They marched Simon through corridors carved not from stone, but from something that felt halfway between bone and earth—ribs of a world long dead yet still breathing. Torches burned blue, producing smoke that slithered like living shadows.
Orba walked ahead, armored like a knight carved from midnight metal, her spear tapping in cadence with each step. Behind Simon, two Abyss guards followed—hulking, horned silhouettes with eyes like empty furnaces.
Strange. They treated him neither like a prince nor a slave.
Something in-between.
Something unclassified.
And in a realm like this, the unclassified was dangerous.
They stopped at a heavy gate. It opened not by hand, but by hunger—the metal peeled itself apart like lips parting to taste.
A new room greeted him.
Cold. Damp. Metallic.
And screams—not loud, but distant, soaked into the walls. Echoes of pain like old perfume: clinging, rotting, yet elegant in cruelty.
Rows of suspended shackles, hooks, and cages adorned the chamber. But they weren't for normal prisoners. They were shaped wrong—shaped for beings with too many limbs or none at all, for bodies that could stretch or coil or melt.
At the far corner sat a figure chained by wrists, ankles, and throat.
Motionless. But not lifeless.
Their body trembled like a flame fighting wind.
Orba spoke without turning.
"Today, you learn."
"Learn what?" Simon asked.
"That this world has no room for those who hesitate."
He gestured to the chained being.
"A traitor. A spy. They were caught trying to sneak into the King's chambers."
Simon glanced at her. "And now?"
"Now they answer questions." Orba's tone was ice. "And they will answer until the King stops being curious."
Simon's jaw tightened. "And if they are innocent?"
Orba's reply was immediate, almost bored.
"Innocence is irrelevant. In the Abyss, only two things matter: guilt proven… and guilt useful."
He understood.
Truth here was not a principle.
Truth was currency—spent or produced as needed.
He faced him fully now, eyes cold and sharp.
"You wish to live here. To serve His Majesty."
Her gaze sliced into him.
"You must understand pain—and how to endure it without breaking."
A hooded figure approached the prisoner. Not human. Too thin. Too long. Their fingers were like needles dipped in whispers. They didn't speak, but the air trembled as they touched the bound soul.
Then the screaming began.
Not normal screams—layered, like three voices at once.
One human, one monstrous, one something ancient and nameless.
It scraped bone. It clawed memory.
Simon didn't flinch.
Orba watched him, waiting for a reaction.
He offered none.
Inside, he observed. Calculated.
Was this torture physical? Magical? Psychological?
Could pain travel like sound? Could it brand the mind?
But his face remained calm—almost serene.
Orba whispered, "Do you pity them?"
"No."
A lie? Possibly.
But pity was a tool, not a reflex.
"What do you feel then?" He pressed.
"Focus," he replied.
He lifted an eyebrow. "Focus?"
"I am studying the lesson," Simon said softly.
"And the teacher."
Her lips twitched—almost approval, almost distrust.
Orba stepped aside. The torturer paused, head turning like an owl broken at the neck.
Then, they moved toward Simon.
A tendril of mist curled from their fingertip—small but unbearably sharp, like the promise of agony.
Orba spoke without emotion:
"If you scream, I will consider you weak."
Simon met the torturer's faceless stare and spoke calmly:
"And if I don't scream?"
Orba answered:
"Then the King will consider you… interesting."
Interesting was safer than beloved, safer than hated.
Interesting lived longer.
Simon held his breath—not to steel himself, but to stabilize his heartbeat. Pain was coming. Accepting it made it weaker.
The mist touched his chest.
Fire.
Ice.
Teeth.
Memory of drowning.
Memory of burning.
Memory of losing his original world in a single breath.
But Simon did not scream.
He didn't gasp.
His pupils tightened, jaw clenched—yet his back stayed straight.
When the sensation withdrew, his legs nearly buckled. But nearly was not breaking.
The chained prisoner cried. The guards looked bored. The torturer drifted back like smoke returning to a lantern.
Orba studied Simon again.
"You endure well."
"Endurance is not strength," he replied quietly.
"Oh?" He raised her chin. "What is strength, then?"
"Control."
His voice was steady now.
"And knowing when to show pain… or when to hide it."
Orba's eyes gleamed—not warm, but struck by interest.
"You will survive," He murmured. "If you continue to think like that."
Hours passed. Torture echoed. Blood occurred. Souls cracked.
But not Simon.
He watched.
Learned.
Adapted.
In another life he would have vomited or fainted or begged for escape.
This life?
Pain was a teacher.
Fear was information.
Chaos was opportunity.
When the session ended, Orba dismissed the others. Only He and Simon remained in the fading blue torchlight.
"You did not cry," He said quietly. "Most do."
"I don't believe in tears," he murmured. "They rarely solve anything here."
He laughed softly—almost a breath instead of sound.
"Do you know why this prisoner screams?"
"Yes," Simon answered.
Orba tilted her head. "Tell me."
"Not just because they hurt…" Simon replied, eyes steady.
"…but because they know no one will stop it."
Her expression shifted—a fraction. "Correct."
"And that," he continued, "is why I do not cry."
A pause.
Orba stared at him as though seeing a blade sharpen itself.
"You fear nothing?"
"I fear many things," Simon answered. "That is why they will not rule me."
Orba nodded once, a soldier respecting a fellow warrior.
"You are not a normal lost soul, Simon."
"No," he said simply. "I am not."
Orba escorted him back—silent but alert. No chains. No force.
Not trust—observation.
When he entered his chamber, He gave one final look.
"Remember this lesson: pain shapes kings here."
Simon replied:
"And refusal to kneel crowns them."
He didn't deny it. He simply walked away.
The door closed.
Silence fell.
Only then did Simon release a long breath, hand gripping the bedpost until his knuckles whitened.
His chest still burned from the torturer's touch.
Pain pulsed under his skin like a secret heartbeat.
But he smiled. Thin. Sharp. Icy.
They want a servant.
They will create a strategist instead.
He sat, head lowered, whispering to the unseen darkness:
"I bled in my old world.
I bled here today.
But I do not break."
His eyes hardened.
"Tears belong to the dead. And I am not dead."
He lay down, not to sleep but to plan.
Weak now? Yes.
But he had endured what others could not.
And that meant something.
The Abyss had shown him its teeth.
He would grow fangs of his own.