BEGINNING OF THE STORY

A gaunt, hollow-eyed boy sat motionless against the cold, damp walls of his cell. His pale skin, stretched too thin over sharp bones, bore the marks of countless lashes—some fresh, others old and faded, like ghosts of past torment. His sunken eyes, void of life, stared blankly at the ground, dark circles staining his face like bruises of exhaustion. His cracked lips barely parted as he exhaled slow, ragged breaths, the sound almost lost in the suffocating silence of the dungeon.

Chains rattled as he moved, the rusted iron biting deep into his bruised wrists. His frail shoulders sagged under the weight of captivity, his bony frame barely held together by tattered rags soaked in dried blood. The cold seeped into his bones, an unrelenting presence, but it was nothing compared to the agony carved into his flesh. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone, rot, and suffering—his suffering.

A fever burned inside him, yet sleep was a distant dream. It had been years since he had the luxury of rest. He was only seven years old, yet he had long since learned that sleep was a weakness—one the guards did not tolerate.

The door screeched open. Heavy boots stomped across the stone floor, stopping in front of him.

Then, without warning, scalding agony erupted across his skull.

Boiling water crashed over his head, peeling flesh from bone, his hair melting against his skin. The pain was immediate, blinding, absolute. But he did not scream.

The guard sneered, his voice thick with mockery.

"Wake up, rat. You're a slave. You don't sleep unless I allow it."

He waited, expecting a reaction. A scream. A cry. Even a flinch. But there was nothing.

Luig sat still, his expression blank, his burned skin blistering, the smell of scorched flesh filling the cell.

The guard's sneer twisted into a scowl. "You're supposed to scream, you little shit."

Still, nothing. No sound. No movement.

A muscle in the guard's jaw twitched. Annoyed, he swung the cell door open, storming inside. As he grabbed Luig's chin, forcing his burned face upward, his disgust deepened. Skin peeled from the boy's cheek, sticking to his fingers like raw meat. The guard grimaced. "You're a disgusting little thing."

Luig didn't blink.

The slap came hard, sharp, echoing through the cell. His head snapped to the side, but his expression remained unchanged.

The guard clicked his tongue in irritation. "Get me some cold water," he barked at the soldier outside.

"Yes, sir!"

The other guard rushed toward the well, leaving the two alone.

The remaining guard squatted in front of Luig, gripping his chin again, his eyes filled with sadistic pleasure. "Once you wake up, brat, I'll punish you properly for passing out."

He let go and stood up, turning away.

A mistake.

The moment the guard's back was turned, Luig moved. Chains still bound his wrists, but that didn't matter. He lunged, wrapping the metal links around the guard's throat and pulling tight.

The guard thrashed, his hands clawing at the iron digging into his flesh. His body convulsed as air became a luxury he could no longer afford. Desperate, he reached for the knife strapped to his belt and drove it into Luig's eye.

But the boy didn't stop.

Pain no longer meant anything to him.

His grip only tightened.

The guard's movements slowed. His fingers trembled. His body sagged. And then, finally, he stilled.

Dead.

Luig let the corpse slump to the floor, blood pooling beneath its lifeless form. His burned face was still, his single working eye devoid of emotion. He blinked once, slowly, feeling the blade still embedded in his skull.

Footsteps.

The second guard returned, a bucket of cold water in hand.

He froze in the doorway.

His face drained of color as his gaze landed on the corpse. His breath hitched as he looked at Luig—standing there, covered in blood, an iron chain in his hands, a knife buried in his ruined eye, staring at him like death itself.

And then, for the first time in years, Luig smiled.

The second guard stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat as he took in the scene before him. His comrade's lifeless body lay sprawled on the cold stone floor, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath it. And then there was the boy—sitting there, calm, detached, his small hands still wrapped around the bloodied chain.

Luig didn't run. He didn't even move.

The guard's trembling fingers fumbled with the keys, his pulse hammering in his ears as he slammed the cell door shut, locking the monster inside.

Still, the boy remained where he was.

Without urgency, without hesitation, he reached for the knife embedded in his own eye. His grip was steady as he slowly—agonizingly—pulled it free. A sickening squelch filled the air, followed by a thin trail of blood that dripped down his cheek. His expression didn't change. If anything, he looked… bored.

"Ahh… he was annoying. That's why I killed him."

The words came out in a dull whisper, void of any emotion, as if he had merely swatted away a buzzing insect.

The guard felt his stomach twist. A child—barely seven—had just murdered a man and was speaking about it like it was nothing.

He didn't wait.

He turned and ran.

Within minutes, the dungeon warden was alerted. The news traveled quickly, reaching Prince George himself. The moment he heard, the prince stormed down to the cells, his golden cape dragging behind him, his boots echoing with each heavy step.

When he arrived, he saw the corpse. Saw the blood.

And then, he saw the boy.

Luig sat there, still shackled, his ruined eye leaking blood down his face, his small hands resting idly in his lap. He blinked once at the prince but said nothing.

George's lips twisted into a grin.

"Ha! A boy killed one of my men?" He let out a cruel, barking laugh before his expression darkened. His gaze snapped to the trembling guard standing before him. "And what the fuck were you doing while this happened?"

The guard stiffened. "S-Sire, I… I was sent to get cold water to wake him up!"

A flicker of irritation passed through the prince's eyes.

Then, without warning, steel flashed.

In a single, fluid motion, George unsheathed his sword and cleaved the guard's head clean from his shoulders. The body collapsed in a heap, blood spraying across the stone floor.

He turned to the remaining guards, his voice cold. "Throw them in the pit."

The guards obeyed immediately.

The pit. A place of horror.

It was where royals discarded their "used" prisoners—slaves they had tortured for entertainment, bodies too broken to serve any further purpose. Some still alive, barely clinging to breath. Others already dead. None of it mattered. In the pit, they all met the same fate—the coyotes, starved and ravenous, waiting to feast on whatever was thrown their way.

The lifeless bodies of the two guards were dragged away.

The prince turned back to Luig, his smirk widening. "Healers. Fix him."

The boy sat in silence, his breath shallow. The pain of his wounds should have been unbearable. His flesh was peeling, his eye socket throbbed, and he was losing blood fast. And yet, his face remained blank. Empty.

The royal healers stepped forward, gathering around the small, broken figure. Their hands glowed faintly as they began to chant.

"O Almighty, you are the one…

Lohera jouk alshuan ahn…

Heal this poor creature with your power… Heal."

A golden light enveloped Luig's body. The agony that had wrapped around him like a second skin began to fade. His torn flesh knitted itself back together. The burns smoothed over. His strength slowly returned.

But the eye…

It did not fully heal.

A deep, jagged scar ran down his left eye, a permanent mark of his suffering. A reminder. A warning.

Prince George studied him with amusement. "Tomorrow, bring him to the training grounds."

The guards stiffened at the command. "Sire?"

"I want to test the new spears our scientists developed." His smirk deepened, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic thrill. "And what better target than my little monster?"

With that, the prince turned on his heel and strode away, his laughter echoing through the dungeon.

Luig sat there, unmoving. Unblinking.

And in the dim torchlight, his lips curled into the faintest of smiles.

A monster, was he?

Good.

Let them see what happens when they create one.

The next morning came too soon.

The sound of heavy boots striking against stone filled the corridors as guards marched toward Luig's cell. The clanking of their armor, the rustle of their cloaks—it was a sound he had grown used to.

A key scraped against metal. The iron door groaned open.

"Time to move, rat."

A guard stepped inside, his face twisted in disgust as he grabbed Luig's thin arm and yanked him to his feet. The boy didn't resist. He let himself be dragged along, his chains clinking softly with each step.

The walk through the fortress was long. Cold drafts swept through the dimly lit halls, carrying the scent of damp stone and rotting flesh. Echoes of distant screams slithered through the air—other prisoners, other slaves, their agony blending into a constant, background hum.

Luig's bare feet brushed against the bloodstained floors.

When they finally stepped into the training ground, the light was blinding.

The vast courtyard stretched wide before him, a battlefield littered with weapons, broken dummies, and the remnants of previous "experiments." Rows of armored soldiers stood in formation, their eyes filled with curiosity and amusement. At the center, atop an ornate throne carved from obsidian, sat Prince George.

The prince lounged lazily, a goblet of wine in one hand, his other resting casually on the hilt of his sword.

"Ah, finally." He grinned, his teeth flashing like a predator's. "The little monster awakens."

Luig stood motionless, his chains weighing down his wrists.

The prince took a slow sip of his drink before gesturing toward a group of men standing at the far end of the field. Scientists—dressed in dark robes, their hands clutching freshly crafted weapons.

"Today, we test the new spears." George's voice was light, almost playful. His eyes, however, gleamed with cruel excitement. "And I need a subject who can withstand pain. Since you seem to enjoy breaking my men so much, let's see how well you hold up."

The guards pushed Luig forward, forcing him onto the training ground.

One of the scientists stepped forward, gripping a long, black spear. The weapon pulsed with energy, its blade lined with intricate, glowing runes—symbols of dark magic, twisted into something even demons feared.

"This spear," the scientist began, adjusting his spectacles, "is designed to prolong suffering. It avoids lethal blows, instead targeting the nervous system. The more one struggles, the deeper the agony. The goal is not to kill—but to make death feel like mercy."

A hush fell over the soldiers.

Prince George's smirk widened. "Proceed."

The scientist nodded. Without hesitation, he raised the spear and drove it into Luig's stomach.

Pain exploded through his body.

A normal child would have screamed. Would have thrashed, wept, begged.

Luig only staggered, his small hands trembling as he reached for the spear embedded in his flesh. His breath hitched, but no sound escaped him.

The prince leaned forward.

"Interesting…"

The scientist twisted the spear.

Luig's vision blurred. White-hot fire burned through his veins, the magic latching onto his nerves like a parasite. Every fiber of his being screamed, yet his lips remained sealed.

His knees buckled.

The soldiers watched, fascinated, as the boy trembled—but still did not fall.

Blood dripped from his wound, pooling at his feet.

Prince George chuckled, swirling his wine. "It hurts, doesn't it?"

Luig raised his head slowly.

His one remaining eye locked onto the prince.

"No."

The word came out flat. Emotionless.

The prince's smirk twitched.

Luig gripped the shaft of the spear and, with an agonizing pull, ripped it from his own body.

Blood splattered across the ground. His small frame swayed, but he remained standing.

His fingers tightened around the spear.

The soldiers murmured among themselves.

"Sire…" One of them hesitated. "He's… still moving."

Prince George was silent for a moment. Then, he threw his head back and laughed.

"What a delightful little freak!"

He stood, stepping down from his throne, his boots clicking against the stone as he approached. He stopped just inches from Luig, tilting his head as he studied him.

"You really don't feel pain, do you?"

Luig's lips parted slightly.

"I do."

George arched a brow.

Luig's fingers clenched tighter around the spear. His eye—empty, hollow—locked onto the prince's with something darker than hatred.

"But I like it."

For the first time, Prince George hesitated.

It was brief—a flicker, barely noticeable—but it was there.

And Luig saw it.

The boy's lips curled, just slightly. A glimpse of something twisted beneath the surface.

Prince George's grin returned, though a sliver of unease remained behind his golden eyes.

"You amuse me, boy." He stepped back, waving a dismissive hand. "Throw him back into the dungeons. But keep him alive—I want to see what else he can endure."

The guards moved in.

Luig didn't resist as they seized him, dragging him away once more.

As he disappeared back into the shadows of the fortress, a quiet thought lingered in his mind.

One day, I will make you scream.

Just like you wanted me to.

-To be continue