Time moved slowly in the dimly lit cell. Every hour felt the same, blending into an endless stretch of monotony.
The only way to tell day from night was when the guards brought food.
Tonight, as usual, two guards appeared, handing out food packets to the prisoners.
Azael accepted his packet without emotion. Inside, there were two slices of bread, a bit of bland sauce, and a small bottle of water. He stared at it for a moment.
In his previous life, he had enjoyed delicious meals—rich, flavorful dishes that now felt like a distant memory.
This bland meal was a far cry from that, but he needed the energy to survive.
He took a bite of the bread and immediately grimaced. It was dry, with no salt or flavor, and the sauce didn't help. Forcing himself to swallow, he quickly gulped some water to wash it down.
Looking around, Azael saw the other three men in the cell had already finished their meals.
They were chatting in low voices about the food and other mundane topics.
His attention shifted to the woman sitting in the corner. She hadn't touched her meal. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, and her face was hidden. She looked like a statue, unmoving and silent.
The tall man in the group noticed too. "Hey, if you're not gonna eat that, can I have it?" he asked.
She didn't respond. She didn't even look up. Taking her silence as agreement, the man grabbed her food and ate it.
Azael watched but said nothing. He didn't know how to feel about it. Pity? Annoyance? He decided it wasn't his problem and looked away.
Later, the cell door creaked open again.
A guard entered, his expression cold.
"You. Let's go," he said, pointing at the woman.
She obeyed without a word, rising slowly and keeping her head down.
She followed the guard out of the cell, and the door slammed shut behind her.
The men started talking again, their tones low and filled with grim humor.
"There she goes," Tarek said.
"The cell supervisor must not be done with her yet," Hargin muttered, his tone steady.
"Poor thing. This is her life now," the tall man, Milo added with a shake of his head.
Azael's stomach churned at their words.
He had heard their chatting earlier about the prison cell supervisor—how he had killed the woman's husband and brought her here for his own sick pleasure.
Azael felt a twinge of sadness for her, but he knew better than to act.
He was weak and couldn't afford to die over some misplaced sense of justice.
Instead, he decided to wait and observe, saving his strength for when it truly mattered.
Hours passed, and the cell grew quiet. Azael tried to sleep, but his rest was light, his senses alert.
In the middle of the night, the cell door opened again. The woman returned, her steps unsteady. Her skin was pale, marked with dirt and bruises.
She crouched in her corner, shivering slightly but staying silent. Her head sank between her knees.
Azael sat up, watching her for a moment before reacting his body.
Without saying a word, he stood and walked over to the woman' s direction, then he took off his black blazer and draped it over her shoulders. The fabric covered her small frame, offering a little warmth to her cold body.
He didn't wait for her reaction and turned to return to his spot.
But immediately, a voice reached his ears.
"Thank you," came a soft whisper from the woman.
He stopped and glanced back. Slowly, she lifted her head, revealing delicate features shadowed by exhaustion.
Her unkempt brown hair fell in uneven strands around her face, framing her lifeless brown eyes that seemed to carry the weight of countless sorrows.
For a moment, those eyes softened, a faint flicker of gratitude breaking through the emptiness.
She offered him a weak, almost ghostly smile, her chapped lips barely curving before she lowered her head again, retreating into her solitude.
Azael felt a strange warmth in his chest.
He smiled back, though she didn't see it, and returned to his place.
For the first time in days, he felt a sense of peace as he lay down to sleep.
The next morning, Azael woke up early, his body stiff from the hard floor.
He stretched deliberately, his movements slow and purposeful as he tried to maintain his physical condition.
Once the guards handed out breakfast, he ate the simple meal of bread and milk without complaint. Strength was essential for him.
Ready for the day ahead, he braced himself for the mines, determined to observe the place carefully and uncover any details that could help him survive or escape.
As he stood, a familiar system window suddenly appeared before his eyes, making him jerk in surprise.
The glowing notification hovered in his vision, and as Azael read its contents, a frown appeared on his frame.
It seemed the change was coming.
=========[Major Act]==========
—Escape The Prison.
Rewards:
1) Access to X dimension once.
2) A 2nd Wing Art.
3) 8% increase in system assimilation .
Failure: Death
===========================
Azael read the notification carefully, his sharp eyes scanning every glowing word.
The mission was simple in theory but daunting in practice: escape this prison. It wasn't just about surviving anymore; it was about proving himself against a system that seemed determined to crush him.
The glowing text felt like a weight pressing down on his chest, heavy with expectation and the looming threat of failure.
The rewards dangled before him like bait. Access to the X Dimension, a realm veiled in mystery, promised untold possibilities.
Azael couldn't make sense of it yet, but he brushed the thought aside, deciding he would figure it out later.
More tangible was the memory of the 2nd Wing Art, a technique modest by mystic standards. It wasn't the grand, game-breaking power he might have wanted, but it was something, and he couldn't deny the satisfaction of gaining a skill where he had none.
And then there was the 8% system assimilation increase—vague, yes, but it felt like progress, and progress meant hope.
But failure wasn't an option, not with the penalty spelled out so coldly: death.
The system didn't bother sugarcoating it, and Azael could almost hear its mechanical indifference.
"First mission, death on the line. Great start," he muttered, his lips twitching into a grim smile.
It was like being thrown into a game with no tutorial and all the settings cranked to nightmare mode.
"Let's begin the game."
He muttered, his face turning into of a determinant one.