chapter 218

Ravel looked down as he sank into his thoughts, no longer questioning Gabriel.

Gabriel watched him for a moment, before once more reminding him, "Sire Ravel, I hope that you will be able to finish your preparations to evacuate today. Cage…Cage likely won't be able to last even a day."

Ravel waved his hand and told him, "I know how things stand. You can leave first."

Gabriel still wanted to say something, but was unable to utter a single word when he was swept with those ice-cold eyes. He could only helplessly withdraw from the room.

At this moment, Ravel's Deputy General Kahn walked in and handed him some information. His expression was solemn as he asked, "General, what should we do next? Should we send some men to go to Cage and…"

Kahn did a "kill" action.

"The military is relaxed on the outside but strict inside. There aren't any chances to do so," Ravel stated while browsing through the information

Rasel, lost in the labyrinth of information, was oblivious to the silent conversation between Gabriel and K. His mind was a battlefield, strategizing, planning, calculating. The fate of countless lives rested on his shoulders, and he bore the weight with a stoic resolve.

The report in his hands detailed the Empire's latest moves, a chilling testament to their ruthlessness. They were tightening their grip, preparing for a final purge. Rasel's heart hardened, but his mind remained sharp. He would not be defeated.

"K," Rasel said, his voice low, carrying an undercurrent of steel, "initiate Phase Two."

K's eyes widened in surprise. "But Sire, the preparations..."

Rasel cut him off with a stern look. "The time for planning is over. It's time for action."

The rebellion, dormant for too long, would awaken. The sleeping dragon would rise, its fiery breath scorching the Empire. Rasel, the puppet master, would orchestrate the symphony of chaos, leading the oppressed to freedom.

The plan was audacious, a gamble on a monumental scale. It required every ounce of his cunning, every thread of his network, every drop of his determination. But Rasel was ready. He was not just a survivor; he was a conqueror, a phoenix rising from the ashes of despair.

The world outside the palace was oblivious to the storm brewing within its walls. But soon, the calm facade of the Dragon Fang Empire would be shattered, replaced by the chaos of revolution. And in the heart of this maelstrom, Rasel, the phantom leader, would emerge, a symbol of hope for the oppressed, a nightmare for the oppressors.

Rasel's mind was a whirlwind of strategies, a chessboard where every move was calculated. The loss of Alex, a critical piece in the rebellion, was a devastating blow, but it would not derail their plans. The Empire was a behemoth, but it had weaknesses, vulnerabilities that could be exploited.

The first step was to secure their position. Rasel ordered a full lockdown of the palace, isolating themselves from the outside world. He knew the Empire would react swiftly, sending in their elite forces to quell any potential uprising.

As the palace transformed into a fortress, Rasel delved deeper into the information provided by Gabriel. Alex's presence on Taima, his motivations, his actions - all pieces of a puzzle that needed to be solved. There was something about Alex, a connection to the past, a thread that could unravel the mysteries of the rebellion.

Days turned into nights as Rasel analyzed the data, searching for patterns, for clues. And then, a realization struck him. Alex's presence was not a coincidence. It was a calculated move, a pawn in a larger game.

The Empire was not just suppressing the rebellion; they were hunting something, something far more sinister. And Alex was the bait.

A cold dread crept into Rasel's heart. The stakes were higher than he had imagined. This was not just a battle for power; it was a war for the very survival of humanity.

Rasel's calm demeanor was a stark contrast to the chaos brewing within the Empire. His words, though few, carried the weight of authority, instilling a sense of purpose in those around him. K, his trusted lieutenant, bowed his head in respect, his eyes filled with a mixture of admiration and fear.

As they watched Rasel, a man consumed by a single-minded determination, a flicker of hope ignited within them. They had chosen the right leader, a man who would not be broken by adversity.

Meanwhile, in the depths of the Empire's prison, Alex was subjected to a new form of torment. The virtual screens, a mockery of freedom, displayed a gallery of faces, each a potential target for the Empire's wrath. Among them, Alex recognized familiar figures, shadows from his past life, people connected to the rebellion.

The interrogator, a man named Cyrus, watched Alex closely, searching for any sign of recognition. But Alex's expression remained impassive, a mask hiding the turmoil within. The melody, the constant companion, was a fortress, shielding his mind from the enemy's onslaught.

"Make your choice," Cyrus urged, his voice laced with impatience. "Time is running out."

Alex looked at the faces, each a life, a story, a potential casualty in the war to come. He saw the fear, the hope, the resilience. And he saw himself, a reflection of their struggles, a symbol of their resistance.

A cold determination settled over him. He would not be a pawn in their game. He would use this opportunity to turn the tables, to sow discord within the Empire.

"I recognize none of them," Alex said, his voice flat, emotionless. "They are strangers to me."

Cyrus's eyes narrowed. "We'll see about that," he said, a sinister smile playing on his lips. "We have plenty of time."

Alex closed his eyes, focusing on the melody. He was not alone. The rebellion, the spirit of resistance, lived within him. And as long as the melody played, the fight for freedom would continue.

Alex's body ached with a dull, persistent pain. The sensitizer had heightened his senses to a level bordering on torture, but his mind, fortified by the melody, remained resilient. He was a ghost in his own body, a spectator to the physical torment.

The interrogator, Charlie, watched with growing frustration. The boy's silence was infuriating, a defiance that bordered on arrogance. He had expected to break Alex within hours, to extract the information he needed. But the boy persisted, an unyielding statue in the face of the storm.

Time passed, each minute a testament to Alex's endurance. The interrogators, weary of their fruitless efforts, began to lose interest. They left, promising to return with more "persuasive" methods.

Alone in the interrogation room, Alex allowed himself a moment of weakness. Hunger gnawed at him, a primal urge that threatened to overwhelm his resolve. He thought of food, of the simple pleasure of eating. But he pushed the thought away, focusing on the melody, the source of his strength.

The melody, a symphony of defiance and hope, grew louder. It filled the room, a counterpoint to the silence. In this solitude, Alex began to plan his escape, a desperate gamble born from necessity. He would use his heightened senses, his knowledge of the facility, and the element of surprise to break free.

The road ahead was fraught with danger, but Alex was ready. He had faced the abyss and emerged stronger. The fight for freedom was far from over, and he was determined to see it through to the end.

Alex's mind was a fortress, his expression a mask of indifference. The interrogator, Charlie, was growing increasingly frustrated. The boy's refusal to cooperate was a personal affront, a challenge to his authority.

As the hours turned into days, Charlie resorted to more extreme measures. Sleep deprivation, sensory deprivation, even simulated drowning - nothing could break Alex's spirit. The boy was a ghost, haunting the interrogation room with his silent defiance.

In the midst of the torture, Alex found a strange solace. The pain, while unbearable, was a constant, a familiar enemy. It was in these moments of extreme suffering that the melody, the spirit of resistance, grew strongest. It was a symphony of pain and defiance, a testament to the human spirit's resilience.

One night, as the pain reached its crescendo, Alex experienced a profound shift. The world around him dissolved, replaced by a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes. He was falling, plunging into an abyss, but instead of fear, he felt a sense of exhilaration.

He landed with a soft thud, surrounded by a ethereal glow. Before him stood a figure, cloaked in shadows, its face obscured. The figure spoke, its voice a whisper carried on the wind. "You have shown courage, Alex. Now, it is time for you to choose."

Alex looked at the figure, his mind racing. He knew this moment had been coming. It was the culmination of everything he had endured, the ultimate test. He had a choice: to remain a prisoner of fate, or to embrace his destiny.

Without hesitation, he chose the latter. The melody within him surged, a symphony of defiance and hope. He was ready.

Alex's casual demeanor, a stark contrast to the high-tension environment, seemed to irritate Charlie even further. The interrogator's patience was wearing thin, his grip tightening on the table.

"Don't play games with me, boy," Charlie snarled. "We know you're hiding something."

Alex shrugged nonchalantly, his eyes holding a hint of amusement. "I'm telling the truth. He looks honest," he said, pointing at one of the profiles.

Charlie's face flushed with anger. He slammed his fist on the table, sending papers scattering. "Don't test my patience!" he roared.

Alex remained unfazed. "I'm just stating my opinion," he said calmly. "You asked for it."

The silence that followed was heavy with tension. The interrogators exchanged glances, their eyes filled with uncertainty. They couldn't break Alex, and they were running out of options.

Suddenly, the room was filled with the sound of alarms. The building was shaking, and the lights flickered. Chaos erupted as guards rushed in, weapons drawn.

"This is it," Alex said, his voice barely audible over the commotion. "The rebellion."

A cold smile crept across his face. The moment he had been waiting for had arrived.