In the depths of a pitch-black chamber, silence reigned.
Only the faint hum of runes broke it — a cold, blue pulse trembling through the void.
The air itself was lifeless.
Mana did not flow here.
The walls were engraved with sealing scripts, and the heavy door behind them blocked even the faintest whisper of energy.
This was a place built to erase power — to break it.
From the ceiling hung chains — thick, black, and carved with complex sigils.
Each link glowed faintly, threads of mana absorption crawling across the surface like veins of living metal.
They didn't just restrain. They consumed.
And from their ends, a child hung suspended in the dark.
His frame was small, frail — ribs faintly visible beneath skin marked with lash scars.
Each scar was an old conversation between flesh and whip.
Blood had long dried against his skin, but the marks spoke louder than screams.
The chains coiled around his limbs, chest, and neck, pressing deep enough to bruise.
With every shallow breath, the runes burned softly, drinking from him.
Beneath him, two vast mana sigils rotated — one above, one below — forming a prison of dim blue light that painted the chamber in sickly shades.
Dust hung unmoving in the air, and the scent of blood and cold metal lingered like memory.
Only his eyes gave color to the dark.
Crystalline blue — faintly glowing, distant, almost glassy.
Even then, they carried a depth that didn't belong to a child.
He looked less alive and more… aware.
As if trapped in a quiet epiphany only he could see.
The silence fractured.
A metallic groan — the door slid open.
A sliver of light bled into the chamber before the darkness swallowed it whole again.
A figure stepped inside.
His outline was faint — boots gleaming in the dim light, a dark cloak whispering against the floor.
Each step carried an unnatural weight, the air itself recoiling around him.
He didn't disturb the silence; he commanded it.
When he stopped, even the chains seemed to quiet.
His presence pressed down on the room like a shadow given form.
He stared at the boy suspended before him.
Adrian hung motionless — silent, eyes half-lidded, the faint glow of his gaze flickering in the gloom.
He had sensed the intruder the moment the door broke the seal, yet he hadn't cared.
Their eyes met — shadow against light.
And for a heartbeat, the room seemed to hold its breath.
A voice broke the stillness.
Cold, deliberate — each word spoken like a blade drawn slowly.
> "Open your eyes. Let me see which part of you still belongs to me."
The tone wasn't harsh.
It was quiet — almost gentle — but laced with ownership, the kind that slipped under the skin and stayed there.
Not anger. Not cruelty.
Control.
Adrian's eyes lifted fully now, faint light gathering in them.
His voice was soft, detached — not defiant, not afraid.
Just tired of lesser things.
> "All that effort… all those orders from the elders,"
he murmured, almost like a compliment.
"They really thought you could break me."
He paused.
Not to think — but because he didn't care enough to continue quickly.
His gaze drifted lazily toward the man.
> "You're a disappointment."
The words fell quietly, yet the weight behind them was absolute — the kind of calm cruelty that stripped the soul bare.
For a brief moment, the torturer didn't answer.
Then came the soft echo of boots stepping closer.
When he finally spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper.
> "…Then let's see how long that pride lasts."
The air between them turned heavy again — not with mana, but with intent.
The chains hummed. The runes brightened.
And the silence that followed was worse than pain.
The door opened again.
Three figures entered, their steps steady and unhurried. None of them spoke.
They carried metal cases — heavy, black, and locked with runic seals.
The sound of the clasps clicking open echoed through the chamber.
One after another, the tools were laid out on a long iron table beneath the faint blue light.
Blades. Hooks. A branding rod.
A thin wire coiled neatly beside a jar of clear fluid that gave off no smell.
The torturer didn't move at first.
He watched in silence as each item was arranged, his expression unreadable.
When the last case was opened, he finally stepped forward.
His gloved hand brushed against the table, the metal faintly ringing at his touch.
He didn't smile. He didn't frown.
He simply looked at the tools as if deciding which memory to revisit.
The assistants bowed their heads slightly and left, closing the door behind them.
The chamber fell silent again.
Only the faint hum of the chains and the low scrape of steel against steel filled the air as the torturer adjusted one of the blades in his hand — slow, precise, deliberate.
He exhaled once through his nose.
A quiet, measured breath.
The torturer's hand hovered above the tray, fingers brushing over cold steel and leather.
He was about to begin when a quiet voice slipped through the air like frost.
> "Before you begin…"
Adrian's tone was soft — too soft — the kind that made silence itself seem to lean in.
> "That little phrase you said earlier — 'Let me see which part of you still belongs to me.'"
He paused, the faint glow in his eyes sharpening into something ancient, something vast.
> "Watch your tongue when you speak to me."
His voice lowered further, each word coated in disdain that felt too effortless to be human.
> "Even chained here, don't mistake your role, lesser creature."
The air seemed to tremble; even the darkness itself recoiled from the weight of his words.
He didn't respond at all.
He just stared for a long time — unreadable.
Then he moved, slow and methodical, choosing an instrument and stepping closer.
> "Let's see if your arrogance still sounds that pure when you're screaming,"
he said, his gaze emotionless, though a faint trace of annoyance flickered within.
The first sound was the soft whistle of a whip slicing the air.
Then came the crack — sharp, wet, echoing off the stone.
Silence followed.
Not the silence of mercy — but the kind that pressed against the skin, thick and wrong.
No scream answered.
No breath.
Not even a flinch.
The torturer's strikes continued — methodical, each one deliberate, precise.
The chamber kept its rhythm: crack… pause… crack… pause…
Like a metronome set to suffering.
Outside, the guards exchanged uneasy glances.
Even through the sealed door, the sound carried — blunt, repetitive, too measured to be human.
But what unsettled them wasn't the noise.
It was the absence of anything else.
No pleading.
No voice.
Not a single sound from the boy.
Minutes blurred into hours.
The whip sang.
The chains rattled faintly.
And still — nothing.
Back in the room, the sight was nothing short of horrifying. The air was thick with the acrid smoke of chemicals, stinging the eyes and burning the throat. In the midst of it all lay a boy, his body covered in marks and gashes. Blood streamed down his skin, pooling beneath him, while his hair—matted and soaked red—clung to his face. His flesh trembled and blistered as the chemicals coursed through his veins, boiling inside him, eating away at his body from within. Torn strips of flesh hung loose, and several of the chains that bound him had sunk deep into his skin, their rusted edges biting cruelly into the wounds.
The chamber was silent again.
Only the faint hum of the runes lingered — a brittle echo of the violence that had passed.
From the shadows, Adrian's head lifted slightly. His blue eyes — dim yet impossibly clear — locked onto the man before him.
Then, slowly, a faint smile curved his lips. It wasn't human. It wasn't meant to be.
> "Remember," he whispered, his tone calm and deliberate,
"nothing escapes my eyes."
The torturer didn't respond. He couldn't. He simply stared back, his expression unreadable beneath the faint shimmer of light. But inside, his thoughts twisted.
Why…?
After everything — the hours, the exhaustion, the precision — the child hadn't screamed once. though no magic was used for some reason the higher ups forbid it
But even then He was only a child. This should have shattered him.
He clenched his jaw, suppressing the frustration that threatened to surface, and turned sharply toward the door. He would not let the boy see it — not that expression.
As he left, the faint sound of the door sealing behind him echoed through the chamber.
Unknown to him, from the very moment his gaze had first met Adrian's, a faint, almost negligible pulse of mana had slipped into his eyes — subtle, invisible, and deliberate. It had flowed from Adriann eye's without effort, embedding itself deep within the man's sight.
Adrian's lips curved again, faintly.
> "Soon… very soon,"
he whispered, and when that time comes his eyes turned sinister