Lensin simply nodded.
The faint clatter of metal echoed through the vast cafeteria as trays and cutlery were collected by the guards. The mealtime was over, and the murmur of conversation faded little by little, leaving behind only the rhythmic sound of boots striking the concrete floor. Prisoners were ordered to stand, one by one, forming silent rows under the dim orange lights that flickered occasionally, as if the bulbs themselves were about to give out.
The air grew colder. Dust floated through the light, shimmering weakly before vanishing into the shadows. The long hallway stretched endlessly ahead, lined with heavy iron doors. The faint scent of rust and old sweat clung to the air, thick and suffocating.
Lensin walked in the middle of the line, his steps steady, his eyes calm. The faint chains around his wrists rattled with every movement, yet he no longer noticed their weight. The metal was cold against his skin, but it felt almost familiar now — a dull reminder that he was still alive.
As they passed through each corridor, the sound of locks clicking shut followed them like echoes of finality. "Clang… clang…" The mechanical rhythm reverberated through the hall until it became the only sound left in that place.
When they reached the cell block, Lensin was pushed gently inside by one of the guards. The heavy door shut behind him with a deep, echoing thud. His cell was small — barely large enough for a bed, a small table, and a bucket in the corner. The walls were cracked, stained with years of damp and decay. From the ceiling, a single light flickered weakly, its pale glow casting shifting shadows that danced across the walls like restless spirits.
Night had fallen outside. Though no windows showed it, Lensin could feel it — the silence, the heaviness of the air, the way the world seemed to hold its breath. The darkness seeped in through every crack, swallowing the faint traces of warmth that had remained from the day.
He sat on the hard metal bed. The sound of the old springs creaked beneath his weight, a dry, mournful sound. Exhaustion settled into his bones, not from labor alone but from the unending monotony — the same sounds, the same faces, the same despair day after day.
Lensin leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. His thoughts were still, as if frozen in a deep, unmoving lake. He closed his eyes and let the silence consume him.
Then, from somewhere far down the corridor, came a scream.
It was faint, but sharp — a cry of pain, then another, followed by the metallic clang of something striking flesh. The sound carried through the air like a blade, echoing off the stone walls. There were other noises too: a muffled plea, the scraping of chains, a wet, heavy sound that could only be blood hitting the ground.
Lensin opened his eyes slowly. His expression didn't change.
He listened for a moment, then let the sound fade from his awareness. It was not new. He had heard it before — again and again. Death and violence were as common here as the air he breathed. There was no point in reacting. Not anymore.
He turned his head slightly toward the wall and closed his eyes again.
To him, the screaming was merely background noise — another echo in the endless night.
He drifted toward sleep, his breathing even, his thoughts fading.
…
He didn't know how much time had passed when he felt it — a faint warmth against his hand.
His eyelids fluttered open.
The dim light from above painted everything in shades of gray. He turned his head slightly — and saw someone standing beside his bed.
It was Onna.
Her white hair shimmered faintly in the darkness, like silk reflecting moonlight. Her face was pale, her eyes — gray and hollow — fixed on him with an unreadable emotion. Her lips trembled slightly, forming a small, fragile smile that seemed both sorrowful and lost.
Lensin blinked, slowly pushing himself upright. His voice came out low and cold, cutting through the silence like a thin blade.
"How did you get in here?"
It wasn't anger that colored his tone — only calm curiosity, and perhaps the faintest trace of weariness. A part of him had expected this, as though her presence in his cell was an inevitability rather than a surprise.
He stood, moving carefully. The air was heavy and unmoving, pressing against his skin. Shadows gathered around her feet, stretching long across the floor.
Then, something glinted faintly in her left hand.
A knife.
Lensin's gaze shifted to it immediately. The blade was small — the kind used in the kitchen, perhaps stolen or hidden away. The dim light struck its edge, sending a narrow silver gleam across the wall and her pale cheek.
She didn't move. She only stood there, her hand trembling slightly, her breathing unsteady but quiet.
Lensin stepped closer, each footstep deliberate and slow. His eyes never left hers. There was no fear in his expression, no alarm — only quiet understanding.
When he reached her, he extended a hand and gently took hold of her wrist.
Her skin was cold to the touch. She didn't resist when he pried the knife from her fingers. The blade slipped from her grasp easily, as though she had never truly meant to use it.
Lensin turned the knife in his hand, examining it briefly before lowering it. His face remained impassive, his voice silent. It was clear from his demeanor that this was not unexpected. He had seen enough of human nature — and of despair — to know how it unfolded.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and unbroken.
The faint hum of the light above was the only sound.
Onna stood there motionless, her eyes glimmering faintly. There was something deeply fragile in her expression — a kind of stillness that was both peaceful and heartbreaking.
Lensin regarded her quietly.
Under the dim light, her white hair shimmered like snow in a dying sunbeam, her shadow spilling softly against the cold wall behind her. She seemed both there and not — like a ghost that had wandered in from some forgotten dream.
And in Lensin's gaze, there was no surprise.
No confusion.
Only inevitability — the calm acknowledgment of a moment he had already foreseen.
Everything about that night — the scream, the silence, the cold — all of it had been leading to this single moment.
And Lensin, as always, simply accepted it.
Lensin looked down once more — the dim light barely reached the floor, yet what he saw there sent a faint tremor through his chest.
A wide circle stretched across the rough stone floor, drawn in pale white chalk and mixed with a darker, glistening red. The two colors intertwined — the dry dust of chalk and the sticky shimmer of blood — merging like veins across cold rock. It wasn't merely a drawing. It pulsed faintly, as though it had absorbed something living.
The air in the cell was heavy.
The faint metallic scent of blood lingered, merging with the smell of dust, rusted iron, and damp stone. Every breath carried the sharp tang of the metallic air, the scent of sacrifice and confinement. The silence itself had weight — thick and unmoving, as though sound refused to exist here.
Lensin's gaze hardened. The faint gleam of the chalk lines caught the dim light from the corridor, reflecting in his eyes like a whisper of another world.
It was exactly as described in the notebook he had found earlier — the one written in scattered handwriting, marked by smudges of dried ink and strange symbols. He could recall each page in perfect detail: diagrams of circles, instructions in sharp, deliberate words, and notes scrawled in the margins — almost desperate, almost mad.
He remembered the last page most clearly.
That page didn't just describe how to perform something — it commanded it.
A ritual. A summoning.
A method that demanded blood, devotion, and the body of a woman who loved the one who called.
Lensin stood still for a moment, as if the entire world had drawn a breath and waited for him.
His eyes moved from the faint red lines on the floor to the shadows of the walls, where the air seemed to quiver. He knew then that the circle wasn't simply drawn by chance. Someone had led him to it.
He exhaled slowly, his voice low and calm as he spoke — not to anyone, but to himself.
"This all started when I came to this place — this prison. It's not my world. Everything here is strange. A woman follows me, I find a book… It's possible that whoever brought me here wants me to perform this ritual. A demon summoning. The summoner and demon make a pact — the demon receives something, and the summoner gains power. Maybe the reason my power is sealed is because that person already made the pact on my behalf."
His own words echoed faintly in the silence, returning to him like a soft wind against stone.
And then — clarity.
The lines connected in his mind, piece by piece. He saw it clearly now: every step, every encounter, every coincidence that had brought him here — all threads of a single design.
He had not been acting of his own will. He was being led.
Manipulated.
A faint, bitter smile curved across his lips. The kind of smile that carried no warmth, only understanding.
He looked toward Onna — the white-haired woman lying quietly near the circle. Her body was still. Her pale skin reflected the faint red light from the blood-soaked floor. Her smile remained, fragile and gentle, even as her breath grew thin. There was no fear in her eyes, only peace — the serenity of someone who had already accepted her role.
Lensin felt nothing but stillness.
His mind replayed the steps written in the notebook, each one echoing like a bell tolling in the distance:
Step one: draw the circle with chalk and blood.
Step two: use the corpse of a woman who loves you — you must kill her yourself.
Step three: recite the given incantation.
Final step: make the pact with the demon.
Every sentence was burned into his memory, cold and precise. The handwriting had been calm — disturbingly calm — as if written by someone describing an ordinary recipe rather than a forbidden act.
Lensin's faint smile returned. It was not a smile of joy, but of inevitability.
He finally understood his part in the story. He was not the one being tested — he was the tool to complete a task left unfinished by another.
The circle was ready. The blood was there. The woman who loved him — Onna — had followed him to the end.
Everything was in place.
Her breathing had grown shallow, but her faint smile didn't fade. Her eyes trembled slightly, a reflection of both affection and resignation.
Lensin knelt down beside her, the shadows shifting as he moved. The cold air brushed against his skin; he could almost feel the weight of the silence pressing down. The dim flicker of a torch outside the bars sent small waves of light rolling across the floor, making the red lines of the circle seem to shimmer.
He reached out slowly, his fingers closing around the knife that still rested in her palm. The blade was cold — unnaturally cold — as if it had never been meant to touch warmth.
The moment his hand touched it, a strange calm filled his chest.
Onna's gray eyes lifted weakly toward him. The faintest breath escaped her lips, a whisper that trembled like a dying flame.
Lensin's gaze didn't waver.
There was no hatred, no hesitation — only acceptance.
He raised the knife, and with one controlled motion, pressed it down.
The sound was soft — a dull, wet sound that echoed briefly, then disappeared into the stillness.
Her body convulsed once. Her blood spilled freely, warm against the cold stone.
But she smiled.
Even in the last seconds of her life, she smiled — not in madness, but in something close to relief.
Her lips moved, her final whisper light as air.
"See you next time in heaven," she said.
Her words hung between them like a fragile thread. There was no tremor in her voice, no bitterness — only peace. The way she said heaven carried a strange, distant tenderness, as if she had truly believed it.
Lensin's eyes softened slightly. His answer came almost like a sigh, quiet but firm.
"See you next time…"
It wasn't a promise — merely a response, calm and certain, the completion of a circle between them.
Then her breath stopped.
Her chest rose once more, then fell forever.
The silence that followed was so deep that Lensin could hear the faint ringing of his own heartbeat.
He watched the still body for a long time, then gently lifted it — her skin already cooling under his touch. Slowly, he carried her form and laid it carefully at the very center of the circle. The lines of chalk and blood met beneath her, perfectly aligned as though destiny itself had drawn them that way.
He stood there for a while, looking down at her peaceful face. Then he spoke — his voice calm, his tone almost ritualistic.
"See you next time… in hell," he finished.
The final word echoed faintly through the chamber, hollow and final.
It was not a threat, nor sorrow — merely truth.
Silence swallowed the world once more.
But this time, it wasn't empty.
It vibrated.
There was something alive within it, something vast and invisible, gathering behind the stillness.
Lensin drew a slow breath, steadying himself. The air was cold against his skin. The faint smell of iron was stronger now, and the circle's light flickered slightly — not truly glowing, but pulsing with something unseen.
He closed his eyes and remembered the incantation written in the notebook.
The strange, ancient words that weren't from his world.
He didn't know their full meaning — only the rhythm, the tone, the order in which they must be spoken.
He began to recite.
The first words left his lips quietly, barely above a whisper. The sound seemed to echo unnaturally, as though the walls themselves were answering. His voice grew steadier with each syllable, shaping the air around him.
The atmosphere thickened.
The light dimmed further.
The shadows of the room seemed to bend toward the circle, as if drawn by gravity. The blood on the floor shimmered faintly, responding to the vibration of his voice.
Each word felt heavy, as though it carved something into reality itself.
He didn't rush. He spoke each line clearly, letting the rhythm guide him.
The room trembled faintly.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
The faint hum in the air became a low vibration that resonated through his bones.
He kept reciting, his eyes half-lidded, his expression calm — like a priest performing a sacred rite that transcended morality. The drops of blood falling from Onna's wound added a rhythm to his chant, each one striking the stone with a soft tick that blended with the cadence of his voice.
And then — the final phrase.
The last word rolled from his tongue, long and deliberate.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then — a sound.
Low, deep, and impossibly distant — like the earth itself exhaling. The air rippled, as though the space around him had been folded.
Lensin didn't move.
His gaze was firm.
He had finished the ritual exactly as it was written.
Whatever came next — whether light or darkness, heaven or hell — was no longer his to control.
The circle had been completed.
The pact had begun.