In a cell that looked distinctly different from the others — larger, colder, and filled with an unsettling atmosphere — the air felt as though it existed for a purpose beyond imprisonment. The walls were built from smooth gray stone, polished to a faint reflective sheen that caught the flickering light of the torches mounted at intervals. Every few seconds, the sound of dripping water echoed from somewhere above — tick… tick… tick… — marking time like a slow, deliberate heartbeat.
At the center of the room, a pool of blood spread across the cold stone floor, dark red and glistening. The metallic scent filled the air — thick, iron-rich, mingled faintly with the smell of burnt wax and human sweat. Standing beside that pool of blood was a short man with dark purple hair that reached the nape of his neck. His name was Lensin.
He stood still, his shadow trembling in the torchlight, his hands clutching an old, half-torn book — the pages soaked and stiff with dried blood. His lips moved continuously, his voice low but steady, reciting an incantation he had found written in that mysterious book, which he had taken from an unknown corpse days ago.
The sound of his voice filled the chamber — monotonous, rhythmic, strange. It bounced from the stone walls and came back as a distorted whisper, as if the words themselves had multiplied and were now being spoken by unseen mouths.
Each breath he released fogged into white mist in the cold air. His pulse hammered violently in his chest — he could feel it between each phrase of the chant.
Before him lay a woman's lifeless body — Onna.
Her long white hair spread around her head like a halo of frost, now soaked in red. The knife wound on her stomach gaped open, blood continuing to seep slowly, mixing with the pool beneath her. The reflection of the torchlight made it appear as though she floated atop a scarlet sea.
Lensin's eyes were fixed on her. They were cold, but within them lingered a strange emptiness — not regret, not pity, but something close to anticipation. He stood motionless, waiting for a response, for proof that his ritual had succeeded.
Then —
Her body began to tremble.
The twitch was faint at first, a slight shiver in the fingers, but then it spread violently through her limbs. The sound of bone shifting echoed faintly, unnatural and sharp. The blood that had pooled beneath her began to ripple, circling around her body as if pulled by some unseen magnetic force. The temperature in the cell dropped further. Lensin's breath turned to a heavy fog.
And then…
She rose.
Her body lifted, slow and deliberate, as if gravity had momentarily forgotten her. The movement of her limbs was jerky, unhuman — guided by an invisible command. The blood beneath her rippled outward as she stood upright, her head tilting slightly forward.
Her eyes opened. The once lifeless gray eyes now reflected a faint light — emotionless, searching. She looked directly at Lensin.
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then, her body began to change. The pallor of her skin faded. The wound at her stomach closed, the torn flesh knitting itself back together. The color drained from her white hair, shifting to a deep orange hue that shimmered faintly under the torchlight. Her height increased, her form reshaped. The frail body of Onna disappeared.
What replaced her was a tall woman, her posture regal and commanding. She wore a long black cloak that moved subtly as though alive, breathing in rhythm with the air itself. Her hair was tied back neatly, glowing orange like the color of dusk before fire. Her eyes — a piercing, unnatural yellow — fixed on Lensin with a gaze that pierced through him.
She stood silently, her expression void of emotion, yet the very air trembled with her presence. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft — yet filled with authority so powerful it shook the air itself.
"Where is this place, and how did I get here?"
The words reverberated across the stone chamber. They were not shouted, yet each syllable carried weight, as if it were law spoken aloud. Lensin's body trembled. His hands went numb. Sweat rolled down his temples. His heart quivered violently, not from exhaustion, but from the fear that crawled up from the depths of his soul.
He did not answer.
Instead, he raised the book slowly, offering it to her like an offering to a god. His eyes did not dare meet hers.
The woman lowered her gaze to the book, her yellow eyes flickering slightly.
"Hmm…"
She flipped it open with one graceful motion, and the faint torchlight illuminated the ancient words and bloodstained pages.
Her lips curved faintly as she spoke, her tone steady — analytical, curious, dangerous.
"A demon summoning ritual… The demon cannot return until both parties have agreed upon a mutual contract. Interesting."
The last word lingered in the air, heavy and final. The flames of the torches wavered, dimming as though the room itself bowed to her presence. Lensin stood frozen, watching her — torn between terror and fascination — knowing deep within that he had awakened something beyond his control, something that would never again allow the world to be the same.
After the orange-haired woman in the long black cloak finished reading, she placed the book on the stone table beside her. The soft, dry sound of paper brushing against stone echoed faintly through the cold, hollow cell — a sound that carried the weight of something ancient, something final.
For a moment, she stood still. The golden glow of the torches flickered along the surface of her eyes, painting reflections that seemed alive. Her shadow stretched long across the floor, reaching toward the man before her. The air around her pulsed with quiet, suffocating power — unseen yet unmistakable.
Her face was calm, unnervingly so. The stillness of her expression held a command greater than any loud declaration could. She stood tall, motionless, like a queen who ruled over darkness itself — her presence enough to bend the air around her.
Then she spoke.
"So, what do you want?"
Her voice was soft but resonant, the kind of sound that didn't need to be raised to dominate. Each syllable vibrated through the air, lingering even after her lips stopped moving.
Though she asked, the look in her eyes told the truth — she already knew the answer. She could feel it in the energy of the place, in the restrained flow of magic that could not exist here without the push of something greater. She understood perfectly well what the man before her desired.
Lensin looked back at her, his throat dry. Fear and determination warred within his gaze. His entire body trembled, not from the cold but from the weight of standing before the very being he had summoned — a power far beyond his control. His heartbeat pounded loudly in his ears. When he finally spoke, his voice came out low, rough, trembling but resolute.
"I want my own power back."
There was desperation in his tone — the kind born from long suffering and suppressed rage. He gestured toward the bloodstained book resting on the table. "That book… contains the incantation to reclaim power. It's what the one who gave it to me desired — the restoration of what was lost."
He drew a breath and met her golden gaze. The reflection of the fire flickered within those eyes, like molten metal that could see through souls. "Therefore, the wish of the person who gave me this book is to reclaim power. In exchange for that… what do you want?"
His question came with a hint of suspicion, edged with fear. It was the tone of a man who knew he was negotiating not with another human, but with something infinitely older and greater.
The woman fell silent. Her eyes half-closed as though she were listening to the silence itself. The room went still — utterly still — save for the faint, intermittent crackling of the torch flames. The quiet dragged on long enough to twist the air, testing his patience, his courage, his will.
When she finally opened her eyes again, the golden hue within them gleamed brighter — no longer the color of simple flame, but of power itself. Her lips parted slowly, and she spoke with the calmness of one delivering law rather than speech.
"Whenever I require your assistance," she said, "you must help me… in a way you cannot control. Is that agreeable?"
Her tone was neither threatening nor gentle. It was simply final. The words struck like a seal being carved into stone — inescapable, binding.
The light of the fire flickered against Lensin's face, tracing the lines of sweat down his temples. He did not answer immediately. His eyes darted between the book, the woman, and the air itself — as if searching for escape in the shadows. Deep within, he already understood what this meant. This was not a deal made in words alone; it was a bond of the soul.
The sound of his heartbeat grew louder. It seemed to merge with the crackle of the flames, forming a rhythm that filled the room — the rhythm of a ritual that would never end.
She waited, unmoving, her gaze steady and unyielding. She knew the outcome already. There was no need to rush.
Lensin swallowed hard, his throat tight. Inside him, fear and desire fought violently, clawing for dominance. His breath came shallow, uneven. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. His violet eyes trembled as they met hers.
Within that single look, all emotion collided — despair, courage, and the shadow of the very demon he had brought into the world.
The air thickened. It pressed down from above as if the heavens themselves leaned closer to witness. The only sounds remaining were their breaths, overlapping — human and inhuman — echoing together in the hollow stillness of the cell.
Lensin fell silent for a moment. He didn't answer right away, but allowed the silence to stretch through the cold, dim room — giving himself time to consider the dangerous offer before him. The torches flickered faintly, casting restless shadows that danced across the damp stone walls.
The air smelled of smoke and ancient rock, heavy with the taste of stillness. The silence grew so thick that he could hear the rhythm of his own heartbeat echoing in his chest — slow, heavy, deliberate — as if reminding him that this choice could never be undone.
He drew a long breath, steadying the turmoil inside his head before finally speaking, his voice low and cautious yet filled with quiet comprehension.
"And how dangerous is it?"
He asked not merely for an answer but to affirm that he still had the right to ask — that he still had the illusion of control before the inevitable swallowed him whole. His voice echoed faintly off the stone, hollow and distant, vanishing into the depth of the chamber.
The woman laughed softly. Her laugh was light, metallic — the kind of sound that cut through the air like the ringing of a bell in an empty hall. It carried amusement, mockery, and something cold beneath. She tilted her head slightly before replying, her tone cool and deliberate.
"It depends on how strong you are."
A simple answer, yet it fell like a slab of iron. There was no comfort, no deception — only the plain, unyielding truth.
Lensin pressed his lips together. He had expected her to say exactly that, yet a small part of him had secretly wished for something gentler, something that sounded less like a death sentence. But deep down, he knew such hope was foolish. He wasn't speaking to a human. She was a being that neither feared pain nor death.
"Hmph… fine then," he murmured, exhaling slowly as though purging the last remnants of hesitation from his body. "Agreed."
The word slipped from his mouth like a blade drawn from its sheath — sharp, irreversible. He lifted his chin slightly, his violet eyes steady upon her.
At that moment, a black ring appeared beneath his feet, etched with intricate markings that pulsed like living veins. The ring began to rotate — slowly at first, then faster, faster still — until the air trembled with its energy. A low hum rose from the ground, deep and resonant, like the breathing of an ancient beast awakening after centuries of sleep.
A purple aura burst outward, spreading across the stone floor and surrounding both of them in a glowing circle. The light shimmered, alive, throbbing with rhythm — like the heartbeat of the earth itself. The darkness retreated, but the glow did not escape the boundaries of the cage. It was trapped, as though the walls themselves refused to share what was happening inside.
Cold wind spiraled through the air, stirring his hair and cloak. The scent of ozone filled his lungs as static energy crackled in the silence. The floor trembled, and then — suddenly — all was still.
The violet light flared bright enough to turn white, and then began to fade. The woman's figure blurred, her body unraveling like mist caught in the pull of some unseen void. Bit by bit, she dissolved into nothingness, until only her shadow remained — and then even that disappeared.
Lensin was alone.
He stood there in the cage, the last echoes of power still humming faintly around him — invisible threads of warmth, cold, and vibration lingering in the air. He stared at the empty space where she had stood moments before, and slowly released the breath he had been holding.
His expression softened. The tension drained from his face, leaving behind only calm resolve. He turned toward the corner where a small wooden bed waited. His footsteps echoed softly across the stone floor as he walked toward it.
He lay down slowly, the wood creaking under his weight. The room felt quieter now — unnaturally so. As he closed his eyes, the silence was broken by a voice in his head.
It was her voice. The same voice that had just vanished into the air.
"Just play the game."
It wasn't a command. It wasn't even a warning. It sounded almost like a whisper of amusement — the echo of laughter from someone who already knew how everything would unfold.
Lensin didn't move. He simply let those words circle in his mind, like ripples across still water. The torchlight dimmed, fading to a soft orange glow that brushed his face and reflected in the faint curve of a smile at the corner of his lips.
He didn't know if this was the beginning or the end. But one truth rang clear — there was no turning back now.
In the silence of that night, his heartbeat pulsed in rhythm with the hidden world beneath the earth — the rhythm of a game that had just begun.