Chapter 5

The cell was the same. The only thing that had changed was him.

He'd seen it in their eyes, despite their efforts to hide it. Here, in a world ruled by superstition, men were simple creatures, as predictable as gamblers at a casino table.

Even he couldn't believe they'd bought his story. Then again, it was nothing more than the plot of a bad B-movie he'd watched back in college.

Since when am I so good at improvising? At lying?

Oh.

The Traveler's fragments—tiny slivers of eternity—fluttered through his mind. Just enough to piece together a year's worth of coherent memory. Had those scraps changed him so deeply, or had he always been this way?

Hunger and thirst gnawed at him. He hadn't eaten in over a day. The putrid stench, which he thought he'd grown used to, struck him again like a blow to the face. Nauseating. And there was nothing left in his gut to vomit.

"¡No!" he growled, slamming his fist against the wall.

He braced for pain, and when it came, it vanished just as quickly. His hand was fine—not even a bruise. The only evidence of the outburst was a red smear on the stone, his knuckles barely visible in the dark.

"I can't break down now. This isn't the time. I'll have all the time in the world to fall apart when I get home."

He took a deep breath, ignoring the rancid air searing his throat.

His eyes lifted. A young man was standing at the bars, holding a wooden plate and a water bowl.

"Food," said the boy, setting them down on the floor inside the cell.

The contempt on his face was clear, but he didn't dare act on it. He crossed himself discreetly and backed away.

Giotto lunged at the food, devouring it with desperate haste. The bread was stale and hard. The water, stripped of the familiar taste of chlorine, offered no comfort. But it was enough to survive.

After quieting his hunger, he considered lying down, then remembered the floor and instead sat against the wall, staring at the ceiling as he had the night before. But this time there was no self-pity. This time, he was thinking about the future—his future.

"They'll try to test the truth of my words," he murmured to himself. "A trial by combat seems most likely."

He closed his eyes, returning to the Traveler's scattered memories. Then ran his hands over his body, feeling the massive changes it had undergone in just two days. He didn't look like one of those Marvel superheroes—not even close to someone who hit the gym regularly. But compared to what he used to be, the difference was night and day.

He no longer struggled to breathe. The fat accumulated over years of inertia had nearly vanished, restoring the shape he'd had before turning twenty. Even now, sitting motionless in that cold, dark cell, he could feel it—his body improving with each breath.

"At least these powers come with some perks," he muttered, before drifting back into the memories.

He remembered his teenage years training in karate. But now there was more: years of combat experience, with and without weapons. Even knowledge of powered combat—skills he'd never had, but that now lived inside him. For the first time since arriving in this world, he could fight.

"All that's left is to wait. There's nothing else I can do."

But while Giotto fought hunger and cold, in the castle's training yard, his executioner was preparing.

Whitertown Castle

Training Yard

Sir Eldric strode forward with purpose, nodding to courtiers who bowed as he passed. A predator's smile curled across his scarred, timeworn face.

The clang of steel and cries of combat grew louder as he approached the yard. Sir Eldric felt at home. The air was thick with dry sweat and rusted iron, tinged with the sour tang of fresh blood. It was the perfume of soldiers.

The moment he entered, all the men stopped. All except one.

A hulking tower of flesh—a living colossus—continued to train with ruthless intensity. His sword, just as tall as he was, came crashing down again and again upon a poor bastard barely able to parry.

"¡Rufus!"

But Rufus didn't stop. The blade kept falling, unrelenting.

"Please, my lord!" the soldier cried, watching his sword splinter apart. "I yield! I yield!"

He screamed in panic as the massive blade came down toward his face. He shut his eyes, bracing for death.

But the blow never landed.

He opened his eyes slowly. The sword had stopped two inches from his nose. He blinked, dazed.

Rufus pulled the blade back and offered him a hand.

"It was a good fight," he said in a rasping voice that was surprisingly refined. "Take the rest of the day off."

"¡Rufus!" Sir Eldric called again, this time with a scowl.

"Sir Eldric," the giant replied coolly. "Didn't expect you back so soon from the Barony."

Eldric stared at him, almost daring him to provoke. But his hands were tied. Striking Rufus would be treason.

And Rufus knew it. He savored it.

He took a cloth, wiped the sweat from his brow, and tossed it at Eldric's feet.

"Please, Sir Jophensher," he said, deliberately using Eldric's surname—a breach of etiquette among knights. "Do proceed. What can I do for my dear uncle? Surely the Dog of Whitertown didn't come all this way over something petty."

Eldric met his gaze with the cold resolve of a man who had killed.

"It's true," he said, voice like acid. "For what man is not cursed, who spends his days chasing after another?"

He may have resisted the urge to draw steel, but not the venom in his words. And though Eldric could not strike at Rufus, the opposite held just as true.

Rufus didn't blink. He stared back at the old knight with smug composure, then smiled.

"Wise words, coming from you, Sir Jophensher. Though… sometimes a man is worth more than a stud horse. Especially if he knows how to ride."

For a heartbeat, Eldric's hand drifted toward his hilt. The insult was almost too much.

But he held back.

Silence stretched out. Somewhere, someone coughed.

Rufus—fourth nephew and heir of Lord Oswald—smirked, just enough for Eldric to notice.

"Though I do enjoy our little exchanges, Sir," he said, taking a seat on a wooden bench, "I must ask what brings you to interrupt my training?"

Eldric's gaze was cold, devoid of warmth. He swept his eyes over the idle soldiers with a look that promised punishment. They returned to their drills at once.

"Listen closely, fool. These are Lord Oswald's orders."

His voice remained steady despite the hostility.

"Lord Oswald has summoned you, Lord Rufus of Whitertown, to take part in a duel arranged by his hand. Tomorrow, at the third bell."

He spoke the surname loudly, so everyone could hear. But Rufus, far from insulted, gave a dry chuckle.

"Tell my uncle, Sir Jophensher, that I will gladly obey his summons," he said, rising to tower over the

older knight. "If that's all, I'd like to resume my training."

He retrieved his sword, beckoned for a new opponent, and carried on, ignoring Eldric entirely.

Red with rage, the knight turned on his heel and stormed back to the palace.

Whitertown Palace

Private Chamber of Lord Oswald

The room smelled of ink, sweat, and damp parchment. Its austere furnishings said all that needed saying.

Night had begun to fall. The golden light of the heavens streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the desk where Lord Oswald was writing.

"You summoned me, my lord?" asked Sir Benjamin, standing at attention.

The duke looked up. Black eyes, deep-set and ringed with exhaustion. He handed over a scroll.

"Read this."

Sir Benjamin took it. He wasn't expecting anything unusual—but as he read, his face twisted in disbelief.

"My lord… Is this possible?"

To Lord Oswald of Whitertown, Lord of the Northern Territories:

As ordered, I rode with my garrison through the villages of your lands. As we feared, the border settlements have vanished—leaving behind only blood and ash.

I spoke to the wretched souls that still wander this accursed land. They confirmed our suspicions… they seek to raise an army from beyond the veil.

 —Sir Arthur Doyle

"Unfortunate…"

"Then we must act, my lord," cried Sir Benjamin, clearly agitated. "If we allow them time to gather their forces, what happened in the Lands of Eternal Darkness may happen again!"

Oswald did not reply. He finished writing, blew gently to dry the ink, and sealed the parchment with his signet ring.

"Take this," he said, handing it to him. "Ride to the Duchy of Cliffor. Only Duke Henry may read what it contains."

"When should I leave?"

"Tomorrow. After the foreigner's trial. Choose three men to accompany you."

"As you command, my lord… Forgive my forwardness, Lord Oswald, but—do you truly believe this man could aid us?"

Oswald didn't answer at once. He merely murmured:

"If he survives Rufus, he might prove useful in the days ahead."

Sir Benjamin remained silent.

"You mean to use him, then?"

Oswald gave no answer. He stared at the candle's flicker before speaking again.

"Sir Benjamin, if on the road you find anything…"

He paused, still not looking at him. Benjamin nodded, scratching his beard.

"I understand, my lord."

"If what's written in this letter is true, Sir Benjamin… I fear we are already losing."

The candlelight wavered, casting Lord Oswald's tall shadow upon the wall.

Whitertown Palace

Outer Tower

Night had fallen. The streets were emptying, and the men made their way to the taverns to drown themselves in drink.

The room stank of stale sweat and expensive wine. Empty bottles littered the stone floor. Pleasure still clung to the walls like incense, a faint symphony of gasps and the soft percussion of flesh on flesh.

Rufus watched as his companion continued to move, riding him like a prized stallion. It was Sir Alexander, rocking slowly atop him with a kind of near-reverence. His golden hair fell over his shoulders, eyes closed, drifting far from the world.

They climaxed together in a blind moan of rapture, locked in the animal rhythm of their joining.

Sir Alexander collapsed beside him, panting like a warrior after battle. His tousled hair lay across the giant's chest. Barely covered by satin sheets, the heat of their bodies still clung to the room.

"You didn't need to be so hard on Sir Eldric," Alexander said between ragged breaths, his fingers idly stroking Rufus' chest.

Rufus snorted at his lover's words, eyes fixed on the ceiling above.

"So you heard."

Sir Alexander rolled onto his back, listening to the fireplace crackle.

"Of course. Nothing happens in this castle without me hearing of it… though sometimes I wish I didn't know everything."

"And that," Rufus said, running a large hand through Alexander's silky blond hair, "is what fascinates me about you."

"My uncle's too kind," he added. "Let a dog sit at your table, and it'll forget how to eat off the floor."

Sir Alexander merely sighed at his words.

"I'm sure I ruined his men's day," Rufus said with a grin that made Alexander flinch slightly. "I'd wager one or two went to bed with fewer fingers."

"But enough of that. Tell me, what happened during the trial? I find it hard to believe the great Lord Oswald, witch-slayer himself, would let a sorcerer rot so long in his dungeons."

Alexander let out a long breath, recalling the foreigner's words.

"Even I don't fully grasp the duke's mind," Alexander began. "But the more the man spoke, the more Lord Oswald's expression changed."

"That's not common. What did this man say to earn my uncle's benefit of the doubt?"

"Not much, honestly. Even with his thick accent and poor grasp of our dialect, he spoke like a trained orator. His words were so elaborate, they almost sounded fake. Honestly, it was a little comical."

Alexander straddled Rufus again, kissing his pale, hairless chest.

"He claimed to come from a land that hunts witches. Can you believe that?"

The giant exhaled through his teeth at the notion.

"Said he stopped a coven from summoning a demon lord."

"And where exactly is this man from?" Rufus asked, sighing under Alexander's kisses.

But instead of answering, Sir Alexander paused and looked him in the eye.

"Rome."

Rufus fell silent, the weight of the name heavy on his mind.

"Rome…" he repeated, eyes drifting downward. "That's an old name. A very old name. What do you think?"

"I think he's just another liar trying to dodge the gallows. Wouldn't be the first, won't be the last."

"I don't think so. My uncle has a keen instinct for these things. But I'll leave that worry for tomorrow. For now…"

"Do you wish to continue… or do you need time, my lord?" Sir Alexander teased, prompting Rufus to seize him in those great hands and roll him over.

"I'm ready for another round, Sir."

And outside, the night dragged on.

 Beyond the castle walls—beyond even the borders known to man… deep in a forgotten forest:

 …moans and chants of power broke the silence. Fire burned. A virgin was bled dry, and twenty more bathed in her blood.

 Dancing, drinking—a pagan orgy around a false idol. With every gasp of pleasure, every scream, every whisper, his name was invoked...

Belphegor the Seventh-Born

 And the stars above those brilliant lights in the firmament began to go out…

"Ah!"

The cold cell rang with Giotto's strangled cry. He clawed at his face with trembling nails, trying to tear out his eyes, as if doing so could erase what he had just witnessed. But each wound healed the moment it opened.

His head spun, blood-tears streaking down his cheeks. Bile surged, and he emptied his stomach onto the stone floor.

He collapsed, trembling on the filthy ground.

«What was that?» he thought, clutching himself. Fear overtook him, his power surging—awakened by the horror. He couldn't bear to see something like that again.

But his rational mind, what little remained, forced him to stop.

Tears streamed down his bloody face. His emerald eyes burned with a frightening intensity.

He lay there for hours, until the color returned to his cheeks.

It hadn't been a dream. It was far too vivid. A premonition? A vision? Giotto didn't know.

A dull clang echoed against the metal bars. An old soldier—unlike any of the others—rapped on the cell.

"Get up," he said in a tired, indifferent voice, devoid of the usual contempt. "His Grace, Duke Oswald, demands your presence at once."

Giotto rose. He remembered yesterday's events. He couldn't allow himself to break, not yet.

With a dry sleeve, he wiped his face and walked to the open door.

For fear is like a knife: either you carry it in your hand, or you find it buried in your chest.

Elsewhere in the castle, a blade was being sharpened slowly, without urgency—as if it already knew there would be blood.

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And here we are.

I wanted this chapter to mark a turning point—a clean break from the previous ones. A chance to expand the world, introduce key characters, and begin weaving in some central themes. The scene between Rufus and Alexander was originally much longer; at one point, I considered trimming it to a few passing lines, and in the end, I settled somewhere in between.

I'm quite pleased with how this chapter turned out. In my opinion, it's the strongest one so far.

Thank you for reading and for making it this far.

—The Author