The stench of rot and rust filled the air. The walls, smeared with filth and old blood, closed in like a cage. The ground beneath him was damp, the dirt packed hard from years of footsteps, fights, and bodies that had long since been forgotten.
Rod sat against a crumbling wall, one knee bent, his other leg stretched out. His black hair fell messily over his forehead, and his red eyes stared upward, unfocused. He wasn't thinking about anything important.
Just the sky.
He had never seen it, never felt the sun on his skin. He liked to imagine it, though—wide, endless, something too free to be trapped behind these walls. Maybe it was blue, maybe it wasn't. He didn't care.
A voice pulled him back.
"Hey, boy. What are you thinking about?"
Rod blinked. An older man stood nearby, arms crossed. His face was lined with age, eyes dull from too many years in this place.
Rod shrugged. "Nothing. What's up, old man?"
The man smirked. "It's time for food."
Rod exhaled and got to his feet.
Together, they walked toward the feeding ground. It wasn't an actual cafeteria—just a space where the prisoners gathered, waiting for scraps. The men stood in a loose circle, their faces hollow, their bodies tense. Some whispered, others stood silent, eyes locked on the ceiling as if expecting salvation to fall from above.
Then, it did.
A metal chute rattled, and something dropped to the ground with a dull thud.
Food.
Or at least, what passed for it.
Bones with scraps of meat, half-rotten vegetables, stale bread. Barely enough for a few people, yet dozens of starving prisoners lunged forward at once.
The silence shattered.
Fists flew. Bodies slammed against the ground. Men clawed and bit, desperate for even a handful of food. A man shrieked as someone snapped his wrist back at an unnatural angle. Another collapsed without a sound, a knife buried in his ribs.
Rod moved fast, dodging a brawl as he grabbed a chunk of bread and a strip of meat. It wasn't much, but it would do.
Then, a shadow loomed over him.
A thick hand reached out and ripped the food from his grasp.
Rod looked up.
The man before him was massive, his muscles thick like a wall of stone. Scars lined his face, his teeth yellow from rot. He chewed on a piece of stolen food, smirking down at Rod.
"You stole my food," Rod said, his voice flat.
The man chuckled, shaking his head. "Why would a pile of bones like you need it, huh?" His voice was deep, a slow rumble. "This ain't a playground, kid. Go back to your mother."
Rod didn't move.
The old man beside him placed a hand on his shoulder. "Let it go, Rod. We can share mine."
The brute sneered. "What, you think this kid can fight me?"
His fingers shifted.
Metal gleamed under the dim lights.
Knives.
"My ability is B," the man said, flexing his bladed fingers. "They call me the Butcher. People outside fear me."
Rod's expression didn't change.
"I don't care who you are," he said.
A single drop of blood slid down his cheek, seeping from his eye. Another trailed from the corner of his mouth.
Then, the blood twisted.
It slithered down his chin, stretching, shaping—solidifying into something sharp. A blade, jagged like broken glass.
Rod moved.
The blood-formed sword lashed out like a whip.
A sharp slice.
The Butcher's head left his shoulders. It hit the ground with a wet thud, rolling once before coming to a stop.
His body stood motionless for a second, as if it hadn't realized it was dead.
Then, it collapsed.
Rod stepped over the corpse, picked up his food, and took a bite. The old man beside him sighed and sat down. They ate in silence.
"You don't have to do this every time a new prisoner comes," the old man muttered.
Rod swallowed. "If I don't, they'll think I'm weak." He licked the blood from his fingers. "It's the rule."
Then, the loudspeaker crackled.
"Prisoner 501 has a visitor. Report to the metal door immediately."
Rod didn't react.
The old man stopped mid-chew, staring at him. "Wait… aren't you Prisoner 501?"
Rod paused for a moment. "Yeah."
A visitor? Impossible. He had been here his whole life. No one had ever come for him. No one had ever left and returned.
Still, curiosity gnawed at him.
He stood, dusted himself off, and made his way to the door.
Two guards were waiting. They shackled his wrists and ankles, the chains cold against his skin. Without a word, they led him through the prison corridors, past rows of cells where hollow-eyed prisoners watched in silence.
Finally, they reached a white room.
Sterile. Too clean for a place like this.
A thick glass wall split the room in half.
On the other side sat a man.
His posture was straight, his presence controlled, his gaze sharp. Unlike the prisoners, his eyes held something different. Power. Purpose.
The guard spoke. "You have fifteen minutes."
The man didn't look away from Rod. "That's enough."
He pulled out a sheet of paper, glanced at it, and began reading.
"Prisoner 501. No known lineage. No recorded name. Fifteen years old. Born and raised inside this prison. Survival made possible through a unique ability—blood manipulation. Capable of storing and weaponizing his own blood in large quantities. Highly dangerous."
He set the paper down.
"Join the Nine Star Academy."
Rod's fingers twitched slightly. Nine Star. He knew the name. The most prestigious academy in the country.
His voice was quiet. "Why?"
The man leaned forward. "The academy is divided into four groups. The group I lead is on the verge of being disbanded. If we don't at least place second in the upcoming competition, we're finished."
Rod stared at him. "So?"
"So, I need someone like you."
Rod let the words settle. The academy. A world beyond these walls. He had never cared about the outside. He had never been given a reason to.
But this man wasn't offering freedom.
He was offering something else.
Purpose.
Rod exhaled slowly. "Fine."
The man smiled.
Rod leaned back in his chair.
For the first time in his life, he was leaving this place.