Each guard brought handcuffs to put on the inmates they were responsible for supervising.
The faint clinking of metal echoed through the dim corridor — a sharp, rhythmic clang that reverberated against the stone walls like a warning bell. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of rust, sweat, and damp stone. Every sound seemed to linger unnaturally long in this underground prison, as if the darkness itself refused to let it go.
The guards walked with measured steps, their boots striking the ground in perfect unison. Their armor creaked softly, and the torches on the walls flickered with each motion, casting long, trembling shadows that danced across the prisoners' faces. The prisoners remained silent, their expressions blank, their bodies stiff — they had long since learned that silence was safer than speech.
Lensin rose slowly from the creaking wooden bench. The faint scrape of the chair legs echoed in the stillness. He extended his hands forward without protest, wrists exposed, his expression unreadable. The guard assigned to him approached — a large man with cold, expressionless eyes — and clasped the heavy steel cuffs around Lensin's wrists. The metal clicked shut with finality, the sound sharp as a knife's edge.
He felt the familiar chill of the cuffs against his skin, a sensation that no longer stirred anger or humiliation, only weary resignation. He had been here too long to feel surprise. Too long to feel fear.
The guards barked short commands, ordering the prisoners to line up. The sound of chains dragging across the floor followed, filling the narrow hallway with a dreadful rhythm. The group began to move.
Lensin walked quietly, step after step, following the line of prisoners as they were led through the cold, dimly lit corridors. The path twisted and descended deeper underground. Drops of water fell intermittently from the ceiling, splattering against the floor with soft, echoing plinks. The air grew heavier with each step, filled with dust and the metallic tang of the earth.
When they reached the entrance to the mine, the atmosphere shifted. The distant sound of picks striking stone could already be heard — clang, clang, clang — an endless pattern that resonated through the tunnels like a heartbeat. The smell of rock dust and sweat filled his lungs. The faint shimmer of lanterns flickered along the walls, painting the passage in gold and black.
Lensin's expression didn't change. He knew this place all too well — the middle-to-lower level of the mine. It was where he had spent countless days before. Without a word, he walked toward his designated area, his footsteps silent but deliberate.
He stopped before a section of rock that seemed harder than the rest. For a brief moment, he stood still, his eyes reflecting the dim orange light of the lantern beside him. Then, with slow precision, he summoned his energy.
A faint violet aura coiled around his hand like smoke. The air shimmered faintly as a small sphere of explosive energy formed in his palm. He took a step back, lifted his arm, and hurled it toward the rock face.
The explosion that followed was underwhelming.
A muffled boom echoed through the tunnel, followed by a small burst of dust and scattered fragments of stone. The shockwave was weak, barely enough to shake the ground beneath his feet. The light from the blast flared for a brief second before fading into darkness once again.
Lensin stared at the cracked stone wall without emotion. He had expected this.
The demon could not be trusted. She had granted him only the barest fraction of power — enough to awaken a flicker of strength, but far from what he once possessed. It was like tasting a memory of something that had once been his.
He looked down at his hands. The faint traces of energy still lingered around his fingers, glowing softly like dying embers before they vanished into the air. His breath came slow and steady.
Yes, he could feel it — the potential, the fragment of what he used to command. But to return to his former self would take time. Far too much time. And in this place, time was a cruel, meaningless thing. Days bled into nights; nights bled into nothingness.
He sighed quietly. The sound was lost amidst the rhythmic pounding of tools echoing through the mine.
Around him, other prisoners toiled in silence. Their faces were pale, smeared with dirt, their eyes empty. They dug without hope, without will — mechanical, unthinking. The clatter of pickaxes and the grating sound of stone being chipped apart filled the air, forming a relentless, oppressive music.
Lensin reached down and picked up a heavy pickaxe. His hands wrapped around the wooden handle naturally, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly. He swung the tool at the rock in front of him.
Clang.
The vibration ran up his arms, but he barely noticed. Again, he struck. Clang. His motions were steady, measured, efficient. Though his strength had returned more than before, he made sure to move exactly as he had in the past — not faster, not harder. To draw attention here was to invite death.
Sweat formed on his forehead, rolling down the side of his face, mixing with the dust that clung to his skin. He paused briefly, wiping it away with the back of his hand, then continued working.
The lantern light shimmered faintly through the rising dust. Each strike of his pickaxe sent sparks glinting off the rock, momentary flashes of gold in the dimness. The air vibrated with the sound of impact and the groan of shifting stone.
And yet, beneath the monotonous rhythm, his mind was not idle. He was planning. Calculating.
The demon had given him only a fragment of his old power. He could feel the pulse of it within him — restrained, waiting to be drawn out. Normal training would take too long to restore it. Far too long.
He needed something more. Something faster.
He thought of the ritual. The same kind that had brought him this far. The memory of the black ring and its purple glow flickered through his mind. It had been dangerous, yes — but it had worked.
Now, as he worked in silence, surrounded by darkness and the endless rhythm of iron against stone, he made his decision.
He would perform another ritual.
He had no choice.
Even if it meant paying the price again.
The sound of picks striking rock continued, echoing endlessly through the tunnels. Dust filled the air like mist, blurring the shapes of men into ghostly silhouettes. But in the center of that haze, one figure worked in calm silence — his eyes fixed forward, his thoughts sharp and cold.
And deep inside him, beneath layers of exhaustion and silence, something stirred — a small flame of determination that refused to die.
Lensin kept digging.
But in the shadows of his mind, a whisper echoed — the promise of power, the echo of a pact that had not yet ended.
He used the blood he had obtained to draw a strange-looking symbol on the cold, uneven stone floor. The thick, dark red lines trailed slowly across the surface, mingling with the dust of shattered minerals and iron residue. The blood glistened faintly under the dim glow of a distant oil lamp, its surface reflecting an eerie crimson light that seemed to pulse as if alive — as though the symbol itself was breathing.
Lensin knelt down carefully, his knees scraping against the rough, gritty ground. His breath came out shallow and trembling. In his right hand, he held the mining tool tightly, so tightly that the veins in his wrist bulged against his pale skin. Then, with deliberate slowness, he lifted the tool and pressed its sharp edge against his own arm.
The sound of metal slicing through flesh was soft, almost delicate — a quiet, wet whisper that echoed faintly in the silence. The wound opened instantly. Blood flowed out, hot and vivid, dripping rhythmically onto the symbol below. Each drop fell with a soft tap... tap... tap... that resonated through the still air of the underground mine.
The scent of iron and damp earth thickened. He watched as his own blood seeped into the carved lines of the symbol, merging with the crimson pattern already there. The symbol began to darken, its glow shifting from red to a deep, inky black that rippled outward like a spreading stain.
A faint vibration stirred the air — not quite sound, not quite motion — but something that could be felt deep beneath the skin. Lensin felt it in his chest, a hum that matched the beat of his own pulse. He closed his eyes and began to chant the incantation he remembered.
His voice was rough and broken at first, hoarse from exhaustion and pain, but each syllable carried weight — ancient and forbidden. The words tumbled from his mouth in a rhythm older than time, echoing across the cavern walls. The sound gathered strength, reverberating in strange tones, as though the very air was resonating with him.
Then, his body shuddered violently. He coughed — once, twice — before blood burst from his mouth and splattered across the ground. His arms trembled as he fought to keep himself upright. He fell forward to his knees, gasping for air, his fingers digging into the dirt. The pain inside him was unbearable, burning like molten metal pouring through his veins.
The blood that dripped from his lips splashed onto the symbol, and the effect was immediate. The black glow surged, spreading outward in a wave that swallowed the faint lamplight completely. Darkness enveloped everything.
The mine was drowned in an abyssal shadow. The air turned cold — unnaturally cold — biting into his skin like a thousand needles. Whispering voices began to echo faintly from the darkness, low and mournful. They were not human. They were ancient, hollow, and filled with agony.
A storm of black energy began to rise around him, twisting violently as if it were alive. The sound was like screaming — hundreds of faint screams interwoven with each gust. The energy pulsed, reaching outward, feeding on everything living nearby.
Somewhere in the distance, faint cries of miners could be heard — panicked, terrified. Their bodies collapsed one by one as the life was drained from them. Their eyes turned black, their skin shriveled, and their last breaths escaped as soft, choked gasps. The dark energy devoured them mercilessly.
That power converged on Lensin. His body convulsed. It felt as if every nerve within him was being burned and frozen at once. His veins turned black, visible through his pale skin, pulsing as if carrying liquid shadow instead of blood. The color spread — from his fingers, to his arms, across his chest, and up his neck.
He gritted his teeth, enduring the searing agony. His eyes widened, the whites tinged with darkness. His breathing came in ragged bursts. Yet, amidst the pain, there was a flicker of satisfaction. The power — terrible, vile, and overwhelming — was becoming his.
And then, suddenly, silence. The storm of darkness subsided. The mine fell still once more. The lamps that had survived flickered weakly, their flames shaking as though afraid.
Lensin remained on his knees, his body trembling. The air around him still shimmered faintly with traces of lingering dark energy. A faint smile touched the corner of his lips.
At that moment, footsteps echoed from the tunnel entrance — soft at first, then closer. A man with black hair descended the stone steps, holding a lantern in one hand. The trembling light from the flame illuminated the scene before him — the ritual circle drawn in blood, the lifeless bodies scattered nearby, and in the center, Lensin.
The man's eyes widened in horror. His face turned pale. He froze for a heartbeat before a scream tore itself from his throat — a scream filled with pure terror.
Lensin lifted his head slowly. His eyes — now dark and hollow — locked onto the man. There was no recognition, no humanity left in them. His lips curled upward slightly. Then, he moved.
Before the man could even turn to flee, Lensin lunged at him, his movement impossibly fast. The air cracked around him as he crossed the distance. He seized the man by the shoulders, his fingers digging deep into the flesh with inhuman strength.
Dark energy erupted once more — a surge of black mist that wrapped around the victim's body. The man's scream turned to a strangled cry. His hair, once jet black, began to fade into a ghostly white. His skin wrinkled, dried, and crumbled. His body grew frail, hollow, until it began to wither away, breaking apart into gray dust that scattered into the air like ashes on the wind.
Lensin stood over the dissolving remains, his chest heaving. The darkness still radiated from his hands, pulsing in slow, rhythmic waves. His breath came out heavy, but there was an undeniable sense of calm on his face — a dark serenity.
He slowly turned back toward the bloodstained circle. His steps echoed in the silence as he walked back to it. The air smelled of ash and iron. He sat down within the circle, folding his legs beneath him, and closed his eyes.
Around him, the last remnants of the dark energy swirled, faint and whispering. The black mist coiled gently like smoke, rising and vanishing into the air. He inhaled deeply, feeling it merge into him, consuming every trace of weakness left in his body.
His mind grew quiet. The world outside faded away. There was only darkness — endless and cold — and within it, Lensin, breathing slowly, surrounded by the echoes of a thousand lost souls.
And in that darkness, there was no sound…
except the breathing of a demon who now wore a human form.