Chains With Ice

"It's cold… why is it so cold?"

The thought crawled through his mind like a dying whisper.

His body shivered.

Pain bloomed across his limbs as he stirred. His eyelid fluttered open—then slammed shut as the sudden light stabbed into his skull like knives. He groaned, teeth clenching. Slowly, carefully, he opened them again.

The world came in fragments.

Blurred silhouettes… pale skies… sharp white ground.

Snow.

"What… what illusion is this?"

His eyes widened as the haze cleared. People—not his—moved past in heavy, unfamiliar clothing. Thick woolen coats, layered boots, rough gloves. Their faces were pale, sun-starved. Their hair tied back. Their gait brisk, cold, uncaring.

And behind them—buildings made of stone and metal, not carved wood or bone. Straight lines. Chimneys. Smoke rising from them in neat trails.

It looked nothing like the tribal lands.

It looked nothing like the battlefield.

"Where am I?"

He tried to rise. Pain shot through him like a spear. He gasped, collapsing back onto the ground—snow crunching beneath him, biting into his skin like teeth.

Chains.

He looked down.

Thick, rusted iron chains bit into his wrists and ankles—too tight, too cold. His breath caught as he traced them, his arms trembling. The chains didn't end with him. They linked to others. Rows of them. Shackled bodies, slumped like shadows.

Slaves.

Most looked half-dead. Wrapped in torn rags. Mud-caked feet. Greasy hair. Shivering. Beggars. Criminals. Forgotten people.

And he was one of them.

His stomach turned.

"Mortals. Again. They dare—"

He couldn't finish the thought. Rage surged through him… but his body betrayed him. His legs trembled. His skin felt raw. The snow bit deeper.

Then came laughter.

A deep, mocking laugh that cracked through the air like fire on ice.

Nine turned, eyes sharp.

A bulky man sat chained not far from him. Heavyset. Wrapped in layers of mismatched cloth. His beard was thick, streaked with gray, matted by cold and time. He looked like he hadn't bathed in weeks—but his eyes sparkled with cruel amusement.

"Well, well… the little firebird's awake again," he grinned. "Kid, aren't you tired yet?"

Nine's brow furrowed.

"You've been trying to run for days," he went on, dragging a hand through his beard. "Thought you were dead after the last beating. But look at you. Still got that royal twitch in your bones."

The others nearby chuckled—soft at first, then louder.

"A thief Acting special, never heard of it. Seems this profession isn't all about stealing," someone muttered. Laughs erupt.

> "Bet he's just mad he doesn't get to scream today."

Another voice, hoarse and sharp:

"Sit down before they come back and cave your ribs in again."

"Let him breathe, damn it. he's just a little boy."

"Little boy? That thing's got more rage than the rest of us combined."

Their voices blurred. Too many. Too loud.

Nine's head spun. he clenched his fists, knuckles white against the rusted chains.

'Slaves. They've bound me like an animal. A god… chained in snow, spat on by mortals…'

The cold burned deeper. His teeth began to chatter.

'This is a nightmare. Another level of the illusion. Another trap.

But why does it feel so real?'

Then—

"SILENCE!" he barked.

The world froze.

Laughter died in throats. Chains stopped rattling. Even the wind seemed to still for a moment.

Nine rose, as far as the chains would allow. Her back straightened. His voice—torn, but thunderous—cut through the frost.

He pointed at the bearded man who'd mocked him first.

His eyes burned—not with fire, but fury deeper than flame.

"You. Speak. What is this place? Who dares lay their hands on me?"

"Tell me before I tear the sky open and bring down the gods you no longer fear."

Silence.

Then—

A voice. Not loud, not sharp. But clear.

Too clear.

It slithered from the back of the crowd like a whisper in frost.

"Child… what god do you seek? The ones that died twelve thousand years ago… or the one you carry in that little bottle tied to your waist?"

The words seemed to echo, even though they were barely spoken.

Laughter erupted again—wilder, sharper, crueler.

Nine's gaze snapped toward the voice.

An old man stood chained among the others. Cloaked in rags, hair wild and gray. His eyes, though—too calm. Too knowing.

He hissed, his breath fogging in the cold.

"I've not granted you permission to speak, mortal."

Someone scoffed behind him.

"Isn't he the thief from last week?"

"Yeah. Street trash. Thought he was a noble or something."

"Maybe the last beating cracked his skull. He's acting like she's forgotten where she is."

The whispers slithered through the air, slapping his pride like open palms.

But he wasn't listening anymore.

'The last thing I remember… was dying. On the battlefield. The fire. The screams. The sky bleeding…'

'So how did I get here? This place—this frozen land—is not mine. It doesn't belong in the illusion. My prison was made from memory… and I've never seen this place in my entire life.'

'No. This isn't my illusion. This is something else.'

His fists clenched.

' But even so… how did I escape the illusion? That shouldn't be possible. Unless—'

'No. Don't act rashly. Think. Watch. Find the truth.'

He took a shaky breath, forcing his body to still—even as his mind screamed.

But before he could regain full control—

"Hey!"

The voice boomed from behind, sharp and cutting like an axe to bone.

His ears rang.

He turned, slowly.

His glare could've shattered bone.

Before him stood a knight—not young, but not aged either. Maybe fifty. His armor was worn but clean, the steel dull beneath the frost. A long fur cloak draped from his shoulders. His face was lined, jaw squared, and lips twisted in casual disdain.

"Look at you," he muttered, almost amused. "Still staring like a king on a throne. You're getting bold."

He reached out—pushed his chin to the side with two fingers.

He said nothing.

He did it again. And again.

On the third push, Nine balance broke.

He collapsed onto the snow.

The weight of this humiliation…

The knight crouched before him, breath steaming in the winter air.

"Still got fire, huh?" he chuckled. "Tell me—was yesterday's beating not enough?"

His smile darkened.

"But I'll admit… I do enjoy our little chats. I get to relieve stress, you get to remember your place. Win-win."

He leaned in, his face inches from his.

"Honestly, I'm glad you didn't die. Finding a replacement with your… skills… would be such a pain."

Nine's voice barely escaped his lips. Just a whisper.

But it was enough.

"You're not my target."

A pause.

"Don't make me make you one."

He blinked. Then burst into laughter.

Without warning, he grabbed him by the hair—yanked him up with brute force.

He gasped, hands clawing at his wrist, teeth clenched in pain.

'I should have noticed when I felt cold, I can't even throw a fist. This body is weak .'

The knight leaned close again.

His voice dropped, cold and rough.

"Next time you defy me… I'll have you thrown off the cliffs. Let the snow decide if you live or die."

"Those who have threatened me in the past ends up dead, I don't kill them it just happens" Nine murmured, his voice low but loud enough for the knight to hear it.

An evil smile crept into the knight lip, and then-

SMACK!!!

Nine felt his cheek burns in pain, as the slap has sent him falling into the snow ground, blood stroll down his cheek.

Laughter erupt from the rest slaves, as the low rank knight felt superior.

"Little boy, you haven't learnt any lesson at all" the said laughing loud as he walks away, Nine spat blood on the snow. Not only did the slap injured him externally on the cheek but internally as well. A weird smile crept into eyes, "First day in the mortal and I'm humiliated like this, interesting....I like this. Keeps the fire going"