The Swashbuckler clung to the ceiling of the dark dungeon, silently crawling, while the blood slaves in the iron cages let out shrill wails.
"Ow, ow..."
"Blood..."
"Give me blood..."
They had long lost their sanity from the many years of captivity, their desire for blood reducing them to beasts driven solely by instinct.
"None of them can even speak properly."
The Swashbuckler looked at the blood slaves, shaking his head in exasperation.
Suddenly, a hoarse voice broke the silence.
"Newcomer, you should escape. Once the Duke wakes up, you won't be able to."
"At least now you can still enjoy playing the cat-and-mouse game, stealing a moment of freedom, pretty amusing, right?"
The Swashbuckler glanced toward the voice. A man stood straight within a cage, his face pale but his attire much more intact, though marked by the ravages of time and partially decayed.
"Who are you?"
"Yeno Rackman."
"That surname..."
