Bryard's words hit me like a physical blow, igniting a fury I'd never known before. I stared into his cold grey eyes, searching for a glimmer of humanity, but found nothing. This man, this zealot, was no better than the Daemons he claimed to fight. Maybe he was worse.
The irony of it all wasn't lost on me. This was exactly what Dad had programmed, wasn't it? An illustration of how people could become so blinded by their beliefs that they lost sight of the very truth they claimed to serve. But knowing the purpose behind it didn't make it any easier to stomach.
Something inside me snapped. I lunged forward, chains rattling as I slammed against the unyielding bars. The collar tightened around my neck, choking me, but I didn't care. For once, a reckless bravery coursed through my veins.
"You're sentencing someone innocent to death, you asshole!" I wheezed through clenched teeth. In that moment, I wished these bars would disintegrate. I wished I could wear my sister's skin, become the very monster they feared, just to wipe that self-righteous look off Bryard's face.
If I was going to die, it wouldn't be on my knees begging for mercy from this twisted fuck.
Bryard's eyes narrowed, then he threw his head back and laughed, his shoulders shaking. "You are a caged animal," he sneered. "None of you filthy little bastards are innocent. A child without a mother is born in sin. A child without a father to guide them cannot learn. I see why your mother didn't want you."
His words struck deep, and my chest constricted, aching for a mother I'd never known—a mother that wasn't even mine. The pain of it, the sheer injustice, sent me reeling.
Suddenly, I wasn't just me anymore. Memories flooded my mind, vivid and overwhelming.
I was Xavier, the boy whose body I inhabited. His pain, his longing, his rage; it all crashed over me in a tidal wave of emotion.
"Please don't, I promise I won't set anything on fire again," Xavier pleaded, his voice small and terrified.
His mother's eyes glinted with twisted tears. "You can't control what you are. If it's All Mother's will, you'll live. Then," she choked on the words, "then I won't be punished for raising a, a—"
"A monster," Xavier sobbed, finishing her sentence. The word hung in the air, heavy and damning.
She nodded, pulling back the hammer of a revolver clutched tightly in her hand. Xavier jumped in his chair, and I felt his fear as if it were my own. The warmth of urine trickled down his leg. Russian roulette.
"One more time," the woman said, her voice eerily calm, as if certain this would be the bullet that found its mark.
Xavier screamed, and I screamed with him, our voices merging in a desperate plea. "No more. I don't want to die."
The trigger pulled. A deafening bang shattered the air. Xavier looked down, expecting to see blood, but instead found a crushed bullet on the floor, flattened like a miniature tin can.
What the hell?
I snapped back to the present, my eyes refocusing on Bryard. His face had transformed from cruel amusement to shock and hatred.
Why was he looking at me like that?
I followed his gaze downward and felt my own jaw drop. The bars of my cell were crushed in my grip, twisted and warped like paper, my fingerprints embedded in the metal.
I lifted my hands, staring in disbelief. No blood. Not a single cut.
Bryard's voice trembled with rage and fear. "Say again you aren't a Daemon and I'll tear that wicked heart out of your chest myself."
Releasing the crushed bars between my fingers, I send a wad of spit at his face. "Fuck you."
"I won't be doing that, but some of those vicious creatures in the arena will tomorrow." Bryard warned, turning to leave.
"What an asshole," the old man in the neighboring cell cooed.
"Couldn't agree more," I replied, unable to keep the tremor from my voice.
Bryard's words had ignited a fire in me, and every time I had a flare of emotion, I found myself plummeting into Xavier's memories. Fragments of a life not my own, yet intimately familiar, flashed before my eyes—memories I'd missed of his in that split second when I'd returned to my world, sprawled on the street with my parents looming over me.
Dad would've had this all figured out by now. It was his game, after all. Mom could've charmed her way out of anything with that smile of hers, lies flowing from her lips as smooth and effortless as a stream over polished stones. And my sister, psychotic and cruel as she was, was a mastermind of manipulation. She could calculate and maneuver her way through any situation, rarely needing violence. But when she did use it, no one ever saw it coming until it was too late.
But me? I was none of those things. I was just Zayn the nobody. The kid who played video games, binge-watched anime, devoured manga, and occasionally dabbled in D&D. I wasn't a genius, a charmer, or a mastermind. I was just... me.
I stared down at my bruised and torn knuckles, curling my fingers into my palms. Without really thinking about it, I slammed my fist into the concrete floor of my cell. The impact barely registered. My hands were getting stronger from the relentless thrall training.
For the first time, I really looked at myself. Lean muscles I hadn't noticed before were etched into my arms. A six-pack had formed on my abdomen, courtesy of the two hundred daily sit-ups that had become as routine as breathing.
But would it be enough? Tomorrow, I'd be thrown into the arena. A place where strength alone wouldn't guarantee survival. I needed more than muscles. I needed a plan, a strategy, something my family would've concocted in their sleep.
As I lay back on the cold stone, exhaustion finally catching up with me, determination settled in my chest. I may not be a genius or a mastermind, but I was adaptable. I'd survived this long in a world I never asked to be part of. Tomorrow, I'd have to dig deep, to find reserves of strength and cunning I never knew I had.
Because in the arena, there would be no reset button, no extra lives. Just the brutal reality of survival, and the gnawing question that had haunted me since I crushed those metal bars, ever since the dark priest told me I shouldn't have been able to touch his cloak: what was I becoming? And would it be enough to keep me alive?
As sleep began to claim me, one last thought flickered through my mind: Sometimes, the most dangerous player in the game is the one with nothing left to lose.