The Island at the End of the World. A natural prison, surrounded by the frozen wastelands of the northern seas, where even the stars seemed hesitant to shine. This place, circled by an endless sheet of ice riddled with jagged icebergs, was a graveyard for condemned souls. But it wasn't just the cold or the unrelenting winds that made escape impossible—beneath the icy surface lurked the true guardians of this forsaken land.
They were creatures of legend, half-human, half-monster, with shimmering scales and glowing eyes. The prisoners whispered their names in fear: the Abyssal Beasts. These predators ensured that no one who dared the icy waters lived to tell the tale.
At the heart of this desolation stood **The Iron Prison**, a fortress carved into the remnants of a long-abandoned mining colony. Its foundations stretched deep into the frozen earth, built upon a labyrinth of collapsed tunnels and treacherous shafts. The prison housed the world's worst criminals, the kind that governments no longer wanted to waste time or resources on. For them, this was the final destination. No return. No hope. Only cold, darkness, and the suffocating weight of despair.
---
Deep within the prison, in the coldest and darkest recesses known as **The Block of the Damned**, Takeshi sat quietly in his cell. The narrow space was nothing more than a crude stone cage, its walls damp and scarred with the scratches of past occupants. A small slit in the wall, barely wide enough to let in a sliver of light, allowed a bitterly cold draft to creep in. The floor was uneven and stained with old blood, and a splintered wooden board mounted to the wall served as a bed.
Takeshi sat with his back against the wall, his piercing blue eyes scanning the dim space. His **vivid red hair**, long and slightly unkempt, framed his sharp, angular face. It was an unnatural shade, bright and fiery even in the dim light of the cell, a mark of his lineage—a symbol of the blood that still burned for vengeance. His physique was lean yet powerfully built, his muscles taut and well-defined, a body forged through years of rigorous training. His stillness radiated a quiet intensity, a calm readiness that hinted at the storm beneath.
Every inch of his posture was controlled. While others in this hell might scream, beg, or fall apart, Takeshi waited. He calculated. Every breath he took, every second he remained alive, was another move in a game only he understood. His fists rested lightly on his lap, but every muscle in his body was prepared to act at a moment's notice.
Then came the metallic screech of a lock being turned.
Takeshi's head turned slowly toward the sound as the iron door to his cell groaned open. A gust of freezing air followed, carrying with it the heavy footsteps of two guards. They were grinning, their faces twisted with amusement as they shoved a large man into the cell.
"Here's your new bunkmate," one of the guards chuckled. "Enjoy yourselves."
The man stumbled forward, regaining his balance quickly. He was massive, with a broad chest and arms covered in scars. His eyes glinted with malice, and his lips curled into a predator's grin.
"So, you're Takeshi," he said, his voice gravelly and mocking. "The one everyone's talking about. You've got a pretty face, boy. Shame it's wasted here."
Takeshi didn't reply. His icy gaze met the man's, unflinching. The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, until the man barked a laugh.
"What, cat got your tongue? Don't worry—I'll make you beg soon enough."
He stepped forward, his hand reaching out to grab Takeshi, but the young man moved first. A single, precise motion—a strike to the throat. The larger man staggered, clutching at his neck, his eyes wide in shock.
Takeshi didn't stop. He flowed forward like water, each movement sharp and deliberate. His fist slammed into the man's chest with enough force to make him gasp for air, and another strike followed, targeting the ribs. The man's knees buckled as Takeshi's onslaught continued, each hit precise and aimed at the flow of mana within his body.
The guards, who had been laughing moments before, now stood silent, their grins replaced by uneasy expressions.
"You see this?" one whispered to the other. "I told you not to mess with him."
Takeshi grabbed the man by the collar, his face calm and emotionless, and dragged him toward the cell door. With a powerful shove, he threw the man into the hallway, his body slamming into the cold, hard ground.
"Take him away," Takeshi said, his voice low but firm, his blue eyes boring into the guards.
The two guards nodded hastily, shutting the door behind them. Takeshi turned back to his cell, brushing a strand of red hair from his face as he sat back down on the wooden board he called a bed.
---
It had been **a year** since Takeshi was thrown into this frozen hell. A year of quiet observation, of counting every face and every move.
**Fifty-five.** That was the exact number of guards. Forty-seven of them were ordinary enforcers, armed and dangerous in groups but unremarkable alone. Six were more skilled, hardened veterans. Two were Adepts, capable of using their mana with deadly precision. And then there was the Warden—a Hero whose presence alone kept the prison in check, a man of unparalleled strength.
Among the prisoners, there were **one hundred twenty-three.** Thieves, murderers, mercenaries, and rogues filled the cells, each with their own story. Some were broken, others were dangerous, and a few—just a few—were willing to work together. Over the past year, Takeshi had started forging alliances, building a network of those willing to plan and act. They weren't ready yet, but the cracks in the prison's armor were becoming clearer.
Sitting in the cold silence of his cell, Takeshi allowed himself a moment of thought, his fingers lightly brushing the scars on his knuckles. Memories of his clan's massacre flashed in his mind, and his voice broke the stillness.
"One day, I'll shatter their chains. I'll make them pay. All of them."
The room fell silent again, but the fire burning in Takeshi's heart remained unwavering.