Chapter 7: A Dimly Lit Dungeon

Two men walked down a quiet path that led to a river and branched toward the city of Madew. By the roadside, flowers and plants of all kinds could be seen, filling the air with the scent of the forest.

The two men were servants of the Braim family household. One was short, and the other was tall. The tall one had a peculiar Spanish-like accent, while the short servant was a stammerer.

The Braim family built their home outside the city of Madew and supplied the city with foodstuffs. They were one of many families that provided agricultural products to the city. However, what set them apart was their involvement in the slave trade; they had connections with slave traders to obtain cheap labor for their farms.

As they walked, the short servant said, "Did you hear that, earlier this evening, some warriors were slaughtered for treason?"

He paused for effect and continued, "It was the Blistrix unit. It is said that they betrayed the empire by trying to assassinate the emperor of Mann."

"Mark, my dear man," the tall servant replied, "I overheard the master speaking with his son. From their conversation, I gathered that it wasn't really a betrayal but rather a setup. Why would a group of soldiers risk their lives to overthrow the ruler of an enemy nation for nothing in return and for no apparent reason? Does that sound right? Soldiers don't operate on their own free will; they act on orders."

Mark then said in a serious tone, "Then why would the empire betray its own men? What would cause the empire to do such a thing?"

Mark turned to stare at his colleague Ephraim with a questioning gaze. He knew that Ephraim was privy to more information than he was letting on.

"Fine," Ephraim said in a resigned tone. He paused for effect and then asked, "Who do you think benefits from this situation?"

Mark paused briefly, a smile slowly grazing his lips as understanding dawned on him. "The empire."

"You are correct, my dear man," Ephraim said to Mark.

Mark replied solemnly, "If that is really true, then the world is truly harsh. They have been killed for simply obeying orders and have been branded traitors. Imagine what their families will go through—the shame, discrimination, and injustice they will face. All this pain and suffering just for a political agenda."

Ephraim nodded thoughtfully. "The world is really not fair."

"The emperor is shameless. He has no honor," Mark thought to himself. "These nobles are monsters. They don't value the lives of anyone except their families."

The atmosphere had turned gloomy due to their discussion. At this point in time, they were near the riverbank. The plants danced gently in the night breeze, and moonlight reflected off the water's surface in what could be described as a dazzling work of art.

Before them lay a clearing leading to the river, flanked by plants on either side. The long and winding river ran throughout the Empire. On the riverbank, an object could be seen in black on the sand.

Ephraim was the first to notice it.

"Mark, my dear man, what do you think is over there?" he asked, pointing towards the object.

Mark turned to look in that direction but realized it was too far away to discern what it was.

As they approached, they realized it was a figure in a black military-style uniform. They couldn't sense anything amiss; they could only see the figure's back.

Mark hesitated. "Ephraim, shouldn't we leave and ask for help?" he asked.

Instead of answering, Ephraim bent down and turned the figure over. The figure was a handsome young man with bruises all over his body; he looked like someone who had been in a life-and-death battle. His skin was pale from prolonged exposure to water, and he appeared to be around eighteen years old.

Ephraim placed his hands just below the figure's jawbone and on his carotid artery to feel for a pulse. He detected a weak pulse and then turned his attention to his chest. He leaned down to listen for breath near the figure's nose and attempted resuscitation by overlapping his hands and pressing down on his chest several times. The figure coughed out water and began showing signs of life.

"This may be one of the soldiers from the Blistrix," Mark said.

"I believe so too," Ephraim replied. He paused for effect before saying, "Let's carry him back; our master will know what to do."

His colleague argued, "He may be better off left alone. If we bring him back with us, our master may make him into a bondservant."

"Is that not better than leaving him out here to die?" Ephraim countered.

After some convincing, Mark agreed, and together they carried the figure home with them—little did they know they were transporting Carl Newman, the soon-to-be most wanted fugitive in the empire.

Carl woke up in a dimly lit room where oppressive silence wrapped around him like a heavy blanket. His senses were dulled, but he could still detect a faint acrid smell of bleach lingering in the air; it stung his nostrils and made him cough weakly. As he lay there disoriented and confused, he became acutely aware of his body—every muscle ached as if he had been whipped all over. A deep sense of fatigue settled in his bones, making every movement feel like an insurmountable challenge.

He tried to recall how he had ended up in this place but found his mind shrouded in foggy fragments of memory. The last thing he remembered was falling off a cliff into the water below.

Pain surged through him as he attempted to shift positions; he winced and gritted his teeth against the agony radiating from his limbs. With great effort, he managed to prop himself up on one elbow only to face a harsh reality: he was chained to the ground. Cold metal clanked softly as he moved; its sound echoed ominously in the stillness of the room. Panic began creeping into his mind as he tugged at the chains testing their strength—they were unyielding, binding him like an animal caught in a trap.

Carl's heart raced as he took stock of his surroundings: dimly lit by a flickering candle hanging from above which cast eerie shadows along bare walls devoid of warmth or decoration—creating an isolation that pressed down on him heavily.

As he struggled to make sense of his situation, memories began surfacing—faces flashing before his eyes: comrades returning from missions with smiles on their faces; warmth from his girlfriend's embrace; then suddenly came flashes of horror—the death of Hope; an assassination attempt on his life; the slaughtering of his comrades; even witnessing his second-in-command poisoned face being beheaded. He shook his head as if trying to dispel these images, which only deepened the feelings of loss and despair within him.

"Hello?" he called out weakly; his voice hoarse and barely audible—the sound seemed to vanish into the surrounding void around him—straining hard listening for any response but met only with silence—a chilling reminder that he was utterly alone.

His mind raced with questions: Who had done this? Why? Had he been captured by the empire? Taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself despite the rising tides of fear within him—he needed clarity; panic would cloud his judgment further still!

Carl began examining the chains closely—they were heavy and thick but appeared anchored solid beneath him—shifting again, testing their limits while searching for any possible weaknesses.

As his focus shifted to finding a way out, a sudden noise startled him—a faint scuffling sound coming from somewhere beyond the darkness! With his heart beating louder, chest straining, he listened intently, was someone else here? Or was it merely his imagination playing tricks on him?

Uncertainty gnawed at him! He had to stay alert, whatever was happening outside the dark room could change everything! With renewed determination, Carl took deep breaths, preparing himself for whatever might come next—ready to fight to reclaim freedom!