Demoleus awakened, his eyes met a scene all too familiar yet hauntingly different.
He found himself once again surrounded by the oppressive embrace of iron bars, but this time, it was not the same confining room he had been bound in before.
With a sense of disorientation, he swiveled his head, taking in his new surroundings.
What he saw sent a chill down his spine. The room stretched before him, dimly lit and shrouded in darkness, while a faint, flickering light fought against the encroaching shadows.
The air was heavy with the stench of neglect and decay, the walls coated in grime and despair.
Horizontal rows of prison cells lined the chamber, their cold metal bars offering a disheartening glimpse into the lives of those unjustly confined.
He couldn't help but shudder as he reached up to touch his forehead. A tingling sensation, accompanied by a sharp jolt of pain, coursed through his left arm.
His fingers brushed against the soft touch of white cloth, revealing a bandage wrapped around the wound of which he abruptly remembered getting from the bloody scrimmage in between the "Bloodhound" and his helpless self.
But it was what he discovered on the back of his hand that truly bewildered him—a stitched cross, a symbol that held a deeper meaning yet to be unraveled: Its shape is of a diamond etched with a circle mimicking the shape of an eye with a "thorn" on the top corner.
As if fate intended to deepen the enigma, he felt a sudden surge of agony in his head, a searing headache that threatened to split his thoughts asunder. And within that pain came an unexpected memory, intruding upon his consciousness like a fleeting apparition.
He found himself transported to a dilapidated laboratory, a place where time had withered away the vibrant hues of life. Flashing lights illuminated the gloom, accompanied by eerie creaks that reverberated through the stillness.
In the midst of this spectral memory, a silhouette emerged—a little girl, standing before him. Her eyes widen, lips puffed, with tears dropping from her eyes down on her face.
The lights flickered, casting shadows upon her face, as she called out to him with an air of desperation, "Father, why must you hurt me this way?" The world around them shifted, bathed in a crimson hue that quickened his heartbeat and filled him with an inexplicable dread.
Was it a memory from his forgotten past, or a foreboding glimpse of what lay ahead?
After what felt like an eternity, the headache subsided, leaving him drenched in sweat and uncertainty. The memory that had invaded his mind felt like déjà vu, an echo of an encounter he could not fully recall.
Lost in a labyrinth of forgotten fragments, he grappled with the weight of his own existence, unsure of the path that would lead him from his murky past to an uncertain future.
He is in deephaven now. He struggles to make sense of the illogical circumstances surrounding him. Perhaps he had been cast into this desolate realm, a purgatory of sorts, for sins he couldn't even recollect. Yet, amidst the confusion, a resolute determination surged within him—a fierce longing to uncover the truth behind his confinement in this grim place.
Lost in his ruminations, Demoleus was abruptly jolted from his thoughts by a clamorous clanking that echoed through the prison's dimly lit hallway.
It was the sound of the iron steel door, groaning under the strain of its weight, slowly swinging open. As the door creaked wider, two figures clad in hazmat suits emerged, their presence imposing and foreboding.
Recognition flickered in Demoleus's mind—they were the same guards who had injected him with an unknown substance back in the mysterious room. However, one detail caught his attention—a guard on the left now carried a sack, large enough to contain a human, while the other gripped a worn wooden rifle in his left hand and a small fire axe in his right.
Their heavy footsteps resonated through the chamber, drawing closer to Demoleus's cell. A mix of curiosity and dread filled his heart as he noticed blood trickling from the sack, its form eerily reminiscent of a human body. Fear clutched at his throat, his widened eyes betraying the horrifying realization that dawned upon him.
There was only one chilling explanation for the sight before him—yet how can the prisoners around him remained composed? Were they asleep? Did they purposively ignore their fate as they couldn't do anything about it? Was there any other way to escape fate? Or was it something else? No matter how Demoleus think of it, it is absurd that nobody ever bat an eye on the situation. Maybe they have given up.
The war has ravaged the lives of these prisoners. They have no other things in mind other than to survive this hell hole, but forcefully ignoring such a circumstance could even be called "surviving"? It's fear. They have learned to adapt to it day after day. They see the same thing over and over again, and they will die knowing that the other prisoners will never get the chance to forget the same horrendous sight.
He felt a sudden grip on the cold iron bars of his prison cell, startling him out of his reverie. Startled, his eyes widened as a figure materialized from the shadows, revealing a man in his thirties. A captivating smile adorned his face, casting a radiant glow amidst the gloom.
The man's face was a tapestry of contrasting features—a blend of ruggedness and with an old-man's charm. Its dark eyes sparkled with a playful glint, as if harboring secrets that begged to be unraveled. His tousled, dirty curls cascaded down to his shoulders, the disheveled locks revealing the hardships endured within these confines. Despite the trials etched onto his face, there was an eerie but infectious warmth in his smile, a genuine joy that seemed to radiate from within.
"So, the devil himself has awakened!" the man exclaimed. His tone is rough and there is a hint in his voice that he is not a native speaker of the King's english.
But despite that, the man's words carried an air of familiarity. There was an indescribable sense of camaraderie in his tone, an unspoken understanding that eluded Demoleus' grasp. The man's exuberant demeanor stood in stark contrast to the grim environment that held them captive.
Confusion furrowed Demoleus's brow as he grappled with the man's words.
"Devil... what on earth does that mean?" he inquired, his voice tinged with a blend of bewilderment and curiosity.
"You put on quite a show back there. It's been what feels like an eternity since anyone managed to take down a 𝘚𝘪𝘨𝘣𝘪𝘯," the man exclaimed, his astonishment evident in his voice.
"There was another devil before you who accomplished a similar feat, but his demise came swiftly. No one knows what the 𝘖𝘣𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘰 (Bishop) did to him." His words hung in the air, creating a sense of intrigue and trepidation. Demoleus just stares at him in bewilderment.
Finally, the man reached out his hand to Demoleus, a glimmer of trust shining in his eyes.
"The name's Ricardo, an 𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘰 from Roque," he introduced himself, his voice carrying pride and resilience.
Demoleus remained silent, his expression guarded, unsure of how to respond to him. Yet, sensing Demoleus's hesitation, Ricardo took the initiative, firmly clasping Demoleus' hand in his own and shaking it with a firm grip.
With the handshake complete, he returning to his designated spot within the confinements of his cell. The weight of his words hung in the air,
"Been an informant of the Guardia Civil for almost 6 years now," he confessed, his voice tinged with a mix of remorse and resignation.
"Killed lots of people. Sentenced to be locked up in the depths of this prison. They say it's a punishment, but I say, it's quite a life I always wanted to live, honestly. I could do anything that I want... Write messages that would frame people for things they did not do? Incite war by messing up people with false evidences of misdeeds? That's the life I would like to live in... as an 𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘰 of course,"
Demoleus abruptly thinks that the word 𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘰 seems a little bit familiar to him, like he had met one of those "people" at a certain point of his life. There is a huge gap in his memory from what happened at the middle years from the day that he could recognize the faces of his parents up to his present situation. The word rang a bell but it did not help him entirely recollect that gap.
"Demoleus, was it? You have a gift in killing, man!" he exclaimed, "It's probably why the Bishop has taken interest in you."
"Who is this Bishop?" Demoleus asks,
"One thing is for sure.... He is the one who runs Deephaven and speaking through that huge speaker hanging in the middle of the pit. Other than that, nobody knows who is he or what is he doing up that Citadel... you know that one room where they bug you before throwing into prison? That makes me want to write a journal about it!"
"The 30th Quadrant?" spoke Demoleus with familiarity,
"They used to call it that but after that incident with the Probers, the quadrant's no more. Only that part of the quadrant held tightly. The soldiers, both the Kadasig and the Guardia Civil were buried and not a single one survived— probably a feast for them Prowlers!"
A wicked cackle came out of Ricardo, echoing through the corners of the room, rousing several prisoners from their restless slumber.
Among them was a woman, confined in a jail cell across from Demoleus. The cacophony of laughter angered her, and her voice pierced through the air as she vented her frustration.
"𝘗𝘢𝘨𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘰𝘮 C𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘺! 𝘗𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘢𝘸𝘢! (Shut the hell up, Ricardo!)" She shouted, her words spoken in an unfamiliar language to Demoleus, but the intensity of her anger towards Ricardo was unmistakable.
The woman's outburst captured the attention of the prisoners, their gazes shifting towards her cell.
Demoleus directed his attention towards the woman . Her brown hair cascaded in disheveled waves around her face, with smudges of dark ashes, emphasizing her Hispanic features. Despite the dirt and weariness etched onto her visage, there was beauty and resilience that gleamed within her amber-hued eyes. Like the others, she was still clad in the same worn-out garments. She didn't look much but what's about to happen is surprising.
"You're still awake, Natalia! I definitely thought all of you here got knocked up by that betting game you did earlier with Jonathan!" Ricardo's voice broke through the tension, his words laced with a touch of jest. The familiarity of their interaction suggested a shared history among the prisoners.
Natalia's piercing gaze locked onto Demoleus, her voice dripping with authority and a hint of warning.
"So, you're this new devil that they're talking about. Not much of a sight." Her words laden with an air of dominance.
"Remember this. This quadrant is my territory. I set the rules here, and if you dare defy them, the guards will have no qualms dragging your lifeless body away, just like what they've done earlier and to many others before."
Demoleus felt a slight shiver run down his spine as Natalia's words resonated within him. Her demeanor exuded power and control, leaving little room for doubt that she held sway over the confines of this prison. He couldn't help but ponder the extent of her influence and the nature of the authority she wielded within these grim walls.
Sensing Demoleus's unease, Ricardo leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's better not to anger the madam bruha (old witch)," he advised. "She's got an 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨-𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 (talisman)... well... you can say that that thing makes her basically in control around these parts."
"𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨-𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨?" asked the confused Demoleus,
"You see that necklace," despite the visibility of the necklace wrapped around Natalia's neck, the glinting of the purple gemstone within it sparkled through the dimly-lit confines.
"That's an 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨-𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. It signifies authority. Currently, there existed here at least five talismans, well, it's certainly too hard to explain without an image to see, but don't worry! I've caught a glimpse of those and wrote it on the paper, so here it is!"
Ricardo takes out a small piece of rolled paper from his pockets and shows the contents to Demoleus.
It was written: A drawing of five esoteric figures that look like badges, each had their own etched symbols and a short explanation as what these 𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨-𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 would do to their wearers. The first one had the symbol of three eyes with a few motifs etched below it. The name given to it was "Trespikos" it was said to give the wearer bullet resistance.
No wonder that these kind of talismans were infamous to the Order guards. Some believed that it came from an old Guardia Civil who had entered the arena to atone for his sins and the only thing that was left redeemable in his corpse after he was mutilated was the Trespikos. So it was only believed to be able to shield from bullets and swords, not from the claws of these god-forsaken creatures.
The second symbol was the figure of a triangle with a drawing of the sun casting three rays of light at each corner. It was called the "Odom" and is believed to grant the wearer the ability to blind their opponents' senses. Its existence was discovered inside Deephaven following the incident where one of the prisoners sneaked inside the Bishop's quadrant undetected.
If it was not for the hidden cameras, he could've gotten out of prison but even with something powerful such as this talisman, its shadow still couldn't escape from the all-seeing eye of the Bishop.
The third symbol looks like a small stone with intricate designs all over it. The ilustrado is surely an artsy. It's said to be taken inside the stomach of a specific fish and thus, was called "Palos". It was said that the Palos is the sneak's preference. It grants the wearer supernatural agility and speed.
Contrary to popular belief, this "Palos" can also be found molding in the canines of some Prowlers but it's not considered as genuine. The true power of the Palos, it was said, lay in extracting it from the depths, where its potential was unleashed.
The fourth symbol was just a fang but the ilustrado explained that it's not just some ordinary fang. It came from the jaws of the lightning itself. It was dubbed as "Ngipon sa Kilat (Lightning Fang)".
No one actually knows how one managed to sneak such a relic inside prison but it was believed to be wielded by the strongest fugitive group in Deephaven known as "Sputnik". The leader of this group known as "Alyas Kilat" demonstrated its effects by facing two Bloodhounds in the arena bare-handed. No shit, he killed those without mercy and even ate their insides claiming its power transferring inside him. The tales of the Lightning Fang, however, fell silent thereafter, leaving much unknown.
The fifth symbol was a gemstone and it looks like the one that "madam bruha" has in possession. It has not been given a name yet but the folks in the quadrant says that it's some sort of mind control spell.
Natalia has not demonstrated it since according to the ilustrado, she's one of the new prisonders who was sent weeks before Demoleus and she already had the talisman in possession.
Ricardo couldn't help but express his disbelief at the notion of these talismans possessing any kind of mythical properties.
"What a bunch of knuckleheads," he scoffed, his voice laced with a mix of amusement.
As an ilustrado, his education had instilled a sense of skepticism, prioritizing rationality over cultural beliefs.
In an instant, the room plunged into darkness, and the flickering lights cast eerie shadows on the walls. The silence was shattered by the piercing sound of bells clanging atop each bulkhead, their echoes resonating through the chamber. Then, a commanding voice, belonging to the bishop, reverberated, breaking the stillness,
"Arise and shine, fellow brothers and sisters in Christ! We have a new disciple awaiting us in The Pit! Let us waste no time and welcome him on his first pilgrimage!"
Upon hearing these words, the prisoners sprang to their feet, the clinks of their chains filling the air with a sense of anticipation. Amidst the excitement, Natalia's face revealed a tinge of worry, as if she had foreseen an impending calamity.
Demoleus glanced at her and empathized with her apprehension, but he was powerless to intervene, bound by the chains that held him captive.
After a few moments, the bulkheads at either end of the room swung open, releasing billows of smoke that crept inside. Surprisingly, the doors to their individual cells unlocked themselves, and the prisoners cautiously emerged, shuffling toward the open bulk doors and into the halls leading towards the arena. For Demoleus, it was his first glimpse of the arena below, a sight that took his breath away.
As he peered down, the distant door at the far end of the arena creaked open slowly, and from the swirling haze and ashes emerged a young lad, slight in stature, with a head of afro hair and a smudged face. Fear and bewilderment etched across his features.
Demoleus gazed at the young man and was struck by a vague memory, a fleeting flashback of a chaotic gunfight, where a soldier had called out to him,
"Captain!" The soldier's face had now transformed into that of the young man standing before him.
It left Demoleus stunned, grappling with the shock of this realization.