Four years ago.
The grand spires of the Grand Dragon Royal Academy pierced the twilight sky of the capital city. Lights glowed warmly from classroom windows and high balconies, casting long shadows across the manicured courtyards.
Hana, then a final-year student, walked briskly along a cobblestone path towards her dormitory.
Her petite frame carried the weight of exhaustion; it had been a long day filled with advanced elemental magic theory and a particularly grueling exam on healing-specific Mana manipulation.
She clutched a heavy textbook to her chest, already thinking about the research paper due next week.
The air was cool, carrying the distant sounds of city life. The usual late-evening bustle near the Academy grounds felt comforting, familiar.
She turned down a slightly less traveled path, a shortcut between the library annex and the residential halls. Tall hedges lined the walkway, muffling the city sounds and creating a pocket of quiet seclusion.
Lost in thought about her studies, Hana didn't notice the subtle shift in the shadows behind the hedge row.
Suddenly, rough hands grabbed her from behind. A heavy cloth bag, smelling faintly of chemicals and dust, was slammed over her head, plunging her into suffocating darkness.
She gasped, dropping her textbook with a thud, and struggled fiercely, kicking and trying to twist away.
But her attackers were strong and efficient. An arm clamped around her waist, lifting her off her feet, while another hand pressed the bag tightly against her face, muffling her cries for help.
Despite her training, the surprise attack left her disoriented.
She felt a sharp prick in her neck, and a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. Her struggles weakened, her limbs grew heavy, and the world went dark.
....
When Hana's consciousness slowly returned, it was to the biting cold of stone against her skin and the sharp, grating pain in her wrists.
Her head throbbed, and a dull ache resonated from the needle prick on her neck.
Darkness still clung to her vision, but it wasn't the suffocating black of the bag anymore. This was the gloom of a poorly lit space.
She blinked, trying to clear her sight.
Her arms were stretched uncomfortably upwards, pulled taut. A cold, heavy metal chained encircled each wrist, secured somewhere high above her head, anchoring her to the damp wall.
Panic began to bubble in her chest as she realized she was kidnapped.
Her eyes adjusted gradually to the low light, likely cast by a few sputtering torches outside her immediate area.
She was in a cell, larger than she would have expected, the rough-hewn stone walls slick with moisture and grime.
The air was thick with the stench of stale sweat, filth, and something else… something metallic and sickly sweet that turned her stomach… blood.
She soon realized that she wasn't alone.
Scattered around the large cell were other figures. Some huddled in corners, their faces gaunt and etched with despair – other prisoners, judging by their ragged clothes and the vacant look in their eyes.
But others moved with a chilling purposefulness. Dressed in dark, hooded robes that obscured their features, they carried themselves with an air of cold authority.
They were the jailer.
She figured this wasn't the work of just one person. An organization had to be behind it.
And Hana quickly realised the horror of her situation was just beginning.
Her gaze was drawn to the center of the cell, where a terrible scene was unfolding under the flickering torchlight.
One prisoner, a man whose whimpers had turned into low, agonising moans, was tied spread-eagle to a crude wooden frame. A jailer stood over him, wielding a small, wickedly curved knife. With methodical precision, the jailer was peeling back strips of the man's skin, revealing the raw, weeping flesh beneath. The prisoner convulsed with each pull, but his cries were choked off by exhaustion and pain.
Nearby, another group of jailers surrounded a young woman. They rained blows upon her with thick wooden clubs, the dull thuds echoing sickeningly in the cavernous space. Her body jerked with each impact, her pleas for mercy ignored. They struck her legs, her back, her arms, seemingly indifferent to whether they broke bones or simply bruised flesh.
Then, Hana saw a jailer approach a prisoner chained similarly to her, but lower down the wall. The jailer carried a bucket, steam rising faintly from its contents. Without a word, the jailer flung the liquid onto the prisoner. A piercing scream ripped through the air as scalding water hit skin. The prisoner thrashed against his chains, his flesh turning an angry red, blistering almost instantly. The smell of cooked meat joined the already foul stench of the cell.
Amidst the echoing cries and desperate pleas, the jailers' rough laughter cut through the misery. They seemed to feed on the suffering, their voices dripping with cruel amusement.
They exchanged coarse jokes, pointed at the wailing prisoners, and offered mocking words that only fueled the despair.
It was clear they weren't just carrying out orders; they were enjoying every agonizing second of their work.
Hana squeezed her eyes shut, bile rising in her throat.
But the sounds – the wet tearing, the brutal thuds, the agonized screams – couldn't be blocked out.
Tremors wracked her small frame, not just from the cold, but from sheer, intense terror.
This wasn't just imprisonment; it was a descent into a living nightmare.
Her heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird, each beat amplifying the horrifying reality of where she was and what these people were capable of. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of her recent abduction, leaving her utterly petrified.
A moment later, a jailer, different from the ones actively engaged in torture, detached himself from the gruesome activities in the center of the cell.
He strolled towards Hana's wall, his heavy boots echoing on the stone floor. He stopped directly in front of her, tilting his hooded head to peer at her face.
"Well, well, look what we have here," the jailer said, his voice surprisingly light, almost cheerful. "A fresh one. And a pretty one at that." He chuckled softly, as if sharing a private joke.
Hana stared back, her breath catching in her throat. She couldn't find her voice, fear having locked it solid. Her eyes darted from his face, shadowed deeply by the hood, to the rough hands that rested casually on his belt.
"Allow me to introduce ourself," the jailer continued, his tone remaining disturbingly pleasant. "We are… devoted followers. Followers of the great Demon Lord." He said 'Demon Lord' with a note of reverence, as if it were the most natural, admirable title in the world.
Hana remained silent, her body trembling against the cold stone of the wall. She understood very little of what he was saying, her mind consumed by the horrific sights and sounds around her.
The jailer seemed unfazed by her silence. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"So," he began again, his tone almost conversational, "how are you finding the… atmosphere? Quite lively, wouldn't you say?"
He gestured loosely with his hand towards the ongoing tortures with an air of mild appreciation, like a host showing off his party.
Hana squeezed her eyes shut, a whimper escaping her lips despite her efforts to remain silent.
The question, the casual tone, the horrific context – it amplified her terror to a new level.
"No answer, huh?" the jailer mused, his cheerfulness not diminishing. "Perhaps you're still taking it all in. It's quite a spectacle, isn't it? The Demon Lord, he appreciates fear, you see. It's… invigorating to him. He wants you to feel it. Deeply." The jailer paused, then added with a touch of childlike glee, "He wants everyone to feel it!"
Hana's fear constricted her chest, making it hard to breathe.
Every word the jailer spoke felt like another twist of a knife, cold and deliberate. Demon Lord, fear, spectacle – it was all beyond her comprehension, beyond her ability to process.
All she understood was that she was in unimaginable danger.
The jailer remained for a moment longer, watching her, his unseen eyes likely assessing her terror. Then, with another of those light, unsettling chuckles, he turned and walked away, rejoining his fellow tormentors near the center of the cell.
Left alone with her amplified dread, Hana dared to open her eyes again.
The sounds of suffering, the sights of inhuman cruelty crashed over her anew, intensified by the jailer's chilling words.