"Awake."
A sharp, commanding voice echoed inside Lensin's head, slicing through the stillness of his consciousness like a blade through silk. It wasn't a voice he didn't know. In fact, it was one that had burned itself into his memory — cold, decisive, and full of authority. The moment that voice resounded, it felt as though the silence itself shattered, the heavy darkness behind his closed eyelids breaking apart into fragments of sound.
Lensin's eyes opened slowly. His lids felt heavy, weighed down as though by stones. He blinked several times, letting his vision adjust to the dim light that seeped through the iron bars of his cell. The orange glow from the torches outside painted long, trembling shadows across the cold stone walls, where cracks and claw-like scratches ran like scars through the surface. The air carried a faint metallic tang — the smell of rust and dried blood.
Before him stood a man — tall, broad-shouldered, his presence cutting through the shadows. His armor, dark as the depths of night, glinted faintly with the torchlight as he moved. Each shift of his weight produced a low, metallic ring, the sound of steel brushing steel. This man was the Chief Guard — the one whose voice had summoned them all awake. His piercing gaze swept across the corridor, ensuring every prisoner stirred from their slumber.
From every direction came the sounds of movement: the faint groans of waking prisoners, the creak of rusted chains being dragged, the coughs of those who had inhaled too much dust and dampness. It was the soundscape of captivity — weary, reluctant, and heavy with resignation.
The Chief Guard's steps were slow and deliberate as he approached Lensin's cell. The metal plates of his boots struck the ground with rhythmic finality, each step echoing off the stone walls. When he stopped before the cell, the torchlight revealed the faint scars on his face — marks that spoke of a life spent enforcing obedience. His blue eyes glinted coldly beneath his golden hair, which fell in neat waves to his shoulders.
He reached out, his gloved hand gripping the iron latch. The sound of metal scraping against metal filled the air — click — followed by the deep groan of the gate's hinges as the cell door slowly swung open.
"Get out," he commanded, his voice low but brimming with power. There was no need to shout — the authority in his tone was enough to compel obedience.
Lensin rose from the old wooden bed, the dry straw beneath him rustling as he moved. He stepped forward, his bare feet brushing against the cold stone floor. The chill bit at his skin like tiny needles. He stopped in front of the guard, who immediately seized his arm and clasped cold iron cuffs around his wrists.
The sharp clink of the closing shackles echoed briefly, and the weight of the metal pressed heavily against his skin. The chains were not just to restrain him — they were a constant reminder that he was no longer the man he used to be. Whatever strength or power he once possessed had been stripped away. Now, he was nothing more than a prisoner.
As the guard pulled him out of the cell, Lensin's eyes instinctively flicked to the cell directly opposite his own. It was a sight he was familiar with — a place that once held someone he used to glance at each day through the narrow gap between the bars.
But now, that cell was empty.
He had anticipated this. The emptiness didn't surprise him; it only confirmed what he had already expected. His face remained unreadable, his eyes still and steady — yet, somewhere deep within, a faint sense of inevitability lingered.
Then, something caught his attention. The cell wasn't completely empty. Someone was inside.
There sat a man — his hair a striking white that fell loosely to his shoulders, catching the flicker of the torchlight and reflecting it like pale silver. His eyes were gold — deep, unblinking, and cold, like molten metal that had long since hardened.
Lensin only looked at him for a moment, but that was enough. He could already tell — this man was new. A fresh prisoner.
He didn't need to ask questions or wonder who he was. He didn't care. Yet, there was something faintly unsettling about the man's stillness, about the quiet aura that surrounded him. It was as if something powerful and dangerous lay dormant beneath that calm exterior, waiting for a reason to awaken.
Lensin turned his gaze away, dismissing the thought. His mind was steady, detached. The sound of his chains followed him as he continued walking down the corridor, the Chief Guard leading the way.
The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, lined with torches that flickered and hissed, the flames bending with every faint gust of air that slipped through the cracks in the walls. The glow painted alternating bands of light and shadow along the rough stone floor, and every step Lensin took was mirrored by the dull echo of the metal shackles clinking at his wrists.
When they reached the main hall, a familiar scene unfolded before him.
A small pink-haired woman stood in the middle of the room, her stance defiant, her voice sharp as she argued with a massive bald man whose booming tone filled the air. Her eyes blazed with fury, while his face was flushed with irritation. Their voices crashed together like clashing blades, neither willing to yield.
Lensin observed them from the corner of his eye — the same pair, quarreling as always. Their arguments had become a sort of rhythm in this place, a small reminder that even within a prison, the human spirit refused to stay silent.
But today, something was slightly different.
The white-haired man — the new prisoner he had seen moments ago — walked toward them quietly. His movements were measured, deliberate, and strangely composed. He stopped near the two, his golden eyes steady as he spoke.
Lensin couldn't hear the exact words from where he stood, but he didn't need to. The way the air shifted told him enough. The tension between the arguing pair faltered for just a moment, replaced by an uneasy stillness. The pink-haired woman's defiant posture softened slightly, while the bald man frowned but said nothing more.
The newcomer's voice was low, yet it carried a weight that silenced them both — not through threat or anger, but through something else, something harder to name.
Lensin turned away, his expression unchanged. Whatever exchange was happening behind him didn't concern him. He had seen enough of this place, enough of the people who lived and died within its walls. The sound of their conversation faded as he walked farther down the corridor, swallowed by the echoing rhythm of his own footsteps.
In this underground prison, time moved like dust — slow, constant, and suffocating. And as the cold air brushed past his face, Lensin could only wonder, quietly, how long he would keep walking this same path before the walls around him finally broke.
He only observed them briefly, letting his eyes rest on the scene for just a fleeting moment before moving on. There was no curiosity in his gaze, no emotion—only the detached calm of a man who had long learned that attention could be dangerous in a place like this. His footsteps echoed quietly through the narrow corridor, the sound dull and rhythmic, swallowed by the damp air that filled the underground prison.
Moisture clung to the walls like a living thing. The smell of rust, mold, and old iron bars blended into a suffocating stench that had become part of the air itself. From the cracked ceiling above, droplets of water fell at steady intervals, striking the stone floor with soft, echoing plinks that sounded like the ticking of a clock—marking the slow passage of time in this place where time itself had lost all meaning.
Lensin walked until he reached the place he knew so well—the mess hall.
It was the same as always.
A dull, yellow light flickered above, its weak glow unable to dispel the shadows that clung to every corner. The faint hum of electricity accompanied the flickering bulbs. The air was thick with the mingled scent of boiled vegetables, metal, and unwashed bodies. The clatter of trays, the scraping of spoons, and the low murmurs of prisoners filled the space like a restless sea of monotony.
Lensin stepped into the room without a word. His movements were steady, deliberate, almost mechanical. He reached for a metal food tray—the cold surface biting into his fingers like ice. It was a reminder that everything here was cold, lifeless, metallic. Nothing human survived within these walls.
He moved toward his usual spot, a corner table isolated from the others.
The same spot he always sat in.
The same table where two other people once sat with him.
Today, that table felt emptier than ever. The bench across from him was bare, and the space beside him was nothing but a void filled with silence. For a brief moment, he allowed his thoughts to wander—to remember the faces that once filled that emptiness. A faint memory surfaced: the echo of soft laughter, the quiet murmur of familiar voices. The ghosts of companionship that had long since faded.
But just as quickly as those memories came, he buried them.
This was not a place for remembrance or longing.
Weakness could not survive here.
He exhaled slowly and lowered his gaze to the food on his tray. The meal was the same as always—grayish mush, a few chunks of something that once resembled meat, and a slice of stale bread. It had no taste, no warmth, no care. Still, he ate. Slowly, quietly. Not because he was hungry, but because eating was part of survival. Every movement of his hand, every bite he took, was devoid of emotion—just routine, as if his body were a machine performing its daily task.
Around him, the noise of the hall continued: the faint murmurs of conversation, the scraping of utensils, the hollow laughter of those who tried to forget they were still prisoners. The smell of sweat and cheap food lingered thickly in the air.
When he finally finished eating, he placed the spoon back on the tray. The sound—metal striking metal—rang softly, clink, a small, final note in the otherwise dull symphony of prison life.
Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the monotony.
A loud, commanding shout echoed across the hall, carrying an authority that silenced everything else.
It was a voice Lensin knew all too well.
"Time to go to work."
The Chief Guard's voice was deep and sharp, filled with the weight of command. The entire room fell silent within seconds. Every prisoner froze where they were, instinctively lowering their gazes as if the air itself demanded obedience. The Chief Guard's figure stood tall by the doorway, his silhouette framed by the harsh light above him. His presence radiated power—the kind of power that came not from kindness, but from fear.
The clinking of metal followed his words. The guards, dressed in their dark uniforms, began to move through the room with mechanical precision. Each one carried a pair of iron handcuffs that glinted faintly under the dim light. The metallic sound of the chains jingling echoed off the walls, mingling with the echo of boots striking the stone floor.
Lensin sat still, his eyes half-lidded, watching as the guards approached row by row. There was no tension in his face, no anger, no resistance—just quiet acceptance. He knew the routine too well to fight it. Resistance here was meaningless; the walls themselves seemed to whisper that truth every day.
When the guard finally reached him, the man's shadow fell across his face. Lensin looked up briefly, meeting the guard's gaze with calm, unreadable eyes. Then he stood, offering his wrists without a word. The cold metal of the cuffs snapped shut around them with a sharp click, sealing the rhythm of another day in captivity.
The chain between his wrists rattled lightly as he was led away. Behind him, the echoes of the hall faded—the scraping of chairs, the low murmurs of prisoners preparing for another shift, the ever-present hum of the prison lights flickering above.
And so, another day began in the endless cycle of this dark world—
a place where the passage of time was measured not by the sun,
but by the sound of chains.