Chapter 8: The Braim Family

The Braim family estate was a formidable structure, its mansion standing as a testament to Charles Braim's ruthless ambition. Built from sturdy bricks with minimal glass, it exuded a stark beauty that belied the darkness within. The imposing architecture featured high walls and grand columns, creating an atmosphere of both elegance and intimidation. Surrounding the estate were meticulously tended fields, where bondservants labored under the watchful eyes of their masters, highlighting the oppressive nature of the Braim legacy that thrived on fear and control. The estate was not merely a home; it was a fortress of oppression.

Beneath this grand facade lay a dungeon, a chilling reminder of the Braims' cruelty. Here Carl Newman resided, the sole inmate, whose fate had been sealed by the malevolence of Charles and his son Absalom.

The dungeon housed many captives before Carl. All of whom were tortured. Some were tortured into insanity. It was in this very room that free men became bondservants and disobedient bondservants were taught to be more compliant.

As the heavy door of the dungeon creaked open, two figures strode in—Charles Braim and his thirty-year-old son, Absalom. Charles was short and stout, his age marked by a few gray strands in his hair but overshadowed by the brutality in his eyes. He exuded an aura of control and dominance, relishing in the power he held over those beneath him. His son Absalom mirrored his father's sinister traits but took them to new depths of depravity. Where Charles ruled with calculated cruelty, Absalom reveled in sadism, particularly enjoying the suffering of female bondservants.

The Braims were not just tyrants; they were also adept in dark magical arts that allowed them to suppress others' powers. This sinister ability manifested in their creation of a cursed pill—a ticking bomb that could be detonated at will. This pill served as both a tool of control and a means to instill fear among their bondservants. Charles and Absalom wielded this power with impunity, ensuring that any hint of rebellion was swiftly crushed.

Their questioning of Carl began with an air of casual menace. They were aware that he had ties to the Blistrix but knew little else about him. As they questioned him, it became clear that they sought not justice but leverage. They wanted information that could be twisted to serve their interests. Carl initially responded with defiance, feeding them lies in hopes of protecting himself.

However, as hours passed—six long hours filled with pain and despair—Carl's resolve began to crumble under the relentless pressure. The Braims employed various methods of torture, each more brutal than the last, designed to break not just his body but also his spirit. Charles would often step back to allow Absalom to take pleasure in inflicting pain, watching with satisfaction as his son unleashed his sadistic tendencies on Carl.

"Tell us what we want to know," Charles demanded repeatedly, his voice laced with impatience and malice.

Carl's body bore witness to their cruelty; bruises marred his skin, and exhaustion weighed heavily on him. Yet still he clung to hope—the hope that perhaps he could endure just a bit longer without revealing too much.

But hope is a fragile thing when faced with such overwhelming darkness. After hours of torment, Carl finally broke. The confession spilled from his lips like water from a cracked dam.

Charles sneered," So what is your name?"

Carl responded in laboured breaths, "Carl Newman"

" What is your rank," Charles commanded.

"Commander of the Blistrix," he gasped, his voice strained and breathless. Each word emerged from his lips with great effort as he struggled to catch his breath. His chest heaved with exertion, and he paused momentarily, feeling the weight of fatigue pressing down upon him. The air was thick and heavy, and he fought to draw in enough oxygen, his lungs burning with the intensity of his effort. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he sensed the pain beginning to subside, replaced by a refreshing relief from the agony he had suffered earlier.

"No wonder you were so hard to break." Charles said, with a smile on his face. "You are worth a fortune. You have no damn idea how valuable you are."

" I am innocent," Carl said, " I have never betrayed the empire. You have to believe me."

"We are aware that you were framed," he said coldly after Carl had finished speaking. "But it's none of our concern. We only look at how we can benefit from this situation." He paused for effect while looking at Carl from the corner of his eye. "You would make the same decision I am about to make if only you knew your value. There empire is willing to pay a lot for you."

With Carl's confession secured, Charles and Absalom left the dungeon behind them—two figures cloaked in darkness who thrived on fear and manipulation. They reveled in their victory over Carl but remained unaware of the consequences their actions would unleash upon themselves in the future.

Carl hoped that would be the end of the torture. Unfortunately for him, hope was a fleeting mirage. Carl was tortured continuously for 6 days. He's only respite was during nighttime, during meals and when Absalom was busy. His torture each day was for the amusement of Absalom.

Every day, Absalom would come and take pleasure in torturing Carl.

Carl endured the torture each day, trying his best to cling to life.

What frightened him the most was that he couldn't feel his power anymore. Unknown to him, Charles had suppressed his power. With this ability, Carl would no longer be able to use magic again. His magical power wasn't gone, but rather suppressed such that he would never be able to use it again. The only way he would be able to use magic was if somebody gave him their own magic. And that was a very unlikely scenario, since everyone valued magic. Magic was all one needed to move from being a nobody in society into a position of power.

"Without my power how do I escape? How do I grow stronger? How do I enact my revenge?" Carl pondered.

He was filled with fear and hopelessness. He had no purpose anymore. Only enduring pain, day after day, to the amusement of Absalom. On the sixth day, Carl was a bloody mess but was free from torture.

Charles stood before him and muttered, "How far the great have fallen." The empire will be coming for you tomorrow."

Carl's heart missed a beat upon hearing that. His breathing quickened. Perspiration poured from every available pore in his body. He knew he was in deep trouble. There was no way he could escape once they laid their hands on him. Even worse, he believed they would execute him on sight. He was mortified. That was definitely a death sentence. The news made him forget the pain his body was experiencing.

Charles turned and left the dungeon with his long coat flapping after him.