CH: 22: The Cost of Victory

{Chapter: 22: The Cost of Victory}

Hearing Dex's words, James felt an immense wave of relief wash over him. His tense shoulders relaxed, and he let out a slow, controlled breath. The pressure that had been bearing down on him for months finally seemed to ease—at least for now.

But then, Dex spoke again.

"I've heard about this war," he said casually, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the fate of tens of thousands. "The Principality of Marton initially deployed around 140,000 troops, but I estimate that only 100,000 remain. I require at least 70,000 to be transported to the island. If there aren't enough prisoners…"

Dex paused, a sly smile playing at his lips. His golden eyes gleamed in the candlelight.

"You'll have to find a way to make up the numbers."

The words were delivered in a democratic tone, as if this were a simple negotiation rather than an ultimatum.

"Do you have any objections?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

James swallowed hard. His mind raced as he considered the implications.

Seventy thousand prisoners?

How was that even possible? His army barely had 60,000–70,000 troops remaining. Even if they somehow managed to win, how could they possibly take that many enemy soldiers alive?

But what choice did he have? The Kingdom of Yar had grown increasingly aggressive, demanding unreasonable concessions. If this war continued on its current course, Marton's complete destruction was inevitable. Seeking Dex's help had never been a choice—it had been a necessity.

After a long pause, he finally nodded.

"…Understood."

Dex chuckled. The soft sound sent an eerie chill down James's spine.

Watching the nobleman's retreating figure, Dex swirled the tea in his cup, the liquid creating lazy ripples against the delicate porcelain. The candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows across his face. A slow, satisfied smile crept onto his lips.

"The first phase of the experiment is complete…" he murmured to himself.

And now, the second phase was about to begin.

His test subjects had arrived right on schedule.

Dex had sensed James's deception. The man was testing him, feeling out his limits, perhaps wondering if his temporary inactivity had dulled his edge.

'Royal arrogance. How amusing.'

But such trivial matters didn't bother Dex in the slightest. After all, there had never been genuine loyalty between them—only threats and exploitation. Where there was no trust, betrayal was meaningless.

In the world of demons, betrayal was a simple fact of existence. It wasn't even considered an offense—it was just how things worked. Selling out one's allies, manipulating subordinates, and maneuvering around schemes were daily occurrences in the Abyss.

To Dex, the only thing that mattered was results.

'As long as they follow my orders, they can play whatever petty games they want. It makes no difference to me.'

Rising from his seat, he walked to the large window and unlatched it. A cool night breeze drifted in, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant rain. The sky was vast and endless, dotted with countless stars that shimmered like fragments of shattered glass.

"I've remained in this human form for far too long…" Dex murmured.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the limitations bestowed upon him.. Though he had spent months immersed in research, filling in the gaps in his knowledge, the instincts of a demon could not be silenced forever.

"I need a real fight."

The knowledge he had gained was invaluable. Before, his understanding had been fragmented—scattered pieces of wisdom that barely scratched the surface. Now, however, his foundations were a little solid. If before he had been an illiterate stumbling through the dark, now he was among the most knowledgeable of his kind which wasn't much but it was something.

And soon, it would be time to test the results of his studies.

---

Pierce lay sprawled on the cold stone floor of his cage, his skeletal frame barely rising with each breath. His skin, mottled with gray patches, looked as if it had begun to rot, though he was still painfully alive.

The candle in the room flickered, its flame steady despite the weeks—perhaps months—it had been burning. He stared at it blankly, unseeing.

He had long since lost control of his limbs. Even the simple act of blinking felt like a monumental effort. His entire body was wracked with pain, each movement a reminder of his inevitable fate. If he so much as shifted, a sharp agony tore through his muscles, as if his very bones were fracturing.

He couldn't even crawl toward the stale food lying just a few feet away. Hunger clawed at his insides, but his body refused to obey him. He could only lie there, motionless, waiting for the end that would never come swiftly enough.

Death was certain.

The only question was when.

He had lost all sense of time in this wretched place. The sky was forever hidden from view, leaving him trapped in an endless abyss of suffering.

He vaguely remembered the early days—the futile attempts to escape, the desperate whispers of the other prisoners.

At first, they had all clung to hope. They had plotted, debated strategies, even fought amongst themselves over which escape plan was most viable.

Some had tried to deceive the red-haired warden into opening the cell door. Others had advocated for a coordinated attack, hoping to break free through sheer force.

But in the end, all their efforts amounted to nothing.

Failure.

Crushing, absolute failure.

The red-haired young man had come once, then never again. The only sign that their captors remembered their existence was the food that was tossed through the small opening at irregular intervals.

Other than that, they had been completely abandoned. Forgotten.

One by one, the others had perished. Some succumbed to disease, their bodies wasting away until they were little more than hollow husks. Others lost their minds first, their final days spent in fevered delirium before death finally took them.

Brute force had no practical significance at all.

No matter how much they struggled, how much strength they poured into their efforts, the outcome remained unchanged. The damn cage was of such remarkable quality that not even a dent, much less a bend, could be made in its metal bars. It was as if the walls themselves mocked their feeble resistance, refusing to acknowledge their desperate attempts to escape. The oppressive silence of their captivity only deepened their despair.

Pierce remained.

For now.

And as he lay there, staring into the endless flicker of candlelight, he wondered what had become of the world outside.

Did anyone even remember them?

At first, there was a lingering hope that they were merely forgotten, that perhaps their captors were simply taking their time deciding what to do with them. The days dragged on, and yet no food, no water, no explanation was given. They were treated like livestock, caged and left to stew in their own filth and hopelessness.

Then the nightmare truly began.

It started subtly. A single prisoner, a man of no particular note, woke up one day with strange gray spots dotting his skin. He dismissed it at first, thinking it was nothing more than some irritation caused by the poor conditions. But as the hours passed, his strength waned. A bone-deep exhaustion crept into his limbs, rendering every movement a struggle. Walking became an ordeal, and even lifting his arms felt like an insurmountable task.

Soon, others began exhibiting the same symptoms. At first, it was just one or two more, but their numbers grew with terrifying inevitability. One after another, prisoners began to weaken, their bodies marked by the same spreading gray lesions. Knights, warriors, even the mighty Great Knights—none were spared. Whatever this affliction was, it cared nothing for strength, experience, or willpower.

It consumed them all equally.

Before long, the entire cage was filled with the sounds of suffering. Men and women who once stood tall and proud now lay on the cold stone floor, writhing in agony. The pain was relentless, ebbing and flowing in maddening waves. At times, it became so excruciating that the afflicted wished for death, only to be denied even that solace. Those who could no longer bear it took matters into their own hands, choosing suicide over prolonged torment.

Then, inexplicably, the pain lessened. Not by much, but just enough to allow the sufferers to breathe, to exist. It did not vanish completely but merely settled into a steady rhythm—always present, always growing, but never enough to grant the sweet release of death. It was almost as if it adjusted itself to keep them alive just long enough to experience the full extent of its cruelty.

Pierce still remembered when the first realization dawned upon them. It was Hank, a middle-aged man of wiry build and sharp eyes, a known thief with a mind attuned to survival. He was the first to suspect that the suffering was not random, that the pain was not merely a cruel coincidence but a carefully orchestrated torment.

With desperation breeding ingenuity, he conspired with another prisoner named Heto. Together, they ambushed a Grand Knight who had been struggling to stay conscious. With the precision of seasoned killers, they ended his life swiftly and brutally. His corpse was not mourned; instead, it became a means to an end. Hank, using every ounce of knowledge he had accumulated in his years as a thief, extracted the hardest bones from the fallen knight's body. He spent hours—perhaps days—grinding them down, shaping them into what he believed could serve as a makeshift key.