As the big bald man walked in, the air in the stone corridor seemed to tighten all at once.
Each of his footsteps landed heavily, echoing through the dim space like the steady beat of a war drum.
Thud... Thud... Thud...
Every step sent faint tremors through the floor, and the oppressive weight of his presence spread outward like ripples from a boulder dropped into still water.
The torches along the wall flickered, casting trembling light that danced wildly against the rough stone.
Their orange glow stretched his shadow far ahead of him, long and distorted, like the silhouette of a beast crawling out from a nightmare.
Sweat glistened faintly on his thick, scarred skin.
The muscles in his arms bulged and shifted with each slow breath, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm that spoke of restrained violence.
Around him, people began to look — not with curiosity, but with the quiet dread of animals that sense a predator drawing near.
The faint rattling of chains and the muffled breaths of prisoners filled the silence that followed.
Even the crackling of fire seemed to hush, afraid to disturb the tension that hung heavy in the air.
The old man beside Lensin — Settee — began to tremble uncontrollably.
The moment he caught sight of that bald figure, the color drained from his face as if someone had ripped the life out of him.
His lips quivered, and the hand that had been holding his metal food tray went limp.
It slipped from his grasp and crashed onto the stone floor.
Clang!
The sound rang through the hallway like the toll of a bell in a graveyard.
Settee's voice came out trembling and cracked, his fear naked and raw.
"I-I didn't talk about anything! Please, believe me!"
The words echoed off the walls — desperate, panicked, and hopeless.
But the more he tried to defend himself, the clearer it became that he was only exposing his own guilt.
His denial carried the tone of a man who had already confessed through his fear.
Beads of sweat ran down his wrinkled face, catching the dim light like tiny crystals.
His eyes darted back and forth, searching for mercy, for anyone who might save him —
but there was no one.
No one would step forward for him here.
Lensin stood motionless.
The firelight flickered across his face, tracing his sharp features in lines of shadow and light.
His violet hair caught the glow, faintly reflecting like dull metal.
He lifted one hand — the chain binding his wrists clinked softly — and pressed his fingers against his temple as though suppressing a headache.
In truth, it wasn't pain that throbbed inside him — it was anger.
A deep, cold irritation that burned quietly beneath the surface.
Settee's panic and foolishness disgusted him.
The old man's words contradicted his actions so perfectly that it was almost painful to watch.
Even without using any special power, anyone could tell what they had been talking about.
Settee's mouth moved faster than his mind — and now, both would pay for it.
Lensin frowned, his expression tightening.
He didn't need to say a word; the sharpness of his gaze was enough to silence the weak.
The surrounding prisoners began to murmur, the whispers flowing through the corridor like a current of wind.
They all understood the situation, and in that moment, no one envied Settee's position.
"Huh? Weren't you talking about us?"
The bald man's deep, gravelly voice cut through the tension like a blade.
It was low, mocking, full of deliberate menace — the kind of voice that came from someone who enjoyed watching others squirm.
His steps grew heavier as he advanced, and the faint glint of metal at his waist caught the flickering torchlight.
The sound of movement stopped.
All other noise — chains, footsteps, whispers — fell silent.
Only the slow, deliberate breathing of the bald man remained, echoing faintly against the walls.
People exchanged glances in the shadows.
One by one, a few nodded hesitantly.
It was enough. The crowd didn't need proof — only fear and suggestion.
"Everyone heard you," the man growled.
The murmurs rose again — soft, uncertain voices weaving together like a single whisper carried by the wind.
Eyes darted toward Settee, who now stood frozen, his body trembling like a leaf in a storm.
He swallowed hard, but his throat was dry; no sound came out at first.
His chest heaved, struggling for breath.
The wrinkles on his face deepened with each passing second, etched by terror and regret.
He tried to raise his hands — a feeble, trembling motion — as if reaching for something, anything, that might shield him.
His fingers quivered midair, hovering uselessly between defense and surrender.
Then he turned to Lensin.
That look — desperate, pleading, full of raw terror — was like the last flicker of a candle before it dies.
He sought salvation in the eyes of the man beside him.
But Lensin's expression remained cold and unreadable.
He didn't look back.
Didn't move. Didn't speak.
The faintest shadow of a smirk touched his lips — not amusement, not kindness, but something far colder.
It was the kind of look that said "You made your bed."
Lensin had no intention of helping him.
He didn't know the old man well enough to care, and foolishness like this wasn't something worth saving.
In this place, mistakes carried their own punishment.
The stale, damp air of the prison thickened, heavy with sweat and the metallic tang of rust.
The torches crackled softly, sparks drifting up to vanish into the gloom.
Every prisoner could smell the fear — it was almost tangible, like smoke that seeped into their lungs.
Settee's terror hung in the air, invisible but suffocating, and even those who weren't involved began to feel its weight.
Lensin remained still, silently observing everything with an indifference that felt almost inhuman.
He could hear every sound —
the trembling breath of Settee,
the deep growl of the bald man,
the quiet whispers of prisoners trying to pretend they weren't watching.
All of it blended together into a single sound —
the sound of the prison itself.
A living, breathing entity built from fear, despair, and the instinct to survive.
Beyond the torches, the darkness stretched endlessly.
There was no sky, no air, only cold stone and the faint echo of footsteps long gone.
The flickering light danced again, making every shadow move like ghosts reaching out from the walls.
And in that wavering light, the truth of the place was revealed —
there was no justice here, no mercy, no redemption.
Only fear.
Lensin watched, silent as ever, as Settee's body trembled beside him.
To him, it was simply another scene in a world that had long since lost meaning.
A world where weakness was punished not by law, but by the hands of those who were strong enough to act upon it.
In that moment, the air grew colder still —
and the old man's despair filled every inch of the corridor like a lingering echo of his final hope fading into nothing.
Inside the dim prison, flickering torchlight danced weakly along the cold stone walls.
The air was thick with the smell of rusted iron and sweat — heavy, suffocating, and damp.
Every breath carried with it the weight of despair.
No one needed to speak; the atmosphere itself screamed of fear, tension, and resignation.
The faint clinking of chains echoed softly when Settee, the frail old man, raised his trembling hands.
His entire body quivered like a dry leaf caught in a cold gust.
The veins on his thin hands bulged as he clenched his fists, trying to suppress the terror that had already overtaken him.
The weak, flickering orange flame reflected in his weary eyes, revealing a trembling soul that seemed moments away from shattering.
Settee was drowning in despair — pure and absolute.
His heart pounded violently, the rhythm echoing inside his skull like a desperate drum,
warning him that the end was near.
Around him, he could feel eyes — dozens of them — watching, whispering, waiting.
Some were curious, others cruel, and none showed even the faintest trace of pity.
A few steps away stood Lensin, silent and still as a statue.
The short-haired man with the faint violet tint in his hair stood with arms loose at his sides,
his expression unreadable, his eyes cold as glacial water.
Even in this heavy atmosphere, his breathing remained steady,
as though nothing before him was worth reacting to.
Settee turned his head toward him — slowly, desperately —
his eyes pleading, begging for a sliver of compassion, for any sign that Lensin might help him.
But Lensin's gaze never softened.
He didn't even bother to look back.
The faint glow of the torch stretched his shadow long across the damp stone floor,
a dark and detached figure that felt utterly removed from the chaos around him.
He's really not going to help me…?
The thought rang again and again in Settee's mind, each repetition sharper than the last.
His lips trembled.
Something inside him began to twist and crack — fear giving way to anger.
The torchlight flickered across his face, and for the first time, his trembling eyes began to burn with a new emotion: rage.
His jaw tightened until the grinding of his teeth could be faintly heard.
The tremor that ran through his body no longer came from fear but from fury boiling up inside him.
"You were talking to me about them too, weren't you!?"
His voice burst out — trembling, uneven, filled with both fear and wrath.
The sound echoed against the walls of the prison, cutting sharply through the silence.
Every head turned.
His tone carried not only anger but also a twisted bitterness — the tone of a man who knew he was doomed
and yet still wanted to drag someone else down with him.
His wrinkled face contorted, torn between despair and a strange, almost perverse satisfaction.
It was as if he had finally spoken the truth festering inside him — even if it cost him everything.
Lensin frowned faintly.
A trace of irritation crossed his calm expression.
He wasn't angry, nor was he threatened; he was simply… bored.
Annoyed that this pathetic display was still continuing.
His lips curved slightly, and a short, humorless chuckle escaped him.
"Everyone heard you talking to yourself. I even told you to stop, didn't I?"
Lensin's voice was quiet — so calm that it was almost terrifying.
The softness of his tone only made his words colder, sharper, and more cutting than if he had shouted them.
Settee's face twisted in pain, humiliation burning in his eyes.
The sound of Lensin's low laugh — a quiet, almost careless chuckle —
spread through the room like a taunt from fate itself.
The laughter was brief, but it carried an eerie weight that made several prisoners nearby shift uncomfortably.
The metallic rattle of Lensin's shackles broke the silence for a moment.
When he shifted his stance slightly, the iron chains scraped against the stone floor with a chilling rhythm.
The air itself felt heavier, as though the room was holding its breath.
Then suddenly —
"Enough! You have no right to be fighting right now!"
The voice exploded through the room, deep and commanding.
It was so loud and powerful that everyone froze in place.
The echo of that shout bounced off the stone walls, repeating again and again until it finally faded.
The torches shook violently from the force of the voice,
their flames flickering dangerously close to dying before flaring back to life, brighter and harsher than before.
That light illuminated all three of them in stark contrast —
Settee, trembling violently, eyes wide with fear and confusion;
Lensin, still calm and expressionless, standing unmoved;
and the owner of that booming voice, whose shadow loomed from the far corner of the prison.
Silence followed, heavy and suffocating.
But it was not peace — it was the silence of pressure,
the silence before something irreversible happens.
In that moment, no one dared to breathe too loudly.
The torchlight danced across the cracked walls,
and the faint smell of burning oil hung in the air.
Time itself seemed to slow,
as though the prison had turned into a living creature that was watching,
waiting to see what would happen next.
Settee's hands hung limply at his sides,
his body trembling from exhaustion and emotion.
He no longer knew if the wetness on his cheeks was sweat or tears.
Lensin's eyes flicked toward him only once — a brief, indifferent glance — before he turned away again.
That single glance was enough to make Settee feel like he had been crushed completely.
He realized, in that instant,
that there was not even a fraction of sympathy in Lensin's heart for him — not even pity.
Around them, the prisoners began to avert their gazes.
Some pretended to eat, others whispered quietly,
as if afraid that even breathing too loudly might attract the wrath of the guards or Lensin himself.
And amidst that unnatural stillness,
the torches continued to flicker,
casting long shadows across the walls that looked like ghostly hands stretching toward them all.
No one knew what would happen next.
But everyone — every single person in that cold, stone prison — could feel it.
This was no longer just an argument.
It was the beginning of something far more dangerous.