The old general from the gate stamped hard on the sleeping prisoner's manhood.
The man cried out sharply and, as he wobbled from the pain, he slipped and smacked against the floor. Laughter burst out. Both from the soldiers outside and the prisoners in the surrounding cells.
He stopped struggling, scrambled upright, and stood still with his head bowed.
The old man lifted the prisoner's chin with two fingers, forcing him to meet his gaze.
"Let's start your lesson," he said quietly.
He stepped back until his shoulders touched the barred door and motioned for the cuffed man to stand in the center of the cell.
Three soldiers stood outside, each wearing the same uniform as the old man, but with a bison badge on their collars. The two soldiers from earlier, with crow badges, waited beside them. The old man's collar bore an elephant.
The general spoke in a commanding tone. "Strip."
The cuffed man immediately removed his clothes until only his underwear remained.
The general raised a brow.
The man removed even that last piece, standing naked on the cold floor.
Staring at the heap of clothing, the general asked coldly, "Should I call for a maid?"
The prisoner hurriedly picked up his clothes, folded them, and placed them neatly on the bed. The soldiers outside giggled at his panic.
Without warning, the general unbuckled his belt and began lashing the cuffed man with brutal force. For nearly twenty minutes he struck him on the shoulders, stomach, thighs, back, and even his manhood. When the belt's leather had done its damage, the general flung it onto the bed and extended his hand.
One of the bison-badge soldiers rushed forward and placed a solid metal rod into his palm.
The beating continued.
For another agonizing stretch of twenty minutes, the cell echoed with the sound of metal striking flesh, the prisoner's groans, and the dull thud of his body hitting the floor.
Finally, the general stopped.
"Wear your clothes."
The prisoner didn't respond. He couldn't. He lay motionless, crumpled on the ground, barely breathing.
Seeing the bruises blooming across the man's skin, the general muttered, "If I continue, he might die."
He turned and started toward the elevator with the bison-badge soldiers following him, leaving the crow-badge men standing frozen beside the cell.
Noticing they weren't following, the general barked, "You guys want to be next?"
The two men bolted after him, stumbling over each other as they ran towards the elevator.
A few minutes later, the cuffed man stirred. Trembling, he slowly put on his uniform. The clothes concealed every bruise, every injury perfectly hidden beneath the fabric as if he was not beaten to death just some time back.
He tried to sit, but the pain was too sharp. He stood again immediately, drawing a slow breath as if to steady the pieces of himself that had not yet settled. Then he walked to the back wall. He stopped just short of touching it and peered through the narrow slit.
Earlier that morning, the fog had hidden everything. Now, under the bright afternoon sun, the world outside was clear and painfully vast.
Across the distance, about a mile away, stood a massive identical structure, one hundred meters tall, stretching endlessly to the left and right until the horizon swallowed it. It wasn't a building at all. It was a wall, an impossibly long and tall barrier cutting the world into two silent halves.
Along its top, cannons of various sizes pointed directly toward this prison wall. Soldiers patrolled with bows, spears, javelins, and darts, their silhouettes moving like small clockwork pieces against the sunlit line.
Wind rolled across the dusty courtyard below, carrying with it faint shouts, the clatter of weapons, the faraway smell of oiled metal. While the cuffed man watched them, a low voice called from behind him.
"Who are you?"
He turned to see the man in the opposite cell, the same one whose eyes had frightened the soldiers earlier. The man sat on the floor, back against the wall, as if he had been carved into place. His hair and beard were gray, but his muscular frame made him look far younger than his age. The dim light sharpened the ridges of old scars on his forearms.
He repeated calmly, "Who are you?"
"I am a criminal."
The man chuckled. "Did you give the same answer outside?"
The cuffed man nodded.
"You answered correctly. So why was Henry…" he caught himself, "I mean, the General. Why was he so angry at you?"
"I don't know," the cuffed man answered. "He asked what I did, and I told the truth. I stole an alpha credit card from someone. Returned it two days later without using it. That's all. And here I am."
The man laughed softly. "Didn't he say he liked you?"
Another nod.
Still smiling, the gray haired man continued, "Henry is a perfectionist, as you've noticed. He hit you only where the uniform covers the bruises."
The cuffed man examined himself, running shaking fingers along his arms and chest. As the man said, nothing was visible. Every wound lay perfectly hidden beneath the fabric.
"Come. Sit there," the older man suggested, pointing to a spot on the floor behind the bars.
The cuffed man walked over with a surprisingly steady gait, as if he had not been beaten nearly to death moments earlier, and sat exactly where the old man indicated. The faint scrape of the stone under him echoed through the empty corridor.
The old man smiled. "Now I understand why Henry hit you like that."
The cuffed man tilted his head, curious.
"You are stronger than him, no, stronger than even me, aren't you?"
The cuffed man blurted, "Did I forgot to hide it again?"
He quickly closed his eyes, reopened them, and said innocently, "No, I'm not stronger than you or him."
The old man's expression shifted instantly. Warmth drained from his eyes, replaced by sharp hostility, as if the act of closing his eyes had exposed something deadly. But the moment he heard the man's childlike denial, his face softened again, and he smiled.
"You are dumb. You know that, right?"
"Yes," the cuffed man said honestly. "My wife says that a lot."