Inside the prison, the air was thick with tension — so dense it felt as though even breathing required effort.
Water dripped slowly from the damp, cracked ceiling, each drop echoing through the cold stone corridors with haunting rhythm.
Drip… drip… drip…
It was the sound of time itself crawling forward, unbearably slow, as if mocking those trapped within these walls.
The stone walls were dark gray and ancient, their surfaces stained with rust and faint traces of dried blood.
The iron bars, once sturdy and gleaming, were now twisted and corroded, their edges sharp and uneven.
The air carried a pungent mix of sweat, iron, and decay — the scent of confinement that clung to everything, seeping into the skin and soul of those who lived here.
In one shadowed corner of the prison sat an old man, his back leaning against the cold wall.
His hair, once perhaps dark, had turned completely white — brittle and thin, like snowflakes on stone.
Wrinkles cut deep lines across his face, and faint scars marred his arms, silent testaments of long-forgotten torture.
Across from him was another prisoner — a young man with short violet hair and eyes that glimmered faintly in the dim light.
That man's name was Lensin.
"Lensin, huh? Just an adventurer? Interesting."
The old man's trembling voice echoed through the cell.
It was both curious and cautious, the sound of someone who had seen too much yet still sought to understand more.
Lensin, however, didn't seem to care.
He simply raised his head slightly, his sharp eyes glinting beneath the flickering light before lowering his gaze again.
The old man said nothing more.
He sensed that Lensin was not someone who indulged idle talk.
Silence reclaimed the cell once again — thick and suffocating.
Lensin took a quiet breath and slowly stood.
The faint jingle of metal chains broke the silence — clink… clink… — echoing faintly across the stone floor.
He stepped toward the iron bars and pressed his palm against them.
The cold steel bit into his skin, sending a chill up his arm.
He closed his eyes, and a dim violet light began to flicker faintly around his hand.
A pulse of energy surged outward — but just as quickly, it vanished, swallowed by an unseen force.
The bars didn't even tremble.
Instead, a strange pressure rippled back toward him, like a silent wave pushing against his power.
The ground beneath his feet quivered faintly from the backlash.
Lensin frowned.
He had half-expected this.
The realization didn't surprise him; it merely confirmed his suspicion — escaping from this place would not be easy.
"So… it's like that, huh,"
he thought quietly to himself.
Lensin knew immediately that this prison wasn't part of the world he once knew.
The air felt different — thinner, sharper, carrying a foreign energy unlike any he had ever sensed before.
The oxygen itself seemed altered, and the faint pulse of magic in the atmosphere was twisted, unstable, and foreign.
He was sure of it:
this was another dimension, one detached from all natural laws he understood.
He sat down slowly on the narrow bed — if it could even be called that.
The surface was cold and unyielding, a slab of rusted metal bolted into the wall.
When his back touched it, a chill spread through his spine like ice crawling over his skin.
The metallic clang of the bed echoed softly. Clang…
There were no pillows, no sheets — only the cruel hardness of steel and the quiet hum of despair.
He closed his eyes again, thinking, analyzing every possibility in his mind.
The structure of the cell, the direction of the airflow, the vibrations in the walls — everything was being recorded in silence.
If he couldn't overpower this realm with force, he would have to understand it first.
But before his thoughts could settle, a voice suddenly broke through the silence.
"Wake up. It's time for food. After you eat, you have to work."
The voice was clear yet harsh — firm like an order that allowed no room for refusal.
Lensin opened his eyes slowly, his expression calm and indifferent.
Light from the torches outside his cell flickered in through the gaps in the bars, painting stripes of gold and shadow across his face.
His eyes reflected that dim firelight like still water.
A large man entered the corridor.
He was built like a wall — broad shoulders, thick arms marked with scars, every step heavy with authority.
His armor clanked with each movement, and the torchlight gleamed off the dents and scratches that told tales of countless battles.
His face was cold, emotionless, carved with discipline and cruelty.
He walked past each cell, glancing briefly at the prisoners within before turning toward one of the guards standing nearby.
"Put handcuffs on them and take them to the cafeteria."
His voice was deep and commanding — no hesitation, no pity.
The kind of tone that only those who had long lost their humanity could speak with.
As his order echoed through the halls, the sound of heavy keys rattled through the air.
Clack… clank… creak…
One by one, the cell doors opened, their rusted hinges groaning in protest.
The smell of damp metal grew stronger, mingling with the faint stench of blood.
Lensin looked toward the corridor just as a group of armored guards marched in.
Their faces were devoid of emotion, their steps synchronized and mechanical.
They moved with practiced precision, the kind born from routine and obedience rather than conviction.
Then one of them stopped in front of Lensin's cell.
The man had blonde hair that shimmered faintly under the torchlight, and his black eyes glistened like polished obsidian.
He was tall — taller than Lensin by a head — and his presence carried quiet authority.
Without a word, he reached for the lock, twisted it open, and stepped inside.
The metallic groan of the door echoed sharply. Creak…
He moved forward, silent as a shadow, and clasped a pair of heavy iron cuffs around Lensin's wrists.
The steel was cold enough to sting, biting into his skin as the chains locked in place.
Clink… clank…
Lensin looked up, meeting the man's eyes.
For a brief moment, neither spoke.
The torchlight flickered between them, casting moving shadows on their faces — the flicker of warmth in a world stripped of it.
There was something strange in the man's gaze: not cruelty, but curiosity… a quiet, unspoken thought behind the calm.
The blonde guard's expression didn't change, but his eyes lingered — studying Lensin as if trying to understand what kind of man stood before him.
Then, with a quiet nod, he turned and gestured for Lensin to follow.
Lensin said nothing.
He could feel that look, but he didn't react.
His face remained unreadable, composed — a mask of perfect calm even in this place of despair.
Only the faint sound of his breath, and the cold rattle of chains, filled the air around him.
Clink… clank… clink…
That sound — the sound of captivity — echoed endlessly through the hall.
And in that rhythm, Lensin realized one undeniable truth:
his freedom, for now, was completely gone.
After the man with blonde hair fastened the handcuffs tightly around their wrists, the prisoners were led out of their cells one by one.
The faint clinking of chains echoed through the long, narrow corridor — a hollow metallic sound that bounced endlessly off the cold stone walls.
The air was damp and chilling, biting against the skin like invisible frost. Every breath Lensin took carried with it the sharp scent of rust and dust, mixed with the musty odor of decay. It felt less like a prison and more like a tomb.
As they walked through the dimly lit passage, he could see other prisoners ahead and behind him.
Some walked with hunched backs, their steps heavy and lifeless. Others wore expressions of complete resignation, eyes hollow as if they had long given up on freedom.
But amid the monotonous shuffle of feet, a small disturbance caught Lensin's attention — the sound of two people quarreling somewhere along the hallway.
He turned slightly and caught sight of a small woman with bright pink hair standing defiantly in front of a large, bald man.
They were exchanging heated words, though their voices were too low and muffled for Lensin to make out the details.
He simply gave them a brief glance, indifferent, before facing forward again.
Such trivial matters meant nothing to him.
The faint clatter of his chains blended with the murmuring of others, forming a rhythm that marked the slow march toward yet another unknown place.
Torches were mounted along the walls, but the light they gave off was weak — dim orange flames flickering unsteadily, throwing long, distorted shadows on the ground.
In some stretches of the corridor, the darkness was nearly absolute. The only glint of brightness came from the faint reflection of light bouncing off the iron cuffs around his wrists.
Lensin blinked a few times to adjust his eyes to the gloom before stepping through a massive black iron gate.
A sudden change in air greeted him — the faint, unpleasant scent of cooked food and grease.
Before him opened a wide hall filled with the noise of life, or perhaps chaos.
Rows upon rows of long metal tables filled the room, with hundreds of chairs set beside them.
The tables were rough and stained, some covered with scratches and patches of rust, while the wooden chairs had been repaired so many times they no longer matched in shape or height.
Men and women, prisoners of all kinds, moved restlessly about, holding metal trays and bowls as they searched for a place to sit.
The noise was overwhelming.
Spoons clattered against trays, boots scraped against the floor, voices rose in laughter, argument, and frustration.
The entire hall seemed to vibrate with a low, chaotic hum that pressed against Lensin's ears.
He glanced at the food on the trays around him — a gray, watery soup, a lump of bread so hard it might break a tooth, and a few pieces of unidentifiable meat.
The plates, forks, and spoons looked as though they hadn't been properly cleaned in weeks.
It was the kind of meal that one might eat only out of necessity, never by choice.
Lensin found an empty table and sat down.
The metal surface was cold beneath his fingers, and when he pulled out the chair, it gave a faint creak of protest.
He sat back, letting his eyes wander over the hall.
Unlike every other table, his was completely empty.
Everywhere else, prisoners crowded together, shoulders pressed tight, the air thick with body heat and sweat.
But no one came near him.
He sat alone, and somehow that isolation felt both strange and natural.
He could feel the stares — curious, suspicious, cautious — from both guards and prisoners alike.
But soon those glances faded away; after all, he was new, and the novelty of a new inmate would wear off quickly enough.
Lensin exhaled softly, resting his hands on the table.
The noise of the hall blurred into the background like a constant buzz, meaningless and irritating.
Then, a faint change in the air — the sound of light footsteps approaching.
He lifted his gaze.
A young girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, was walking toward him.
Her hair was pure white, long and soft, falling like strands of silk over her shoulders.
Her eyes were black — deep and emotionless, yet somehow they carried an elegance that drew attention without trying.
Every step she took was calm and measured, her expression as still as the surface of a frozen lake.
She held a tray of food in both hands and made her way directly to his table.
Several heads turned as she passed, surprise flickering across the faces of nearby prisoners.
When she reached him, she sat down across from Lensin without a word.
He studied her quietly. His amethyst eyes reflected the faint orange light of the torches, calm but unreadable.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed someone else approaching — an old man he recognized immediately.
It was the same man who had spoken to him in the cell.
The old man walked slowly, his back slightly bent, his hands trembling as he carried his tray.
He took a seat beside Lensin, leaving a small space between them as if to be polite.
A gentle smile appeared on his wrinkled face as he lifted a spoon, his movements unsteady yet careful.
Lensin turned his head slightly toward him and spoke in a low, even voice.
"I've told you about myself. Who are you?"
The old man looked up slowly.
The wrinkles on his face deepened as his expression shifted between weariness and faint amusement.
He let out a dry, cracked laugh before replying in a hoarse tone.
"My name is Settee. I ended up in this prison because of a misunderstanding.
They accused me of murdering a nobleman… but in truth, I only snuck into his house.
I'm just a wanderer — homeless, with nowhere to go."
His voice was so soft it almost vanished beneath the constant din of the cafeteria.
Lensin watched him in silence, his expression cold and detached.
Then, the corners of his lips curved slightly — not in kindness, but in quiet mockery
Inside, he laughed to himself.
A pitiful tale. Should I believe it?
He had no reason to. To him, words like those were nothing but desperate attempts to earn sympathy.
Only one thought crossed his mind —
"Deserved it."
The words slipped out softly, but they were as cold and sharp as a blade drawn in silence.
He remained seated amid the noise and chaos, motionless, emotionless.
The flickering light of the torches reflected in his violet eyes, painting faint ripples of gold and purple across his gaze.
At that moment, Lensin seemed almost unreal —
like a shadow detached from the world, untouched by pity or fear, existing only in quiet indifference.