chapter 10.6

In the main courtyard of the central headquarter, Oldman stood tall, surrounded by hundreds of prisoners who had been sent from Jovalian over the past month. They were victims of the kingdom's political turmoil—people discarded in the ruthless struggle for power, exiled to a place where no one cared whether they lived or died.

The bleak night sky stretched above them, leaving only faint traces of moonlight that barely pierced through the thick, looming clouds. The only source of illumination came from the large bonfire at the center of the courtyard, casting grim silhouettes on the hollow, desperate faces standing beneath its flickering glow.

The prisoners remained bound, their hands and feet shackled with heavy chains. Their faces bore the marks of exhaustion, their bodies frail from lack of sustenance, having been denied bloody potion since their arrival at The Wall.

This was intentional.

Oldman had left them in this state deliberately—to him, most of them were unworthy of becoming outcasts. And he intended to ensure that only those who truly had the will to survive would endure.

The tension in the air thickened as Oldman finally spoke. His voice was firm and cold, echoing against the towering stone walls that had long been silent witnesses to suffering and death.

"You think this place is a punishment?" His words shattered the silence. "No. This is judgment."

His gaze swept over the prisoners, observing the fear and confusion reflected in their hollow eyes. Whatever courage they might have clung to before was steadily crumbling under his unyielding stare.

"The Wall is not a place for those seeking comfort." His voice cut through the night like a blade. "There is no mercy here. No complaints will be heard. Here, every breath you take must be earned. Your lives are no longer your own. In this place, you have only two choices: survive or die."

Some prisoners swallowed hard, while others struggled to stand tall, their legs trembling from weakness.

Oldman continued, his tone unrelenting.

"No one cares about you. Not your king. Not your family. Even we, the outcasts, do not care. The only one who can save you now is yourself."

He lifted his hand, pointing toward the darkness of the southern forest—a shadowy abyss stretching endlessly beyond the horizon.

"Beyond that forest, you will find your fate—life or death. From this moment, you are no longer prisoners. You are candidates to become outcasts."

From within the folds of his worn cloak, Oldman pulled out a crumpled map, then tossed it onto the ground before them.

"Your task is simple," he declared, his voice even colder than before. "Go south, find Folwestian Bloom, and return with ten full sacks. Some of us will be watching from afar—but don't expect any help."

A wave of hushed panic rippled through the group of prisoners. Some exchanged anxious glances, looking for reassurance in the equally terrified expressions of their fellow captives.

But Oldman didn't give them time to process.

"If you try to escape," he continued, his tone laced with warning, "believe me, that is a fate far worse than facing the horrors of that forest. In the south, there are only monsters—beasts more merciless than your worst nightmares. If you run, you will die alone, with no one left to recognize your corpse."

He began pacing between them, his slow, deliberate steps amplifying the suffocating tension.

Each prisoner he passed felt the weight of judgment pressing down on them.

"But I will give you one chance," he said, coming to a halt in the middle of the group. "One opportunity to prove that your life still has value."

His piercing gaze met each of theirs, measuring, assessing.

"If you return with ten full sacks of Folwestian Bloom, I will grant you freedom. You may go wherever you wish. No one will stop you."

Confusion flickered in the prisoners' eyes, hope mixed with doubt. Some began calculating their chances, weighing their odds of survival.

"However," Oldman's voice hardened, "if you choose to return to The Wall, you will be accepted as one of us. But if you wish to become an outcast, you must prove that you are worthy."

The courtyard fell into an eerie silence.

The prisoners finally understood—there was no easy way out.

But among them, a few showed the faintest glimmers of resolve—a courage born from desperation.

"Tomorrow morning," Oldman announced, "you will depart. When you reach the designated location, your chains will be removed. But remember this—if you return empty-handed, or if you attempt to flee… your life will end in the south."

He let the words hang in the air, letting them sink in, before delivering his final declaration.

**"The Wall does not need cowards. The world has already discarded you—**in their eyes, you are already dead. Here, you have one last chance to prove you are still worthy of breathing."

Finishing his speech, he turned toward the guards standing watch.

"Let them stand here through the night. Give them time to think. At dawn, make sure they are ready to leave."

The guards nodded, their expressions unmoved, indifferent.

Meanwhile, the prisoners stood frozen, trapped beneath the heavy weight of their uncertain fate, their eyes flickering with fear and resignation.

At the edge of the courtyard, Alcard stood in silence, watching from a distance.

He had listened to every word, his face expressionless.

But deep inside, he knew this trial wasn't just for the prisoners—it was also a reminder to all the outcasts who had already proven themselves.

That here, at The Wall, only one law ruled above all else—

Survive, or die.

As the night deepened, the air grew colder, adding another layer of torment to the prisoners forced to stand beneath the open sky.

The moon barely peeked from behind the darkened clouds, while the bonfire in the courtyard slowly burned lower, its flickering flames casting long, ominous shadows.

And once more, The Wall stood as a silent witness—to the endless cycle of struggle, to the forgotten souls who had been cast away, and to the relentless battle for survival that never truly ended.

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