The twilight sky slowly faded into darkness, casting grim silhouettes over The Wall's Central Headquarter. A cold wind swept through the main courtyard, carrying the lingering scent of burning wood from a small fire still crackling near the barracks. The dim orange glow of the sinking sun cast long shadows across the yard, highlighting the forms of the newly arrived prisoners from Edenvila. They stood in a line, their hands still bound by heavy chains that clanked with each movement, their faces etched with exhaustion, confusion, and the unmistakable trace of fear.
The steady footsteps of The Outcasts echoed as they gathered around, preparing to witness yet another initiation into their ranks—a grim routine that had long lost any semblance of ceremony. Among them, Alcard leaned against one of the large wooden pillars at the courtyard's edge, his gaze sharp and unreadable as he assessed the fresh batch of prisoners. Some looked resigned, while others still carried a flicker of defiance in their eyes, as if hoping this was nothing more than a nightmare they would soon wake from.
Beside him, an older Outcast veteran, his hair streaked with gray and arms crossed over his broad chest, let out a quiet scoff. "Look at them," he muttered, his voice heavy with fatigue. "Most of them have no idea what's coming. They think being an Outcast is just about survival."
Alcard didn't shift his gaze. "They'll learn soon enough," he replied coolly. "And for many of them, this will be a fate worse than death."
In the middle of the prisoner line, an elderly man with a frail frame moved with unsteady steps. His graying hair was disheveled, and deep lines of sorrow carved into his face. His ragged clothes hinted at a background of laborers, someone who had worked his whole life only to be discarded like refuse. In a hushed tone, he attempted to speak with one of the guards nearby, but his voice was swallowed by the heavy clinking of chains.
Alcard watched him for a moment before stepping forward, brushing past other prisoners who stood shoulder to shoulder. Stopping in front of the old man, he regarded him with an icy, piercing stare. "What's your story, old man?" His voice was neither kind nor cruel—just a simple demand for the truth.
The old man lifted his head slowly, his gaze clouded with grief. "I… was a craftsman in Edenvila," he murmured, his voice trembling. "I had a small workshop on the outskirts of the city. But a Lord wanted my land for one of his projects. When I refused to sell, they branded me a traitor."
Alcard's eyes narrowed slightly. He had heard this story far too often. "So they threw you here, treating you like worthless garbage?" His voice carried a bitter edge.
The old man gave a slow, painful nod. "I lost everything. I had no choice."
From the crowd of prisoners, a young Outcast—someone who had only been in The Wall for a few months—muttered under his breath, "Same as all of us. The outside world has never been fair."
Before anyone else could speak, a sharp voice suddenly rang out from the other side of the courtyard.
A young man with an imposing stance, his eyes burning with fury, stood with chains still binding his wrists. He scanned the Outcasts around him, his gaze filled with defiance and contempt.
"What are you?" his voice cut through the thickening dusk, each word dripping with disdain. "You're nothing but slaves to Bloody Potion! What makes you any different from us?"
Some Outcasts turned, their expressions shifting. Several of them instinctively reached for their weapons, their grips tightening around sword hilts and dagger handles—ready to act if this prisoner became a problem.
The young man did not back down. "You live here, trapped in this forsaken place, forced to survive by drinking poison that keeps you alive just long enough to kill you slowly. And you're proud of that?"
Alcard, who had been silent, finally stepped forward. His red eyes gleamed in the dying light, sharp as blades, as he studied the man before him. "You talk too much for someone who knows nothing about life at The Wall." His voice was low, yet dangerous.
The young prisoner grinned, though there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. "I know enough," he shot back. "I was a soldier in Edenvila. They accused me of treason because I refused to massacre a defenseless village. I was sent here not because I was a coward—but because I had more honor than the Lords who condemned me."
Alcard stopped in his tracks. He studied the man more carefully now, his expression unreadable. "You might have honor," he finally said, his tone as cold as steel, "but here, your honor won't save you."
The words struck like a physical blow. The young man clenched his jaw, his hands balling into fists, as if fighting the urge to respond.
At that moment, Oldman emerged from his office, his steps slow but commanding. The murmurs died down instantly. Every Outcast instinctively made way, allowing the leader of The Wall to take center stage. His sharp gaze swept across the prisoners, measuring their worth in mere seconds.
"Welcome to The Wall," Oldman's voice carried through the courtyard, heavy with the weight of irrefutable authority. "From this moment on, you are no longer free men. You are Outcasts. And the world will not care whether you live or die."
Not a single prisoner spoke.
Some looked devastated, others furious, but most just stood in cold silence, their eyes empty—as if the last remnants of hope had been drained from their souls.
A veteran Outcast stepped forward, handing out Bloody Potion bottles to each of the prisoners, forcing them to drink the thick, crimson liquid. One by one, their expressions twisted in pain as the Potion's effects coursed through their veins, permanently binding them to this wretched existence.
Alcard, who had seen enough, turned and walked away from the gathering.
He didn't want to watch their faces change.
Didn't want to remember who might survive and who would be dead within months.
As the night deepened, Alcard stood atop The Wall, gazing out into the vast darkness of the South. The cold wind bit at his face, but his mind was occupied with something else.
"Cevral," he murmured, the name rolling off his tongue with pure hatred.
"You truly have mastered the art of destroying lives."
****