The air in the cramped cell reeked of damp stone and sweat. A stench appalling enough to make anyone beg for freedom. Five boys sat in silence, their chains scraping against the stone floor with every slight movement.
Opposite the heavy iron door, a grated metal protector carved into the wall let in faint traces of sunlight. From their position, they could only see patches of grass and the legs of guards strolling past. The world above seemed like a distant reality—one that was out of their reach.
Haze sat cross-legged in the farthest corner, his head leaned back against the wall, eyes shut as if he were asleep. His hands, bound together, rested between his knees, the chain hanging limp. His breathing steady, though every muscle in his body screamed in agony. His back burned from the magic that made him fall. He could tell his back had swollen a bit, but he showed none of it.
Across from him, Ghent moved anxiously, like a wild animal in confinement. His unkempt black hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. The sharp angles of his face twisted into a smirk that lacked any warmth in his eyes. There was a tattoo-like marking on his neck, a series of three square dots arranged vertically, which seemed to shimmer in the low light, giving the impression that it was part of his skin rather than an imprint.
"You should've seen his face," Ghent said, breaking the silence. He glanced at his friends, all looking pretty rough: Mark, the big guy who got knocked out with a roundhouse; Jingo, the wiry guy with gray eyes who tried to fight back but got overwhelmed; and Ewald, the one quiet observer who stumbled while trying to attack.
"Dropped like a sack of bricks," Ghent continued, grinning at the thought. "Didn't think a guy like him could handle that."
"Barely," Ewald muttered, breaking his usual silence. His tone was flat, almost cautious.
Ghent shot him a look. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Look at him," Ewald said, gesturing toward Haze. "He's still breathing."
All eyes turned to Haze. The boy hadn't moved an inch since they had woken up in the cell hours ago. His hair, unevenly cut, fell over his face, masking his expression. On his left wrist, the shackle, together with a crude bracelet rested—its jagged beads marred by scratches that looked purposeful. His clothes were plain and worn, the same as everyone else's in the facility. But there was this air about him, one that distinguished him from the rest.
"He could be pretending," Jingo whispered.
"Pretending about what?" Ghent said angrily.
"Not feeling anything," Jingo replied. "Seijaran, is powerful enough to knock out an angry bear for days straight."
"You idiot! What are you trying to say?" Ghent snapped.
"He should still be unconscious or at least twitching." Jingo responded, trying hard not to laugh at Ghent's frustration.
Ghent's smirk was replaced by soured frustration. He despised being questioned, especially by his own group. His fingers brushed the tattoo on his neck, the chains binding his wrists clicking faintly as he strained against them. It was a nervous habit of his, one he reverted to whenever he felt anxious, cornered, or...
The mark, a symbol of his clan's illusionary magic, flickered briefly before fading. It merely wasn't for show. It was more than a symbol; the Genmuji's mark of acceptance reflected his clan's unparalleled illusions—magical illusions so powerful they could mislead more than just the senses.
Stories claimed they could even reshape reality itself, though Ghent's earlier attempt had fallen short of such legends.
Haze barely opened his eyes, just enough to meet Ghent's glare. "You should work on whatever you used earlier on; maybe then, just maybe you might be able to make me stay down for as long as you'd want" he said, his voice steady despite the dull ache in his chest.
Mark chuckled, but Ghent's nostrils flared in anger. He stepped forward, the sound of chains scraping on the floor as he leaned in toward Haze.
"What's your deal? Playing the hero, huh? This is all your fault!" Ghent voiced dropped, edged with threatening determination.
Haze didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. "Maybe try picking on someone your own size," he said flatly.
The tension in the air grew. It seemed like Ghent might lash out, but instead, he stood up straighter and muttered something under his breath, turning away.
Haze closed his eyes again. It wasn't worth the energy to keep them open. Every inch of his body ached, but he'd learned long ago how to mask pain. Years in this facility had taught him that weakness was a luxury he couldn't afford.
×××
They were in a facility that was part of the White Kingdom, concealed deep within its borders, operated under the guise of an orphanage. But everyone inside knew the truth. It was a machine, a factory that produced soldiers for the Kingdom's schemes. Some of the children were captured from rival territories; others, like Haze, were taken under the false pretense of "adoption." All of them were expendable.
Haze had spent most of his life in this place, the cold stone walls pressing in on him like an ever-present weight. He couldn't recall how many years had passed since he first arrived; time had blurred into an endless stretch of days that all felt the same. But that first day, the day they took him—he remembered it vividly.
He could still see his mother's face, eyes wide with terror, as men in dark uniforms surrounded them. She'd tried to shield him, holding him tight, but the fear in her eyes was unmistakable. Her hands trembled as they pulled him away, her cries echoing in his ears long after they had faded into the distance. The memory haunted him, a constant reminder of the life he had lost. He hadn't known at the time, but the sense of being trapped, both physically and emotionally, was just the beginning. Everything about this place, the coldness of the walls and the coldness of the people, had forced him to build walls of his own. And over the years, those walls had only grown taller, thicker, until he was no longer sure what was real and what was just a part of the prison he'd created for himself.
He had always wondered what had caused the war, why he was thrust into this life, and what had happened to the world he once knew. He missed the days with his mother—when life was fun and had a sense of normalcy. Now, survival was his only focus. He often recalled the things his mother had said, strange little prophecies that, at the time, had seemed like nothing more than old wisdom. But now, they echoed in his mind, making him wonder if she had known, all along, what would come to pass.
Survival wasn't just about enduring; it was about adapting, about learning the rules of a new world where only the strongest or the smartest survived. He had learned how to navigate the hierarchy, how to stay out of the way of those who held the power. He had figured out how to avoid the worst punishments, how to fight just enough to defend himself without drawing unwanted attention. But even with all that knowledge, even with all the strategies he had put in place to keep himself alive, there was always that one thought that lingered—escape.
A sharp clink interrupted his thoughts. The small rectangular carving at the bottom of the door creaked open, and a tray slid through. The tray held a plate of food—if it could be called that. Three dry grayish lumps of bread sat on the chipped ceramic plate, a few wriggling worms crawling over them.
The boys stared at the tray in silence, their expressions ranging from disgust to mild horror. Ghent was the first to speak up.
"What the hell is that?" he asked, his voice filled with disdain.
Jingo leaned closer, squinting at the bread. "Looks like something a rat wouldn't touch," he muttered, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
Haze, still leaning against the wall, didn't spare the tray more than a passing glance. "Hmph," he expressed, sounding almost like a sigh, as though the idea of the bread was too unappetizing to dwell on.
Without a word, Haze reached out, his chains clinking softly as he dragged the tray toward him. He picked up one of the bread lumps, ignoring the way it crumbled slightly in his grip.
"You're not actually gonna eat that, are you?" Mark asked, his face pale.
Haze didn't respond. He simply broke the lump in half, brushing away a worm before taking a bite. The bread was as bad as it looked—dry, tasteless, and gritty, with a faint metallic aftertaste. But he chewed steadily, swallowing without complaint.
The others watched in a mixture of awe and disbelief.
"How long?" Ewald asked quietly, his voice breaking the heavy silence.
No one answered. They didn't know. They all stared at each other, the weight of their situation sinking in. The stifling air grew thicker as time dragged on.