Location: The Monolith Maritime Penitentiary - General Population Sector
Time: 05:45 Nocturnus Standard Time
The air in Sector B Mess Hall smelled of fermented despair, a cocktail of rust, the sweat of a thousand monsters, and something vaguely resembling chemical disinfectant failing to mask the rot. High overhead, the ceiling plates were blackened by cooking fumes (or perhaps sewage vapors), while giant ventilation fans spun lazily, slicing through the gloom of flickering fluorescent lights.
At one of the long, scarred metal tables, Devon sat. Or rather, slumped.
His condition was... sub-optimal.
His usually handsome face, with its pale aristocratic features, now resembled an abstract painting created by fists. His left eye was swollen into a slit, his lip split with drying blood at the corner, and a blooming purplish-blue bruise dominated his cheekbone.
The red Valkyrie wings on the sides of his head—usually upright or twitching alertly—now drooped limply, the tips of their feathers brushing his shoulders, radiating an aura of profound depression.
"Urgh..." Devon groaned softly as he tried to move his jaw.
BZZZZZT!
A spark of blue electricity arched from the metal suppression collar around his neck, stabbing directly into his brainstem. Devon's body jerked rigid; the spoon in his hand trembled and slammed onto the metal tray with a loud CLANG!
"Eat properly, 7734. Maintain silence," a cold, robotic voice commanded from his right.
A Sentinel-Type Cyborg Officer towered over him. Its face was nothing more than a flat metal plate with a single glowing red sensor strip. Its hand gripped an electric shock baton that hummed with a low menace, ready to punish the slightest infraction.
"But... it wasn't my fault..." Devon mumbled quietly, staring blankly at his food tray. "That creature cut in line..."
"Silence," the Cyborg ordered flatly. "Consume. Time remaining: 12 minutes."
To Devon's left sat Zerath.
Unlike Devon, who looked like a traffic accident victim, Asset Hemo-Wolf X9 appeared fresh and fit. He sat with a relaxed posture, long legs crossed under the table. A clawed hand propped up the chin of his bone mask, while his shoulders shook with subtle tremors.
A suppressed pfft... khhh... escaped through the gaps in his mask's teeth. He was holding back laughter. Hard.
"What's so funny, huh?" hissed Devon without turning his head, too in pain to rotate his neck.
"Your face," Zerath replied honestly, his voice trembling with amusement. "You look like cookie dough that failed to rise and was then dropped on the floor. Your artistic symmetry is completely gone, Devon."
"Thank you for the compliment. You're a truly supportive cellmate," Devon retorted sarcastically.
Devon gazed across the room toward the food distribution line, which was still snaking along. Standing there was a Bulldog mutant, two and a half meters tall. Muscles bulged from beneath a prisoner uniform that was two sizes too small.
And Devon wasn't the only one battered. The Bulldog's face was a wreck—swollen patches, a right eye bruised purple and nearly shut, and dried blood crusted on his flat nose. Clearly, the earlier commotion hadn't ended well for him either; the Cyborg officers must have "disciplined" him thoroughly with shock batons before dragging him back to the line.
That was the culprit. The bastard who had smashed a metal tray into Devon's face just because Devon was standing "too aesthetically" in front of him in line.
The Bulldog turned, catching Devon's stare. Despite his own ruined face, he grinned, revealing large yellow teeth thick with plaque, then deliberately raised a thick middle finger in Devon's direction.
Die, you sissy, he mouthed silently, full of venom.
Devon just let out a long sigh. He didn't have the energy to entertain such cliché provocations. His priority now was surviving the object on his tray.
He looked down at this morning's breakfast menu.
Synthetic Protein Porridge.
It was a dull grey, exactly the color of the prison walls. The texture was thick and clumpy. When Devon stabbed his spoon into the center of the gruel, the spoon stood straight up. It didn't move. It didn't fall. It was like it was planted in wet concrete.
"Is this food or building material?" Devon muttered, sniffing it. It smelled like wet cardboard mixed with expired vitamins.
Reluctantly, driven by his regenerative hunger, he scooped up a grey clump and forced it into his mouth.
Gulp.
It tasted bland. Empty. But there was a gritty texture left on his tongue, as if the prison chef had intentionally added sawdust for extra fiber.
"Ugh... I miss Stella's cooking..." (which he had actually never tasted) Devon's inner voice wept.
He turned to the second item: Solid Nutrient Bread.
It was square, dark brown, and looked incredibly dense. Devon picked it up. Heavy. Too heavy for bread.
He tried to take a bite.
CRACK.
It wasn't the bread that made the sound. It was his tooth.
"Dammit!" Devon spat the bread out, clutching his nearly fractured jaw. "It's a brick! It is literally a brick painted brown!"
Frustrated, Devon grabbed the bread and slammed it against the edge of the metal table.
WHAM! WHAM!
It sounded like a hammer striking an anvil. The table vibrated, but the bread? Intact. Not a single crumb. Not even a dent.
"A blunt weapon..." Devon whispered in horror. "They gave us a blunt weapon labeled as carbohydrates."
Zerath, who had been watching Devon's struggle with unconcealed amusement, held out his hand.
"You not going to eat that?" he asked.
"Take it," said Devon, sliding the 'brick' toward Zerath. "If you can eat that without losing your teeth, you have my respect."
Zerath picked up the hard bread with two fingers. Without hesitation, he tossed it into his mouth full of predatory teeth.
CRUNCH! CRACK! SNAP!
A horrifying grinding sound followed. To Zerath, the diamond-hard bread was no different than a crispy prawn cracker. In seconds, he swallowed it.
"Not bad," Zerath commented, licking a crumb from his lip. "Tastes like Goblin shinbone. Crunchy."
Devon stared at him flatly. "Is your stomach a pocket dimension?"
Zerath chuckled, then examined Devon's severely swollen face. Suddenly, he raised his own left arm in front of Devon's face. His right hand came up, sharp claws pressing against the furry skin of his left forearm, ready to tear into his own flesh.
"Hey, Devon," Zerath offered, eyes glowing red behind the mask, his voice sounding far too enthusiastic. "Your face is a mess. Want me to rip a bit of my skin open? There's some good black fluid inside. I can smear it on your face like jam on toast. Tastes a bit bitter and sticky, but it's effective, you know."
He pressed his nail slightly; the skin began to stretch, ready to spray its contents.
Devon recoiled slightly, his face pale with disgust. "Ugh... stop it. Don't compare my face to white bread. That's gross, Zerath. Keep your body 'jam' to yourself."
"Tch. Arrogant human. I was only trying to help," Zerath pulled his hand back, canceling his plan for self-mutilation.
Slowly, the cells in Devon's face began to work.
There was no magical steam, no holy light. Just the slow, pulsating, and visibly painful movement of flesh. The deep purple bruising on his cheek slowly faded, cell by cell being reconstructed at a snail's pace. His split lip knit together inch by inch.
This wasn't because he lacked nutrition or because his energy was suppressed by the collar. It was purely because he was starting everything from scratch. He had to train every cell in his body to remember how to heal itself. It was an itch and a sting of excruciating intensity.
"TIME IS UP!"
An ear-splitting siren echoed through the hall.
"ALL PRISONERS BLOCKS 11 THROUGH 14! PROCEED TO MINING SECTOR LIFTS! NOW! LATECOMERS WILL BE USED AS KRAKEN BAIT!"
06:15 Nocturnus Standard Time
Location: Deep Sea Mineral Mine - Depth: -850 Meters
The world beneath the Monolith was a claustrophobe's nightmare.
The air here was heavy, humid, and salty. The walls of natural caves, reinforced with steel pillars, dripped with seawater seeping in. The only illumination came from the yellow floodlights mounted on prisoners' helmets and the natural glow of bioluminescent fungi growing in the rock crevices.
The dominating sound was CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!—thousands of pickaxes striking rock walls, mixed with the hiss of steam engines and the shouts of foremen.
Devon stood in Sector D-4. He wore a mining helmet that was slightly too large, covering part of his red wings which were forced to fold tightly under the hard plastic—it felt incredibly uncomfortable, like wearing shoes two sizes too small on his head.
His hands, which (should have) held a weapon of mass destruction or a legendary sword, now gripped a rusted pickaxe.
"Hah... the fate of an Emperor, ending up as a coolie," Devon lamented internally, swinging his pickaxe into the blue crystal wall before him.
TING!
Shards of Azure-Quartz mineral crumbled away.
Beside him, Zerath worked with monstrous efficiency. He didn't need a pickaxe. He used his own clawed hands to dredge the hard rock like wet sand. He tossed large boulders behind him casually.
"Hey, Devon! Look at this! I found a rock worm!" Zerath exclaimed cheerfully, holding a slime-covered creature the size of an arm that wriggled about.
"Don't eat it," Devon warned without looking.
"Oh..." Zerath threw the worm away in disappointment.
Suddenly, Devon's instincts screamed.
He stopped swinging, straightened up, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Why do I have a bad fee—"
He turned his head to the side. And his eyes went wide.
About ten meters away, the Bulldog mutant stood there. His battered face grinned widely, full of madness and deep-seated grudge.
With a roar of pure rage, the muscles in the Bulldog's arms swelled until veins popped. He bent down and physically lifted a mine cart overflowing with mineral rocks—an object weighing nearly two tons—straight off its tracks.
"EAT THIS, SISSY!" he roared.
With pure monstrous strength, he hurled the iron cart. It flew through the air. Straight at Devon.
It was a two-ton projectile.
"Oh, shi—"
CRASH!
The impact was brutal.
The side of the cart slammed into Devon's body with full momentum. His ribs cracked instantly. Devon's body was launched like a ragdoll kicked by a giant, flying far backward, spinning twice in the air before finally...
THUD!
His back slammed into something hard yet fleshy. Someone.
"Oi! Who threw a piece of paper at me?"
The figure Devon had crashed into turned slowly. He was tall, thin but leanly muscular, with grey skin that seemed to be rotting and peeling in places. His face was a nightmare—an elongated skull with horns curving sideways, resembling an arthropod but with a disgusting mystical aura. A thin green mist—visible disease aura—wafted from his body, causing the moss on the cave walls to wither instantly.
Satan.
He looked down at Devon, who was sprawled in the muddy ground at his feet in a strange, unnatural position.
"Aaa..." Devon groaned long and low, his face kissing the dirt. His eyes were spinning. "Looks like... my spine just decided to take early retirement... everything shifted..."
"Huh?" Satan tilted his head.
Where he stood, the Bulldog Mutant was laughing hysterically, panting after throwing the cart.
"BWAHAHAHA! Take that! Strike!" the Bulldog yelled, pointing at Devon with a fat finger. "Die, you softy! You flew away with just a little toss!"
He spat on the ground. "That's payback for the dirty look this morning!"
ZAAAAAP!
Karma worked instantly in The Monolith.
The collar on the Bulldog's neck glowed bright red, far brighter than before.
"ARGHHHH!" The Bulldog screamed as thousands of volts of electricity fried his nerves. He convulsed, foam spilling from his mouth, and he fell with a thud to the ground.
Two Type-Enforcer Cyborg Guards appeared instantly from the shadows. Wordlessly, they picked up the smoking Bulldog and began beating him mercilessly with iron batons.
THWACK! BASH! THUD!
"Violation of Heavy Labor Protocol. Punishment: Maximum Level Physical Discipline."
Devon, still kissing the dirt with a broken spine, could only listen to the sounds of the beating with vague satisfaction. "Heh... the justice system here is... quite efficient..."
A sharp finger poked Devon's cheek.
Poke. Poke.
"Hey. Human. You still alive?" Zerath's voice came from above. There was no concern, only pure curiosity, as if checking if a toy was completely broken.
"Not yet... give me a minute... where are my legs right now?" Devon mumbled.
"Here, let me help," said Zerath.
Without warning, Zerath grabbed the back of Devon's collar and hoisted him up like a wet kitten, uncaring that Devon's bones were still snapped.
"Ouch, ow, ow! Easy! My bones are still a jigsaw puzzle!" Devon protested as his limp legs touched the ground. He swayed, nearly falling again if Zerath hadn't steadied him.
Satan, the skull-faced demon figure Devon had crashed into, stepped closer. His green disease aura made the air feel stifling and smell like an abandoned old hospital.
He looked at Devon, then at Zerath, then back to Devon. His hollow eyes narrowed.
"Oh..." Satan's voice sounded raspy and wet, like stirred mud. "You must be that 'New Prisoner,' right? The one sharing a cell with him?" He pointed at Zerath with a bony thumb.
Devon tried to stand straight, clutching his oddly bent waist. "News travels fast, huh?"
"Pretty impressive," Satan praised, his tone genuinely admiring. "I'm Satan. Your cell neighbor, 12-10. You're amazing just for still breathing this morning. Usually, this Crazy Wolf's cellmates don't last an hour. The last one was just a leftover femur by morning."
Zerath just grinned widely behind his mask, not denying the cannibalism accusation.
"Yeah... I happen to be a bit tough," Devon replied. "My name is Devon."
As he introduced himself, Devon decided to fix his posture. He took a deep breath. Focused. Accessed the cellular memories buried deep within.
CRACK. CLICK. POP.
A sickening sound erupted from Devon's back. The shifting spine forced itself back into position with a violent and painful jerk. Dislocated shoulders rotated back. There was no instant magic, just biology forced to work overtime.
Satan took a step back, eyes widening at the instant body horror show.
"Damn..." Satan muttered. "That sounded extra crispy."
Devon cracked his neck left and right. Pop.
"Ah, much better," Devon sighed in relief. He patted the dust from his shirt. "Like I said, I'm hard to kill."
He turned to Zerath, smiling faintly. "And regarding surviving last night... well, we got through a pretty 'warm' introduction session, didn't we, Zerath?"
Zerath chuckled, that signature khh-khh sound. He leaned his face close to Devon's, and with his long, rough tongue, licked the fresh blood still flowing from Devon's nose due to the collision.
Slurp.
"Yeah," Zerath replied, eyes glowing with delight. "He tastes good."
Satan fell silent for a moment, processing the absurd interaction in front of him. A human whose bones rearranged themselves, a chimera monster licking his face, and the fact that they seemed friendly.
Then, laughter exploded from Satan's skeletal chest.
"BWAHAHAHA! You guys are insane! A perfect match! I like you guys!" Satan slapped Devon's shoulder hard (making Devon wince again because his shoulder blade had just healed). "Welcome to the Undersea Hell, Devon! You're going to fit right in!"
"GET TO WORK! NO CHATTER, SCUM!"
The shout of a cyborg foreman thundered from the catwalk above, followed by a warning laser shot that scorched the ground near their feet.
"Oops. Boss is mad," Satan said casually, picking up his pickaxe. "Let's get back to it. Today's quota won't fill itself."
Devon sighed, picking up his bent pickaxe.
"It's going to be a long day..." he murmured, staring into the endless darkness of the mine.
Beside him, Zerath hummed cheerfully while tearing into bedrock, and Satan began chatting about the types of skin diseases he could create with a touch.
This was his new life. And somehow, amidst this madness, Devon felt a faint smile carve itself onto his lips.