No answers.
Just silence. No one would respond.
Neither option offered salvation. Both paths led to ruin — only different kinds of pain.
"Alright then… how about you sleep on it," the Saint said at last, giving a silent nod to the enforcers.
The guards stepped forward, their shadows stretching across the cold stone floor. They grabbed the prisoners by the arms — not roughly, just firmly, like men who knew resistance had already died.
They led them down.
The dungeon was a place long forgotten. The walls were lined with age and rot, heavy with the weight of generations. The air smelled of mildew and something worse — something old and dry and dead.
Flickering wooden torches provided the only light. As Remy and the others descended into the gloom, a few rats darted past their feet, squealing.
They passed cell after cell. Some were empty. Others held shapes barely human — gaunt arms, twisted legs, shadowy forms slumped in corners. One cell contained a mummified skeleton still slumped against the wall. He'd been dead for years, but no one had even bothered to remove the body.
The deeper they went, the colder it became.
At the end of the corridor stood a violet door wrapped in thick chains. Five rusted locks clung to the metal, and a strange parchment — red and yellow — had been stuck across its surface. The red pulsed faintly, casting a sickly glow.
The door reeked of something unnatural. Something alive — and angry.
"Get in," one of the guards barked.
The prisoners were shoved into cells. Remy's group was locked in together. At the far corner of their cell, a skeletal corpse rested against the wall. Its empty eyes seemed frozen mid-scream.
Remy flinched. Had he not been so numb, he might have jumped.
They huddled in a corner, silent. And then — they heard it.
Knock.
Knock.
A slow, hollow sound echoed through the stone. It rang out like a church bell in a forgotten graveyard.
Everyone froze — even the guards.
"Damn it…" one whispered. "Ain't he dead yet? It's been a whole decade since the last knock."
The knocking came again — two more times. Fainter. Slower.
"Do you hear that?" said a short guard with a rat-like face. His lips curled oddly, stretching in an unnatural grin. "They're weaker now. That was his last try. He's finally dead."
Silence fell again. A silence heavy with fear.
As the final locks clicked, the magical restraints binding their bodies faded. A wave of sensation returned — a dull ache, then clarity. They could move again. Think again.
Clementine was the first to speak.
"What do we do now?"
He was only a few years older than Remy, but his face told another story — aged by scars, his beard thick and wiry. He looked like a man twice his age, worn and weathered by whatever life had thrown at him.
"There's no point in deciding as a group," he said. "Each of us has to choose for ourselves. Ask yourself — is it better to live as a slave… or die with whatever freedom you have left?"
Remy then turned.
He simply lay down on the cold stone floor and turned away from them facing the sealing.
His mind was already made up.
I'd rather die than be a slave.
And I bet they won't even let you choose how to die once you are one.
His body gave in to exhaustion. Sleep came not gently, but like a collapse — dragging him into the dark.
His companions continued talking for a short while but soon they all fell into a forced slumber.
"Wake up, boy… come closer."
The voice was harsh — sharp and cold like steel dragged across ice.
Remy's eyes flew open.
"I knew you'd hear me. Come. Closer," the voice beckoned.
He looked around. The others were asleep, breathing slowly. Peacefully.
"Louis," he whispered, reaching out to shake him — but his hand passed through Louis's body like mist.
Remy recoiled, stumbling backward.
"No… no, no. Am I already dead?" he muttered.
Without realizing it, he slipped through the bars like smoke.
"No, you're not dead," the voice replied. "But you're close enough. You can hear me, can't you? That's all it takes."
A chilling laugh echoed through the corridor, seeping into his bones. Remy dropped to one knee, clutching his head.
The voice was inside him.
But he stood.
"I'm not afraid of death," he said, his voice hollow. "If there's a hell, I've already lived in it."
"You've only tasted the surface," the voice whispered. "But there's still time — if you have the will to fight. The will to get even. Step forward, if you dare. Or stay… and go mad."
He didn't hesitate. He stepped toward the chained door.
He didn't know why — only that something waited for him.
The pulsing light grew stronger as he neared.
"What now?" he asked.
"Walk through. Like you did the bars."
He reached out.
The chains passed through him like mist, and he walked straight through the violet door.
A wave of cold crashed over him.
Not just cold — hate. A living, ancient malice.
The figure that stood before him was tall and thin. It wore a plague mask shaped like a raven's beak, and on its shoulder perched a three-eyed raven with glowing red eyes. Both man and bird seemed made of smoke and ash.
"Now you see me…" the figure said. "A version of me, at least. Still not afraid of hell?"
"I don't believe in hell. Or gods. If either existed, they wouldn't have let this world rot the way it has."
"Good," the figure replied. "Then you won't mind making a deal."
"What kind?"
"A simple one. I'll give you power. Enough to crush those who mock you. Step on those who step on you. Shake my hand… and I'll make you dangerous."
Remy stared at the outstretched hand.
There's probably a catch.
But there's no way it's worse than this.
He reached out and took it.
"I will manifest when the time is right," the figure whispered.
It turned into smoke and rushed toward him, slamming into his chest and neck. He screamed as fire spread through his veins.
Remy woke with a cry.
Louis grabbed his shoulder. "What is it?"
Remy was breathing hard, drenched in sweat.
Louis squinted. "Hey… when did you get that raven tattoo?"
Remy froze. His hand went to his neck.
Before he could answer, a guard stomped toward their cell, slamming his baton against the bars.
"Lucky you," he muttered. "The lord's decided to let one of you walk free."
He pointed at Louis. "You. Come."
Louis hesitated, then stepped out.
The guards chuckled among themselves as he followed.
"The lord's got some weird tastes," one muttered.
"What do you mean?" the younger guard asked.
"Oh… you must be new. Let's just say the lord enjoys the company of pretty boys."
Remy's stomach turned.
He sat in silence, listening as the laughter faded down the corridor.
"I guess this time," the older guard added, "he captured so many, he gets to spoil himself with choice."