The eerie silence that now enveloped the cell was as suffocating as the oppressive darkness, each second seeming to stretch into an eternity. Lucian's chest rose and fell in time with his rapid, shallow breaths, the only sound punctuating the heavy stillness of the air. All around him, the prisoners watched, eyes glinting like coals in the shadows. Their faces, lined with both apprehension and awe, were a testament to the power Lucian now wielded. The victor of the fight against the two brutes, he stood before them, a lone figure amidst the carnage.
The men gathered around him were like a sea of dark eyes, all trained on the figure of the boy who had defied the odds. Lucian had become an object of fascination. The whispers that circulated among the prisoners were hushed and reverent, their voices filled with wonder. How had he managed to topple the two brutes, the monsters who had terrorized the cell for weeks on end?
How had a boy, so small and seemingly insignificant, mustered the strength and courage to stand up to their brutality?
To the prisoners, this was no small feat. The prison block had been a place of darkness and despair for as long as the prisoners could remember. A place where strength and savagery reigned supreme. The brutes had been their undisputed kings, their reign of terror a gruesome chapter in the prison's lore. Many had tried to challenge their might, but all had been brutally crushed under their fists, their mangled corpses left to rot as grim warnings to any who dared defy them.
They had bullied, beaten, and broken others for years, yet today they had fallen. And not just fallen—they had been humiliated, their defeat burned into the memory of every man present.
The tension in the air had shifted. Lucian had earned something that was rarer than gold in a place like this: respect. The prisoners, hardened by years of suffering, felt pride in his victory, not jealousy. They saw a glimmer of hope in him, a defiance against the oppression they all endured.
But in every crowd, there is always one outlier—a shadow lurking at the edges, unwilling to follow the tide. While the prisoners' gazes were turned toward Lucian, a solitary figure remained separate from the throng. Hanging back in the shadows, away from the light of the cell's flickering lanterns, stood a man whose face was contorted by a sneer of disdain
No matter how tightly woven the fabric of a society may seem, there are always threads that unravel it from within. Among every oppressed group, there exists a peculiar breed of people—traitors and betrayers—whose loyalties do not lie with their own but with the very forces that keep them shackled.
These individuals, often driven by desperation or delusion, align themselves with the oppressors. Some do it out of a hollow ambition, grasping at the illusion of power in an attempt to feel superior to their fellow sufferers. They tell themselves that by currying favor with their captors, they can rise above their lot, transcend their chains, and become something more. Others harbor an unshakable arrogance, believing they are fundamentally better than the masses they are trapped with, their imprisonment a cruel twist of fate rather than a reflection of their reality.
Whatever the cause, such people are poison to their kind. They gnaw at the foundations of trust and solidarity, eroding what little strength the oppressed can muster. They are cancers in the body of a broken society, spreading harm with every whispered betrayal, every back turned for a taste of privilege. Left unchecked, they fester, weakening the whole until there is nothing left but ruin.
Unfortunately for Lucian, one of these men shared the walls of his prison block.
This man, known only by the nickname "the Wencher," was a figure of contempt among the other prisoners. His wiry frame and shifty eyes seemed to embody the very essence of deceit. He carried himself with a peculiar blend of arrogance and servility, strutting among his peers as though he were superior while bowing low to the guards at every opportunity.
The Wencher had long abandoned any pretense of solidarity with the others. To him, they were not brothers in suffering but lesser beings, unworthy of his respect or concern. He fancied himself above their pain, a man apart, destined for something greater.
In his mind, his alliance with the warden was proof of his superiority. The guards humored his schemes, offering small scraps in exchange for information—a slightly cleaner corner of the cell, a stale piece of bread, a blade smuggled in under the guise of "protection." But the truth was plain to everyone but the Wencher himself: to the guards, he was nothing more than a pathetic tool, a rat who scurried to them with stolen crumbs of gossip.
The Wencher saw none of this. Instead, he believed he was playing a clever game, rising above the rest while they wallowed in filth. His smug satisfaction was a thorn in the side of every prisoner who watched him grovel before the very men who held them all captive.
When Lucian defeated the brutes, the Wencher's simmering hatred flared into a blaze. He had no admiration for the boy's courage, no respect for his strength. To the Wencher, Lucian was a threat—a spark that could ignite rebellion among the prisoners and upset the fragile balance he had cultivated. Worse, Lucian's victory had made him the center of attention, the kind of figure others could rally behind.
This enraged the Wencher. If the prisoners looked to Lucian as a leader, his own tenuous hold on his perceived superiority would crumble. He couldn't allow that to happen.
So, as the rest of the block cheered for Lucian, the Wencher plotted. In his mind, the solution was simple. He would confront the boy, show him—and everyone else—that defiance had consequences. If he succeeded, he might even impress the guards, proving himself useful in ways beyond mere information.
The Wencher was a man of no great strength or skill, but he had one advantage: he was utterly unburdened by conscience. For him, there was no shame in betrayal, no hesitation in wielding the knife he had acquired through deceit. As long as it furthered his cause, he would do whatever it took.
And so, with the cold steel of his blade glinting faintly in the dim light of the block, the Wencher stepped forward, ready to strike.
The system blinked to life.
[You have an new side quest]
[Quest: survive the wencher]
The blade gleamed faintly in the dim light, its edge as sharp as the Wencher's resolve. He had never used it before; it had been kept hidden, a treasure hoarded for the right moment. And this, he decided, was that moment. If he could take down Lucian, he would show the warden that he was more than just an informant—he was a weapon.
Lucian saw him approach. The boy's green eyes locked onto the Wencher's, reading the hatred in his gaze. There was no pretense here, no veiled threat. The Wencher wanted blood.
Lucian's body tensed, his muscles still buzzing with the adrenaline of his earlier fight. He shifted his stance slightly, bracing himself for what was to come. He knew this would be different from the brutes. The Wencher wasn't charging in blindly, fueled by overconfidence. He was careful, calculating, and above all, armed.
Lucian began to study him, letting his instincts take over. The Wencher's movements were quick but erratic. He stepped forward with a kind of manic energy, his knife held too tightly, his shoulders hunched as if protecting himself from an unseen blow. Lucian could see it—a crack in the man's confidence, a sliver of insecurity he was trying to hide beneath his aggression.
For a moment, Lucian considered waiting. The Wencher would make a mistake—he was sure of it. All he had to do was be patient, let the man tire himself out or expose a weakness. But patience was a luxury Lucian didn't have. His blood was still pounding, his heart a drumbeat of energy that screamed for action.
So he moved.
With a burst of speed, Lucian rushed forward, his arm swinging out in a wide arc toward the Wencher's ribs. It was a move he had used before, one that had brought him victory against the brutes. But in his haste, he had forgotten a crucial lesson: repetition breeds predictability.
The Wencher had been watching. He had seen Lucian's fights, studied his movements, and anticipated this exact attack. As Lucian's arm swung out, the Wencher stepped to the side, his movements fluid and deliberate.
And then he struck.
Driving his shoulder forward, the Wencher hit Lucian square in the chest. The impact was brutal, knocking the air from Lucian's lungs and sending him stumbling backward. The world spun around him as he struggled to regain his footing, his vision swimming with stars.