"Ugh..." Torin's consciousness flickered back as his hand instinctively moved to the back of his head. A sharp pang shot through him as his fingers found the crusted blood. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to his feet, his vision swimming back into focus amidst the darkness. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and animal feces, oppressive and suffocating.
"Don't bother struggling; we can't escape from here," whispered a voice shrouded in shadows. Torin jumped slightly, the unexpected sound jolting him. As his eyes adjusted to the murk, he made out the figure of a man, chained against the metal bars. Inch by inch, Torin edged closer, the man's features gradually revealing themselves. The poor soul was battered, blood still trickling from a split lip, his face marred by bruises and swelling.
"Clang... clang..." The eerie sound of chains rattled through the gloom as other voices began to echo around the cell. "Hahaha, welcome to hell, lad," called out one, his tone sorrowful yet tinged with a grim humor at their shared fate.
Laughter, hollow and mocking, filled the air, accompanied by the clinking of chains and the banging of metal bars, each noise intensifying the eerie atmosphere of their confinement.
Torin, absorbing the cacophony of despair, tried to steady his racing mind. It was clear he was in a cell, a prison cell. Though he had never lived in a town or city, his occasional visits over his eighteen years of life had taught him enough to recognize his grim surroundings. Memories flashed in his mind as he tried to piece together how he had ended up here—all he could recall was the wood striking him.
"Where am I?" Torin asked, focusing his thoughts as he settled beside the chained man, maintaining a cautious distance.
"You're in Ristoria's Sinner Prison," the man replied calmly, his voice a stark contrast to the madness and chaos that echoed around them. His demeanor suggested a weary acceptance of their fate, providing a rare moment of sanity in the hellish environment.
Torin's heart plummeted as the man's words struck him, jolting him with the brutal realization that he had been attacked, rendered unconscious, and dragged into Ristoria! Even he has lived far away from it, he still has heard legends of the cruelty of Ristoria. He had unwittingly ventured too close, and now, he was ensnared in its merciless clutches.
"You're not from around here, are you?" the chained man murmured as he guesses from the young man quietness.
"Yes," Torin replied, his voice barely a whisper.
"Then, I pity you," the man sighed deeply. "No 'sinner' taken by Ristoria has ever left alive."
"Sinner?" Torin echoed, confusion lacing his voice. He recalled the man mentioning they were in Ristoria's Sinner Prison, but the term felt alien, unjust.
"It's what they call outsiders like you, those who come from beyond Ristoria," the man explained in a grave tone. "About half a year ago, a massive explosion reshaped our world, and miraculously, Ristoria was spared. The ruler believes this was a divine sign, a testament that we were spared by the gods' will. Since then, anyone who has found their way here has been sacrificed to appease these gods."
Torin's mind reeled with each sentence, horror mounting as the reality set in. People had survived the global catastrophe only to be captured and sacrificed here?
His hands trembled as he absorbed the full weight of his predicament, "By sacrificed, you mean...?"
"Killed on the altar at the city's town square. In other words, executed," the chained man said bluntly.
Panic surged through Torin. He had endured the destruction of his home, the loss of his loved ones, and he had fought through despair to find a reason to live on. And now, to be killed here? It was unthinkable. He was not ready to give up—not yet, not like this. Fueled by a desperate surge of energy, he walks toward the cell bars and pulled with all his might.
"AHHHHHH!" His low roars echoed through the damp, dark corridors, filled with determination.
"Hahahaha!!!!!"
Laughter echoed from the other cells, a chorus of bleak, resigned mockery. "Hahaha, scream, scream, scream!" they jeered. They too had once fought against their fate, just as he was now, only to be beaten down and subdued.
Torin's ears rang with the mocking jeers from the other prisoners, their voices steeped in fatalistic glee.
"You'll soon be just like us! Keep screaming! The guards will come and beat you up, ahahaha!!!" one of the prisoners cackled, his laughter echoing off the stone walls like a sinister prophecy.
"We all will be dead tomorrow anyway, let the boy's screams be our music for the night, hahaha!" another chimed in, his voice a harsh rasp filled with bitter resignation.
The cruel mirth of his fellow captives filled the air, mingling with the stench of despair that pervaded the dungeon. Torin, still reeling from the physical exertion and the shock of his dire circumstances, felt a deep chill settle over him. The casual acceptance of their fate by the others only deepened his resolve not to succumb to the same despair that held them captive.
Tonight, Torin's screams might be the last sounds they would ever hear in this life. Tomorrow, the city's ruler was scheduled to perform another sacrificial ritual, and they knew all too well what that meant.
Torin slumped against the cold hard floor, his body aching from exertion, his heart heavy with despair. Yet, even in this dark moment, his mind whirled frantically for any possible means of escape.
As the silence of defeat settled heavily around him, Torin's mind worked furiously. About an hour later, he had crafted a plan. With a new sense of determination, he approached the chained man who had been observing him silently. His voice was low but firm as he posed a critical question, "Do you want to live?"
"What do you think?" the chained man retorted, his tone laced with a mix of sarcasm and hopelessness. Encouraged by the man's response, Torin quickly shared his devised strategy.
"Hahaha. Good, GOOD, GOOD!!!" the chained man exclaimed, his voice gaining an edge of excitement. "If all works out, I am in your debt!" With that, he began to scream—his cries even louder than Torin's had been, raw and piercing. He screamed until his throat burned with pain, yet he did not cease.
Their ruckus was soon met with the sound of approaching footsteps, echoing ominously through the corridors of the dark, damp prison.
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"Sect master, all preparations are complete, and we await your orders," an elder of the Sky Sword Heavenly Sect reported with a deep bow as he approached the grand throne. He knelt respectfully, his gaze lowered before the enigmatic figure shrouded in clouds seated upon the sect's highest throne.
"We are ready to depart at your command," he added, maintaining his formal posture.
"Uh," came the muffled reply from within the veil of clouds that enveloped the sect master. She paused mid-sentence, her hand stopping abruptly as she reconsidered her next move. "Wait for my order. I need to investigate something before we depart," she declared and then disappeared from the throne.
Left in the echoing silence of the vast throne room, the elder remained kneeling, a slight furrow forming on his brow in confusion. As the minutes stretched into uncertainty, he began to question whether he should remain kneeling or if he could retire. Internally, he debated his options, wondering about the appropriate protocol in such an unusual situation. With no clear directive, he continued to kneel, hoping for a swift return of the sect master or further instructions.
Far in the distant night sky, a figure enshrouded in clouds reappeared, isolated from any observers. She extended her powerful divine senses, sweeping the area to ensure she was alone. Once certain of her solitude, she released her divine art, allowing the clouds that veiled her form to slowly dissipate.
Revealed was a woman of striking beauty, appearing to be in her early twenties. Her eyes, sharp as a phoenix's, complemented a nose that seemed sculpted by celestial forces, and a figure that could sway the hearts and wills of men. Even the moon seems pale before her.
In the presence of her subordinates, she cloaked her appearance, but alone, she embraced the freedom to be herself. After receiving the Divine Attendant's orders, each sect master had returned to their respective sects to oversee the relocation process. The Immortal Mountain of the East, though a considerable distance from the epicenter, had suffered severe damage, with sixty percent of its structure destroyed and numerous lower-ranking disciples perishing in the aftermath. The Dragon Clouds Sect of the West fared slightly better, largely due to Sect Master Yun, who had sacrificed his blood essence to bolster the sect's protective arrays, saving most of his disciples and elders at great personal cost.
Her own Sky Sword Heavenly Sect, positioned further from the blast, was shielded effectively by its protective array. However, the mortal communities surrounding the sect were not so fortunate; to them, the catastrophe was apocalyptic.
She soared over the region she governed, reflecting on its once vibrant landscape. Lands that were formerly bustling with mortal empires, kingdoms, cities, towns, and villages now lay in ruins. As she surveyed the devastation, her divine sense unexpectedly detected signs of life—over ten thousand mortals!
"Perhaps it's their faith," she murmured softly. The mandate to relocate her sect to the Grand Divine Coalition was unequivocal, and preparations for the move were well underway. Despite her origins elsewhere, parting with the lands she had overseen for millennia was not without a deep sense of reluctance and loss.
As she glided through the sky, her two objectives were clear: to take one final survey of the lands she had governed, and to search for any survivors—whether they were vagabond cultivators or mere mortals. She felt a responsibility to rescue those from her domain, intending to bring them along as she relocated her sect.
As she neared the area where her divine senses had detected the presence of tens of thousands of mortals, her pace slowed. Observing the surroundings, she realized why they had survived.
"No wonder they're alive... they're quite fortunate," she mused, noting that here the force of the explosion had diminished enough to cause only minor destruction. The contrast was stark compared to the utter devastation she had witnessed in the north.
Her contemplation was abruptly halted as something unusual caught her eye. Descending for a closer look, her figure cut gracefully through the air, drawn by the anomaly that had sparked her curiosity.
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A thunderous roar echoed from the throne, reverberating through the grand hall. "FIND THEM, FIND THEM!!! THIS IS GOD'S TEST FOR US!!!! FIND THEM AND WE SHALL BE REWARDED BY THE GODS!!!!" The voice belonged to an old man seated on the throne, his face contorted into a grotesque expression that resembled a devil's sneer. Below his elevated seat lay a macabre display: skulls of "sinners," some still clad in decaying flesh. The air was thick with the stench of rotting corpses, but the man on the throne seemed immune to the foul smell, consumed by his fury.
At that moment, his wrath was so intense that it seemed he could turn it against even his own kin. His subordinates, having heard his furious command, quickly dispersed to carry out his orders.
This man was Victor Ristoria, the ruthless ruler of Ristoria. His reign of terror began when he seized power by murdering the previous city lord, plunging the city into despair. However, he ruled with an iron fist, quashing any opposition mercilessly. There had been a time when a riot nearly toppled him, but a world-altering event shifted the tide in his favor. He managed to convince the populace that Ristoria had been spared from destruction by divine intervention, suggesting that his leadership was sanctioned by the gods themselves. Over time, Victor himself began to believe he was the chosen one, destined to lead under the will of the gods.
The populace of the city had become entirely indoctrinated, following Victor Ristoria's commands without a hint of dissent. However, a small, resilient group resisted his iron-clad rule. Undeterred, Victor had them imprisoned, branding them as heretics and sinners against the divine will he claimed to embody.
As time passed, Victor discovered that survivors existed beyond Ristoria's borders. To further cement his control and eliminate any threats to his narrative, he declared these outsiders as sinners, enemies of the state. Anyone who dared enter the city was executed under this pretext. To incentivize compliance, he offered bounties for the capture of these so-called sinners, turning his citizens into willing accomplices in his ruthless regime.
Just moments earlier, he had received infuriating news: several prisoners had managed to escape from the Sinner Prison. Among them was someone Victor particularly wished dead, intensifying his rage.
In the dim light of early morning, with the city's fire lamps casting an eerie glow, Victor's sinister gaze swept over the city. His eyes, filled with malice, fixated on an unseen target. "No matter where you run, Peter, you will die today!" he hissed, his voice laced with venom.