As Amukelo and Holag continued their descent, the air grew colder, and the damp, suffocating smell of earth and rot became nearly unbearable. The passage was narrow, forcing them to walk single-file, and the deeper they ventured, the more oppressive the silence became, broken only by the occasional screams and chilling laughter that echoed from deeper within.
It wasn't long before they reached a cell that was occupied. Amukelo peered inside and saw a young girl, naked and huddled into the corner of the cell, her knees pulled to her chest as she tried to make herself as small as possible. Her body was covered in bruises, and her hair was matted and dirty, covering part of her face.
She was trembling violently, and her eyes darted frantically as she caught sight of Amukelo and Holag. When Amukelo stepped closer to the bars, she whimpered and tried to back further into the corner, but there was nowhere to hide. The pure fear and desperation in her eyes hit Amukelo like a punch to the gut.
His voice softened as he spoke to her, trying to project calm and kindness in the midst of the madness. "Everything will be alright, I promise," he said, his tone gentle but firm, "Please... tell me what is happening here." The girl, however, was too terrified to respond.
She remained huddled and silent, her eyes wide, staring at him like a frightened animal. She did not trust that anyone would help her, not anymore. Another scream pierced the air—louder and more anguished than before—followed by mocking laughter. Amukelo's jaw clenched, and he knew he couldn't stay. "We'll come back for you, I promise," he said to the girl, but she only gave a faint, hollow look in return, one that showed no sign of hope. She seemed already resigned to her fate.
Amukelo quickened his pace, his heart pounding in his chest. Holag tried to keep up but was clearly struggling to match the urgency in Amukelo's steps. The corridor seemed endless, lined with cell after cell, and with every step, they found more captives—more girls, women, and even children, all in various states of agony and terror.
Some of the captives had torn clothes barely clinging to their bruised bodies, others were entirely naked, exposing deep wounds and lacerations. Their faces were pale, eyes sunken with exhaustion, and many had dried blood around their wrists and ankles from being shackled too tightly. Holag looked away, unable to bear the sight of their pain, but Amukelo's eyes were fixed, and his mind raced with fury and disgust. The injustice of it all set his blood boiling; every face he saw added more fuel to the raging fire within him.
Then in one of the cells, a woman was tied with ropes and hung from the ceiling, her feet barely grazing the floor, her arms stretched painfully above her head. The ropes dug into her skin, leaving deep red marks, and her body hung limp as if she no longer had the strength to hold herself up. Her mouth was gagged with a filthy rag, and her eyes were swollen, puffy, and full of desperation. Amukelo's face darkened as he took in the sight. This wasn't just captivity—this was torture, abuse. He could feel his hands shake as he gripped the hilt of his sword, desperate to cut down these monsters and free every captive he saw. His anger radiated off him, and his eyes burned with a cold, deadly rage.
Amukelo's steps turned into a run, leaving Holag trailing behind in fear. The corridor twisted and turned, and with each new corner, he saw more cells with more women tied up—beaten, abused, and left hanging just like the first. Their faces were masked in agony, and they winced or looked away whenever they saw Amukelo approach. He wanted to tell them that he was going to help, that he would free them all, but right now, he needed to find the source of the screams.
Finally, the corridor split into two separate paths. Amukelo skidded to a stop, unsure of which direction to take, but then he heard the scream again. The voices were coming from the right, and without hesitation, Amukelo turned and sprinted in that direction.
As Amukelo approached, the echoes of the conversation became clearer. He heard the first man's laughter, harsh and filled with a sick excitement. "Hahaha... Our pastor said to wait, but I can't hold on any longer," the voice sneered, dripping with malice. "We'll have some fun with you." His tone was mocking, relishing in whatever twisted act he had in mind. The second voice, filled with nervous reluctance, muttered, "If he gets angry, I wasn't involved in this." There was a chilling indifference in the voice, as if he had seen such things countless times before and simply didn't care. The first man, however, pressed on eagerly, "Come on, don't you want to play with this?"
Amukelo could hear the tearing of fabric, and in an instant, he knew what was happening. He burst through the archway, his eyes falling upon the scene before him. Rage and disgust churned in his gut, an anger so intense that it felt like the blood in his veins was boiling.
There were two men—one in the black and blood-red robes of the church, his face twisted with a sick smile; the other, a soldier in armor similar to those who had escorted Amukelo earlier. Both men stood over a girl tied up by her wrists to a post, hanging helplessly. Her head hung down, hair cascading over her face like a veil, hiding her expression, but it was obvious she was barely holding on.
The girl looked young, perhaps only two or three years younger than Amukelo himself. Her golden-blond hair shone even in the dim light, and as she turned slightly, her unique eyes caught the flickering torchlight—one icy blue, the other deep grey, staring blankly into the dark abyss as if she had already accepted her fate.
Her mouth was gagged with a dirty piece of cloth, the fabric tied tightly to keep her silent. Her clothes were in tatters, a once-elegant dress now torn and barely hanging onto her body, exposing bruises and scratches along her arms and shoulders, though the vital parts were still covered.
Amukelo's face darkened with a mix of rage and disgust, his teeth clenched so tightly that his jaw ached. He took a step forward, unable to mask the malice in his voice as he called out, "Hey... What the hell do you think you're doing? Huh?" His voice trembled, not with fear, but with pure wrath. It carried through the corridor like a whip crack, the strength of his anger enough to silence all noise in the room for a heartbeat.
The soldier turned, a sneer curling his lips as he saw Amukelo standing there with his sword half-drawn. He looked Amukelo up and down with disinterest and mockery, eyes resting on his armor and the way his hand gripped the blade's hilt. He laughed, and it was an ugly, jeering sound. "Huh... And who are you? We were just about to begin," he spat, and Amukelo could hear the lecherous grin in his voice. He paused as if sizing Amukelo up, then added dismissively, "No invitation, no entry."
Amukelo's eyes narrowed, and his grip tightened on his sword. Every muscle in his body was coiled and ready to strike. "You don't need to send one, to die," he growled. He could feel his blood thrumming with the need to cut them down, to end this nightmare. He took another step forward, the blade of his sword catching the light as he drew it fully from its sheath.
Seeing Amukelo's readiness, the soldier let out a derisive snort and took out his own sword, an ordinary weapon but wielded with a cocky arrogance that suggested he thought himself untouchable. "Come then, stranger," the soldier said with a mocking grin, his confidence unshaken. "I don't know how you got here, but you'll regret it."