A week had passed.
The cackling of rats, the hissing of cockroaches, and the persistent dripping of water echoed off the mold-slicked stone walls of the cell like some kind of deranged lullaby. The air was thick with mildew and rot, the kind that seeped into your lungs and settled there like a permanent guest. A stench of decay clung to everything—sour sweat, rusted iron, and something suspiciously close to sewage.
A boy sat curled in one of the damp corners. Piles of old, dog-eared books lay stacked beside him, and the flickering lantern nearby cast soft light across his tangled, glinting blonde hair. Every so often, the flame sputtered, throwing fleeting shadows that made the cell seem even more alive than it should've been.
The boy's clothing was clearly once expensive—fine silks and tailored cuts—but it was now crumpled, dirtied, and fraying at the edges. His pale blue eyes traced the lines on a page in front of him with hesitant concentration, as though the words kept slipping through his mind before they could take root.
It was Elyas.
He was trying to read again. This time, it was some musty novel probably looted from a burned estate or stolen caravan—just another "gift" from the bandits. The lantern's dying light danced over the page as he flipped it carefully, his thumb smudging the paper.
Despite the composed look he wore, the way his lips tightened gave it away. He wasn't enjoying himself.
The story was painfully predictable—a cliché romance where the lead's childhood friend turns out to be his long-lost soulmate, reunited after years apart due to, what else, family drama. Elyas skimmed over the sentimental lines, his expression unchanging. Trite as it was, it passed the time in this hellhole.
But then, just as he reached the next page, the screech of metal scraping against stone slithered in from the hallway outside.
He didn't flinch. He already knew the schedule by heart.
Over the week, Elyas had learned to track the bandits' routines by the slivers of light leaking through the cracks in the shoddy brickwork. Afternoon now—right on time for lunch.
A torch's glow bled through the slatted window of the iron door. A shadow passed in front of it—a hulking silhouette. A moment later, the door creaked open, and in stepped a broad-shouldered bandit, holding a tray stacked with a surprisingly decent amount of food.
"Your food, kid," the bandit said. His tone was soft, almost fatherly, as though pitying the fragile child tucked away in this diseased tomb.
"Th-thank you…" Elyas mumbled, lowering his head.
Even after awakening his Aetheris, the boy remained timid—like a deer that had been kicked too many times to ever walk normally again. Still afraid, still trembling. His voice always sounded like it might crack and fall apart entirely.
He had an older sister once. She'd taught him about Aetheris—how it worked, how to feel it, nurture it. He adored her, and losing her had been the spark that lit his Aetheris ablaze. His mother, too, was an Aetheris user—warm, loving, but always busy. Still, she made time for him. His brother? Kind but distant. And his father… well, the Baron of Eversley had more meetings than he had children.
Elyas himself was the kind of child who liked to be alone, who preferred books to ballroom dances. A recluse in every sense. Yet even he couldn't avoid the occasional noble gathering, much to his chagrin.
Suddenly, a voice whispered near him.
Elyas froze.
He turned his head—and saw himself.
Curled up on the far side of the cell, sobbing into his knees.
He looked the other way. There stood a young man with unremarkable features, except for his disturbingly intense purple eyes. He stared with a tilted head and a smile that was just a bit too wide—one of those expressions that didn't belong on any sane person.
Elyas exhaled, slow and practiced. He was used to this now. The hallucinations had become familiar companions in this place.
Sure, having a version of yourself bawling in one corner while some creep stared at you like you're a painting he wants to eat wasn't exactly comfortable, but hey—he'd learned to cope.
He turned to his right and saw the Soul Mirror, its translucent surface shimmering faintly in the dim light.
Name: [Claude?]Aetheris Type: [Special]Aetheris Rank: [X]Aetheris Step: [I]Aetheris: [Soulless]
Aetheris Abilities: [Faceless]
[Faceless: You were never meant to be remembered… only to become.]
Claude stared at the Soul Mirror's description for what had to be the thousandth time. He'd practically memorized every letter, every pause in punctuation. The sentence lingered like a parasite.
He dismissed the Mirror with a breath.
Time to rest.
He snuffed out the lantern and lay on the rags that passed for bedding. The stench of mold clung to them like a second skin.
Just as he drifted toward sleep, the door groaned open again.
'What now?'
Claude gritted his teeth. No one opened that door at this hour unless something had gone sideways.
Sure enough, the same burly bandit stepped into view.
"Come on," he said gruffly. "The boss wants to meet you."
Claude blinked.
'The boss?!'
That probably meant someone was interested in Elyas. And that could be very, very bad—or the exact opening he needed.
He stood up, deliberately slouching to appear frail.
"T-the b-boss…? W-what is happening, M-mister…?"
He wasn't scared, not really. But in Elyas's skin, fear was expected—so fear is what they got.
"I don't know, kid. Just hurry up."
Claude extended his wrists automatically, waiting for shackles.
The bandit gave him a confused look.
'Oh. Right.'
He'd forgotten Elyas wasn't treated like a slave. Whoops.
Recovering smoothly, Claude dropped his arms and followed the man out.
They passed through the underground slave market. It was the same as ever—filled with the scent of sweat, despair, and rust. Slaves lined the walls, their eyes sunken and hopeless. Some watched him with hollow stares. Others didn't bother to lift their heads.
Claude kept stumbling on purpose, playing the part of a battered noble child.
They emerged above ground and crossed into the tavern nearby. On the second floor, they reached a familiar door.
Claude had been here before. He knew the layout. Knew the exits.
The bandit knocked.
"It's open! Hurry up!" came the voice from inside.
The door swung open. Claude stepped into a surprisingly spacious room.
To the right—an armory of decorative but very real weapons. To the left—two dusty shelves packed with books Claude doubted anyone ever read.
In the center sat a worn desk, and behind it, a mountain of a man. Fat, sweaty, and stuffed into a white shirt that looked like it might explode at any moment.
'The fat bastard's still alive. I was hoping he'd choke on a turkey leg by now.'
Another man sat across from him—a well-dressed blonde holding a silver pocket watch. Claude didn't recognize him, but it didn't take a genius to guess who he was.
Before Claude could speak, the man lunged forward.
Claude instinctively tensed, preparing to fight—but the man just wrapped him in a desperate hug.
'What the…?!'
He froze, stunned.
"Elyas! My dear son!"
Ah. So this was Daddy Dearest.
'Great… just what I needed. A reunion.'
Still, this was… useful.
"F-father…?"
Claude responded weakly, melting into the embrace.
"Don't worry, Elyas… you're safe now. No one will hurt you again."
Comforting words. But the real Elyas? He was a ghost now. A name, a face. Nothing more.
Then the fat bastard—Douglas—started blubbering.
"You see, Sir Howard? We didn't mean any harm. Just a misunderstanding! We never would've taken your son if that damn Red Heart Lady hadn't escaped! My boys didn't know who he was, I swear! They're idiots from the outskirts!"
Claude narrowed his eyes.
A perfect opportunity.
"F-father… h-he's lying! I… I was treated horribly! They gave me rotten food! My cell had rats! They even forgot to feed me some days!"
Howard's face turned crimson with rage.
Then—with a metallic snap—the burly bandit's head hit the floor, rolling like a dropped melon.
Claude stared.
Howard held a strange iron whip, crackling with power. It hadn't been there before.
"Douglas… consider this your warning. If you even think about touching my family again, I will wipe you and your entire operation off the map."
Douglas flinched so hard, his jiggling fat looked like it was about to clap.
"Y-yes, Sir! I-I understand!"
Howard took Claude's hand and turned toward the door.
"Consider this your only warning, Douglas." Howard's voice could've frozen hell. "The Black Vine's protection won't save you twice."
Claude let Howard lead him away, but not before locking eyes with Douglas over his shoulder.
Douglas was trembling, his forehead slick with sweat
Claude smiled.
A twisted, unnatural smile.
His smile wasn't Elyas'.
It was all Claude.