"I won't cry... I won't cry. It's just pain... only pain."
André hauled himself to his feet, his steps faltering, but his determination propelled his body forward. "Attack me." He whispered in a low, but sharp voice, full of defiance.
Enzo laughed sarcastically, his voice booming across the arena: "Oh, oh, oh... I'll show you, you little bastard."
A few steps away, Daniel approached Mr. Dante, who was standing at a distance, enjoying the fight. Daniel smiled a half-mocking smile, his eyes twinkling with gentle amusement and surprise: "What's gotten into you? You seem to be enjoying the fight."
Dante looked at the arena, his cold eyes scanning every movement: "That boy... has some potential. I made the right choice putting him in the special cell."
Daniel watched the scene with quiet calculation, thinking silently: I think I know why.
André braced himself and stood up again. "Attack me." His voice was short, sharp like a tired blade.
Enzo laughed, a venomous tone: "Oh... I'll show you, you little bastard." Then he lunged.
André parried each attack with obvious stubbornness; his small body tense, sweat dripping despite the cold air, and his eyes never leaving Enzo's stick.
Enzo saw that the show was getting boring. With deceitful fingers, he pointed towards another corner of the arena.
André tilted his head for a moment... a moment that was nothing more than an opportunity. Enzo seized the distraction with a deafening blow; André's head collided with the stick, and his body launched towards the pillar.
Intense dizziness washed over him, a sharp ringing filled his ears, and blood began to seep from his forehead. He was in great pain, but he held onto the wooden sword tightly.
His vision was blurry, and the pain was like a whip lashing his body, but he got up again, and whispered coldly with determination: "I'll kill you."
Enzo laughed sarcastically, waving his hand towards his ear, as if André's words couldn't be heard: "Ha! I can't hear you!"
André raised his head, his face tense, his veins bulging, and his eyes glowing with childlike determination: "I'll end you!"
He lunged towards Enzo with unbreakable resolve, his wavering body refusing to surrender, and his small mind insisting on fighting despite the pain.
But Enzo surprised him with another strong blow to the head, the blood spurting into the air, yet André didn't fall; his body recoiled backward, and blood covered part of his face, but he raised the sword again.
Enzo was about to hit him again, but suddenly, someone grabbed the stick with surprising force. Enzo turned to find Daniel standing, his calm gaze like ice, watching the little boy: "Stop now, or—"
Enzo hesitated for a moment, glaring at Daniel with eyes burning with a desire to fight, raised the stick again, then the Don Dante's voice pierced the arena, reverberating like a resounding judgment… cold, and unyielding: "That's enough, Enzo. The duel is over."
The air froze. The noise faded as wax melts.
André fell like a pale tear; his body suddenly surrendering to gravity, every muscle trembling from the embrace of pain and fatigue. His gaze was blurry, as if the world had become behind cracked glass.
Daniel approached him, his eyes pausing on André for a short moment, a brief look that revealed only something he glimpsed but refused to acknowledge, then his lips moved, whispering quietly: "Oh God... get him out of here, and let's treat his wounds."
Dante gave André a short, sharp look, then turned to Enzo with cold disdain: "You're pathetic... trying to win against a child by cheating."
Enzo trembled, and his voice was interspersed with stuttering as he tried to defend himself: "T... this wasn't cheating... I just wanted to teach him how to fight!"
Dante replied mercilessly, with clear coldness: "Shut up. I don't want to hear your voice... shame on you."
He turned and left the arena quietly, leaving Enzo standing on his knees, and disappointment an unbearable burden.
The guards intervened gently, carrying André from the ground, each of their movements woven with care, as if they were protecting a frightened flower.
Enzo threw his stick with suppressed anger: "Damn... that bastard!
Daniel smiled sarcastically, his eyes twinkling with arrogance: "Oh brother... calm down. Maybe you'll win next time." Then he passed by him, and added with a soft laugh: "Or maybe not."
That smile was a sharp sword in Enzo's chest. And as soon as Daniel moved away, Enzo exploded with a cry filled with hatred: "Daniel... that bastard! I'll kill him someday!"
After Daniel left the arena, he walked with quiet steps towards the cell where André was. His shoulders were tense, his hands clasped behind his back, every movement of him exuding control and mysterious calmness.
He stopped in front of the cell door for a short moment, listening to the silence around him, then slowly pushed the door, letting the squeal of iron seep into the air, as if the place itself was staring at him.
He entered with steady steps, his eyes wandering inside. His gaze fell on André, lying on the ground, his head bandaged with white bandages tainted with traces of fresh blood. Beside him, sat Armanda and Logi, silent, watching him like silent guards, everything around the small child was enveloped in calm after the storm.
Everyone turned towards the door, where Daniel stood. His calm eyes were scanning the scene silently, with no hostility in them, but that gentle smile on his lips was hiding more than it showed.
André raised his head slowly, his body weighed down by fatigue, dragging him until he sat. His hazel eyes looked like a weak flame struggling to stay lit under the weight of fatigue and pain that was drawn on his small features.
He said in a tired but sharp voice: "What do you want now?"
André looked at the man with expectant eyes, doubting for a moment: Not bad? This man?
Daniel stood in front of him, his hands immersed in the pockets of his black pants, and his features reflected unshakable confidence. In the middle of the darkness, the whiteness of his elegant shirt shone, adorned with a small blue brooch, while his long black coat hung down to give him a majestic presence, like the majesty of nobles that transcends the place.
Daniel reached out cautiously, touched André's face and peered at the bandages, as if trying to make sure they were placed correctly: "Good... they bandaged your wounds properly."
Then he straightened up, his back tense, and his eyes fixed on the child: "Can you move now?"
André hesitated before answering, looking at his trembling hands then at Daniel, as if searching in his face for a reassuring intention, but he found only a strange stillness that resembled the stillness of the sea before the storm.
There was something incomprehensible in the man's features, an elegant calm that hid something else under his skin... as if every smile he drew hid a wound or a knife underneath.
André said in a faint voice: "I can... I think so."
Daniel said in a calm tone that couldn't be argued with: "Good then... I want you to come with me."
André froze in place, his eyes darting between the man's face and the door of the room, as if searching for a hidden exit. He asked in a cautious, hesitant voice: "Where... are we going?"
Daniel didn't answer immediately.
He turned his head slowly, moved his hand to wipe a strand of hair that had fallen on his forehead, a simple movement but it seemed calculated with strange precision, as if it were part of a ritual he alone knew.
Then he let out a short, faint laugh, and said in a tone that mixed sarcasm with boredom: "Oh God... stop asking questions, and follow me."
His words weren't harsh, but they fell in André's ear as an order that couldn't be postponed, or even considered refusing.
The child felt a coldness running through his limbs, that coldness that always precedes danger, then he got up slowly, his gaze still fixed on Daniel's back who had begun to head towards the door with quiet and steady steps, as if he knew exactly where he was going... and where he would lead the others.
Daniel went out first, crossing the long corridor with quiet steps that made a faint echo on the stone floor.
The walls on both sides were gray, with threads of light sliding on them from the old lamps. André followed him silently, clasping his arms to his chest as if sheltering from a cold that didn't exist, except in his soul.
With each step in the corridor, the smell of gunpowder became more clear, seeping into his breath like old smoke that hadn't been extinguished yet.
He stopped for a moment, his eyes moving quickly, clinging to every shadow or trace on the walls. All his senses were tense, as if his body had sensed a danger before his eyes could see it.
He continued walking with greater caution, until his feet reached a half-open door, through which a faint thread of yellow light was seeping.
He reached out his hand and pushed the door quietly... and the iron squealed slowly and eerily, as if the room itself was sighing.
As soon as his feet stepped inside, the scene immediately captured his sight.
Rows of weapons filled the place—arranged with a neatness that almost sent shivers down his spine, as if someone was displaying them not to hide them, but to boast of their danger.
Rifles, pistols, and knives gleaming as if they were breathing under the pale light.
The air there was heavier, saturated with the smell of metal, oil, and gunpowder.
He felt a hidden weight in his chest, a feeling like having the door of the world shut behind you without knowing it. But his gaze was suddenly cut off when Daniel stood in front of him.
André felt the weight of the air around him, as if the whole room had stopped for a second, focusing everything on his presence.
Daniel raised his hand with a quiet gesture towards the weapons, as if they were nothing more than a game, but in André's eyes, it felt like a deadly weight. "Choose one."
André stared at him warily.
Daniel's looks... those strange looks mixed with a mysterious smile.
Every attempt to understand him was futile. Impossible. Provocative. Arousing fear more than curiosity.
What is he thinking? What does he want?
A strange feeling. A feeling of danger. I can't trust him. Something inside me says he doesn't mean well.
André closed his eyes for a moment, turning his face away, stubbornly.
Trying to ignore the longing for knowledge, ignore the desire of curiosity boiling inside him.
"I don't want to."
The words came out of him broken, tense, but firm.
Even if his body trembled a little, these were his words, his only defense, his temporary wall against the ambiguity that filled the room.
Daniel let out a quiet laugh, carrying something of sarcasm, as if it were awakening the whole place.
He advanced towards the weapon racks, his steps steady, quiet, calculated.
He reached out his hand gently, and selected a weapon with a silver handle that gleamed in the dim light.
He turned lightly, raised the weapon pointing towards him... and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The bullet was launched.
The vase shattered directly behind André, the shards of glass scattering in the air, gleaming, sharp... as if they were reflecting his terrified heart.
He gasped loudly, his hand feeling his body... he wasn't hit, a fleeting moment of relief... but it didn't last.
Daniel approached, each step of him calculated and steady, turning the weapon between his fingers as if playing with death was just amusement.
His eyes... were gleaming with a cold danger, with no mercy in them.
"You don't want to?" He said it quietly, but the voice was enough to press on André's chest.
He paused for a moment, then added in a deeper, heavier voice:
"Hmm... it doesn't depend on whether you want to or not. Since you set foot in this place, there is no longer a choice to refuse... you have been sentenced to a slow execution."
André felt the words falling on him like another bullet, slow, inevitable. Those words were enough to do their work.
André felt the sweat pouring from his forehead, flowing on his small, trembling face.
But Daniel didn't give him a chance to catch his breath.
He approached with a cold quietness, until his shadow completely covered him, then he raised the weapon and placed its muzzle on the child's forehead.
He tilted his head slightly, that narcissistic gesture that cannot be mistaken, and a faint smile drew on his face.
"But, do you know?"
His voice was frighteningly calm, as if he were whispering a secret that shouldn't be said.
"You can escape this sentence. You can become the one who judges, the one who decides... the one who controls everything. Only if you become the predator, not the prey."
André's breath froze. He didn't understand. He didn't grasp.
All he felt was the weight of the last word as it fell on his chest like a stone.
He shrank in place, his wide eyes gleaming with tears, before one of them fell silently on his cheek.
"I... I'm scared."
His voice trembled, barely coming out from between his breaths.
"I don't want to die... I don't want to be prey. I just want my dad... I want to leave. I don't want to stay here... this place is really terrifying."
His last words were like a broken confession, coming out of a child who hadn't found anyone in this world to save him from a monster wearing a human face.
Daniel sighed slowly, slowly as if time itself was delayed to respond to him, then he removed the weapon from André's head.
His hand remained touching the weapon for a moment before releasing it completely, then he reached out his hand and took the child's hand, and handed him the weapon in a quiet, calculated way, as if strength was being transferred to him instead of being imposed.
"Don't cry, little one... calm down."
The tone of his voice was low, but it had a strange warmth that couldn't be explained.
"I don't want to scare you. I know... I know it's really terrifying. I also don't want you to be prey here."
André looked at him, his heart still racing, his hand trembling as he held the weapon.
A strange feeling intertwined inside him: relief... and fear... and curiosity.
How can the person who threatens you and puts your life on the line be the same one who gives you this slow trust.
"Please... help me... so that I don't become..." André whispered, his voice almost breaking, his hands trembling as he looked at Daniel, searching for a promise that would stop the fear that was devouring him from the inside.
Daniel nodded gently, his voice quiet but carrying a majesty that cannot be mistaken: "Of course... that's what I won't do, little one. Don't worry."
He paused for a moment, then added slowly, as if his words were heavy as metal: "Therefore... I want you to shoot me now."
André felt a coldness running through his limbs, his heart pounding violently, and a wave of anxiety mixed with curiosity.
Could he really trust him this way? Would this weapon become the beginning of his transition from prey to something else... something stronger?
Yet... André couldn't raise his hand.
His arm trembled, his fingers froze in place, as if his whole body was refusing to obey.
Daniel's grip caught his hand, and fixed it on his head without hesitation.
A cold voice pierced the silence: "Shoot me, boy."
André's breath choked in his chest.
If he did... he would die. He would really die.
He tried to pull his hand away, in vain.
Daniel's grip was like steel, unshakeable and unyielding.
He stammered in a shaking voice: "No... I can't kill you!"
Then Daniel's scream echoed in the place, like a thunderbolt that split the silence:
"Erase the word 'I can't' from your life! If you want to live, do it now! There is no room for hesitation here, because if you slip up... you will die before you even realize you are dead!"
Time froze around André.
As if the walls themselves had held their breath.
Everything vanished, except for his trembling grip on the weapon... and Daniel's voice lashing his mind, as if it were a law from which there was no escape.
A long hesitation washed over him, as if time itself had stopped waiting for his decision.
His inner voice was a mixture of fear and a mysterious whisper calling him to action.
Do it... just do it.
His hands were trembling, his fingers approaching the trigger with deadly slowness, touching it as if it were a live ember.
His breaths were accelerating. His body was screaming against his will, but there was something inside him—something he had never known before—that was beginning to convince him that he had to move... that he had to press.
He screamed suddenly, a scream of pain more than courage, and closed his eyes tightly while he pulled the trigger.
Click.
Nothing.
Emptiness.
The gun was empty.
Shock washed over him first... then silence.
His knees gave out and he fell to the ground, his whole body trembling, panting like someone who had survived a death that hadn't happened.
But the relief didn't come.
It never came.
He felt it in his depths... that heavy truth that is not spoken:
That this will not be the last time.
And that the path that had been opened before him... was a long, desolate path, from which there was no return.
As Daniel straightened up and took the weapon, he examined André's features with a cold look.
Even with that smile drawn on his lips, something in his face seemed to refuse to go away no matter how long it took.
He said in a frighteningly quiet voice, as if the words were falling on iron: "Did you see? It was easy."
Then he turned around. He walked towards the depths of the room, to that corner where the hidden door was.
He raised his hand holding the gun and waved it in the air carelessly: "Come on... we're not done yet. Follow me."
André's gaze rose towards him. He tried to pull himself together, but his legs could barely support him.
His breath was quick and broken. His body was tense, as if the earth itself was trying to pull him backward.
Daniel turned and sighed quietly, as if handing him a small needle of calm in a sea of panic: "Take a deep breath."
André inhaled a deep breath, exhaled slowly.
His tension began to ease a little. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand, and tried to fix his stiff face.
"What is your goal... you?" He asked in a faint but firm voice, as if the question was testing itself before requesting it from the outside.
Daniel stopped, his hand on the rusty doorknob. He didn't turn around; there was no need to turn around.
His face remained calm in a way that aroused suspicion, as if everything was calculated and predetermined: "My goal?" He said it with a tone that brought weight, "I'm not here to explain my goal. I'm here to make you discover your goal."
He opened the door slowly. Through the opening a faint light streamed in, as if it was calling what shouldn't be called.
He looked at André who remained standing as stiff as a statue that the winds of events had placed in its position.
He gave him the order with simple decisiveness: "Don't stand there like a statue. Come on... move."