-haired one followed.
"I'll be back in an hour to pick up the pot, as usual," he said before closing the door.
Immediately, the prisoners rushed toward the food—Some scooping the cold broth with their hands to drink,Others dipping the dry bread into the rat stew.
Alfonso stood in the back, watching.
Until his eyes flared with rage.
He had to eat this filthy mess?!How?! Damn it—damn it!
"Grrr!"He clenched his teeth.
Then he walked toward a man who had taken a remaining piece of bread.Without a word, he kicked the man violently in the stomach.
"Gghhhh!"The bread flew out of his hand and tumbled across the floor.
"…!?"Alfonso couldn't believe it—He'd only wanted to test his body and grab the bread,but this strength… it wasn't possible for a body like his.
Even someone like Kaises, lean but still visibly strong, couldn't have done that so effortlessly.
He looked at his hand, opening and closing it slowly.Hundreds of questions swirled in his mind—And now, another had joined them.
He advanced and picked up the bread.But then he noticed the man he'd kicked was glaring at him with hatred and vengeance.
Alfonso's eyes lit up with fury.
He charged forward and kicked the man in the face.His features were shattered—his nose broken, teeth mangled, eye bleeding.
Alfonso didn't stop.He leaned over the man's body and began punching.Each blow further disfigured the man's skull.He had died from the first punch—But Alfonso kept going.
By the third strike, the skull cracked open.Blood gushed out, covering Alfonso's body.The man's brain was exposed and eventually turned into a bloody pulp under the relentless pounding.
It was a horrifying, disgusting scene.But Alfonso's eyes still burned.
"I'm the one, you damn insect! Me! You dare look at me like that?! I'm the one!"He screamed internally, striking the ground long after the head was gone.
"Haaah... haaah... haaah..."Alfonso finally rose from the man's corpse, breathing heavily.
He brushed his blood-soaked hair back, stunned by what he had just done.
He wasn't sorry.He didn't regret killing a man for no real reason—neither here nor in his original world.
To Alfonso, anyone who defied him, hindered him, or threatened his interests—deserved to die in the most brutal way.Even if it meant skinning their loved ones and feeding them their flesh before executing them.
In his old world, he had restrained these thoughts—Only because he lacked the power to make them reality.
But now… his body had moved on its own.And he had let it.
Even though this act was irrational.Even though it might jeopardize any future plans.
"…!?"Everyone's mouths were open in shock.
"S-sorry… sorry… ughhh…"Trying to cover up his outburst, Alfonso began to act.He lifted his hand to his head wound."Ughhh… ughhhh…"He knelt slowly—then collapsed to his knees.
Suddenly, as if remembering something, he rushed back to the corpse."I'm sorry… sorry… I—I don't know what came over me!"He repeated over and over, crying, stammering, trembling.
"Ughhh!"He clutched his head and dragged himself to his seat, weeping.
He sat down, buried his face in his hands.
Then looked at the piece of bread he had dropped.
If there was anything to regret…It was that bread.
But his performance wouldn't convince anyone if he bent down to pick up the piece of bread while crying and clutching his head.
His only hope was that no one would approach it for a while — and of course, that hope didn't last even a moment before the skinny man from earlier snatched it and hurried back to his corner.
"You son of a bitch… haaaaaah," Alfonso sighed inwardly, returning to contemplate his situation and the questions swirling in his mind
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