"Huh? Did you see that?"
"Yeah... but what could've happened to him? His arm..."
"I thought after he took down that beast... You think the guy who dragged him away did that to him?"
"Perhaps, but I remember the monster he killed had... I don't know, man. But they healed the rest of us! Why couldn't they fix him?"
"Either way, the guy's got rotten luck..."
The quiet whispers echoed around the cavernous hall like a swarm of persistent, buzzing flies, their volume swelling with every passing second.
It was easy to talk big. It was easy to swear under his breath that he'd get stronger, survive this living hell, and carve his vengeance directly out of their captors' flesh.
But right now, long before he could ever dream of facing those grand, distant threats, the one thing Gil hated facing most was the staring.
The sheer, suffocating weight of dozens of pitying, horrified eyes.
It was starting to test what little patience he had left.
Greg shot him an anxious, helpless look from a few feet away, while the tomboy stared fixedly at the stone floor, actively trying not to add to the mounting tension.
It was painfully obvious that neither of them had the slightest clue how to comfort a man who had just lost a limb.
"Leave me alone for a bit," Gil muttered, his voice dropping into a cold, flat register that brooked no argument. "Get some rest while you can. As if this place would ever give us a real break."
Without waiting for a reply, Gil turned and dragged his feet toward one of the newly opened side rooms.
Predictably, expecting these bastards to give them private quarters had been a complete delusion.
The updated living area consisted of four small, minimalist chambers carved into the rock: two sleeping quarters lined with basic cots—presumably meant to divide the men and women—and two rudimentary washrooms.
In the center of the main hall, where they had spent the previous night, two massive canvas supply sacks had been dumped unceremoniously onto the floor.
A few starving captives were already crowding around them, pulling out rations with eager, trembling hands.
Feeling the crushing weight of mental exhaustion settling deep into his marrow, Gil made his way toward the supplies.
Ignoring the burning stares tracked onto his back like crosshairs, he reached into the bag with his sole remaining hand and grabbed his allotted share.
It wasn't much: a single skin of lukewarm water, a thick wedge of hard, stale bread, and a tough strip of dried meat jerky.
Beggars can't be choosers, he thought bitterly, clutching the meager meal to his chest.
He grabbed a rough wool blanket from one of the sleeping cots, absolutely refusing to actually stay inside the enclosed room. Despite his bone-deep weariness, he had zero intention of sleeping with his back turned to a room full of strangers in a dark, tight space.
Wrapping his rations inside the wool blanket, he carried everything back out to the main hall, once again braving the gauntlet of silent, whispering onlookers.
He settled directly into the same shadowed corner where he had spent the previous night—the very spot where he had first crossed paths with Greg.
Even with his eyes fixed on the cracked stone roof, the heavy aura of the room pressed in on him.
Through the faint, residual embers of his empathetic sense, he could feel their reactions as clearly as if they were shouting at him: some looked at him with profound pity, others with confusion, disgust, and fear.
And then, there was a tiny minority whose gaze carried something far nastier—a subtle, sadistic satisfaction at seeing him brought low.
When that specific emotion registered in Gil's mind, a cold shock ran straight down his spine.
Huh?
What...?
I didn't think I made any enemies here. So why...?
Scanning the crowd with a sharp, guarded glance, it didn't take him long to pinpoint one of the sources.
It was the Scholar. While the man lacked the blatant, violent malice of their captors, his subtle facial expressions betrayed a strange, twisted gratification at Gil's ruined state, cleverly hidden beneath a fake mask of concern.
Gil didn't even know what he had done to offend the man, but the sight made his jaw tighten.
Even here... people couldn't help but enjoy someone else's fall.
Gil thought, a wave of dark nausea washing over him.
He was beyond sick of it all—sick of the monsters running the show, and sick of the cowards watching the theater.
Moments later, Greg and the tomboy crossed the stone hall toward his corner. Following his lead, both had retrieved their own blankets and rations, choosing to set up camp right alongside him.
Their movement triggered a subtle ripple effect through the rest of the room. Sensing the logic in staying together in the open rather than isolating themselves in small, defenseless rooms, the other surviving captives quickly copied them.
One by one, they dragged their bedding into the central hall, establishing an unspoken perimeter. If anything went down during the night, it would happen in plain view of everyone.
Greg sat nearby, fidgeting nervously with the crust of his hard bread. He hesitated several times, trying to figure out how to bridge the awkward, heavy silence hanging over them, before finally speaking up.
"Hey, Gil... what do you think is gonna happen tomorrow?"
Appreciating the genuine effort to break the suffocating tension, Gil shifted his weight against the cold wall, pulling his single knee up to his chest.
"Given that we've 'proven our worth' in the arena," he said, his tone dripping with dark, acid sarcasm, "I'm guessing whatever comes next is training. Or rather, indoctrination. It's obvious they're trying to forge us into weapons or mindless soldiers. And right now... none of us look the part. Least of all me."
He paused, taking a slow, measured sip of water to wet his dry throat.
"Eat. Build up your strength and get some sleep. Because whatever they have planned for tomorrow... it won't be for the faint of heart."
With that, Gil leaned his head back against the stone wall and closed his eyes, signaling the firm end of the conversation. Greg took the hint, stepping back slightly to give him space while remaining close enough to keep watch.
Just as the tomboy was about to turn away as well, Gil spoke up once more, his voice carrying a slight, awkward hesitation:
"Hum... sorry, I don't think I ever got your name?"
The woman, caught off guard, stopped and looked back at him. After a short pause, she answered in a clear, firm voice:
"Kuro... my name is Kuro."
Kuro... Black?
Quite fitting.
A bit surprised by the name, Gil looked at her, his eyes wandering over her sharp, disciplined posture and dark hair.
It fits her rather well, he thought, observing her for a moment longer before speaking genuinely: "Then Kuro, thanks for your help earlier up there. In the ring."
I won't forget it, he added inwardly.
Kuro offered a short, crisp nod, accepting the quiet gratitude, and left it at that, settling onto her own blanket a few feet away.
Once the others had given him his space, Gil forced himself to scarf down his food as quickly as possible.
He couldn't tell if it was just his mind playing tricks on him or the reality of their bleak, industrial rations, but the food was completely tasteless.
Everything felt like dust and ash in his mouth. He downed the rest of the water in a single gulp, pulled his rough wool blanket tightly around his shoulders, and huddled deep into his shadowed corner.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying with all his might to block out the low, persistent hum of whispers in the hall, the lingering dread of whatever hell awaited them tomorrow, and the constant, phantom throbbing of the loss that was eating him alive from the inside out.
Lost in the pitch-black darkness behind his eyelids with nothing but his own spiraling thoughts, he was drowning in a desperate, overwhelming need for peace.
He wanted a quiet, hidden place where he could be completely alone—a place where he could finally drop the icy, unyielding facade he maintained for the others and let out everything he had been bottling up inside.
As if responding directly to the silent, agonizing prayer of his broken spirit, something deep within his chest shifted.
Unconsciously at first, his mind began to trace back along a familiar path.
The mental steps picked up speed, guided purely by the raw, instinctual longing to escape his physical vessel.
After what felt like an eternity of walking through an endless void, the first faint pinpricks of light began to puncture the dark.
First one star.
Then two.
Then a dazzling, breathtaking sea of celestial radiance.
Suddenly, Gil found himself standing once more within that vast, quiet cosmic expanse.
He was back on his floating island, suspended in the middle of a glowing, swirling Milky Way, standing directly before his small, blazing golden orb.
Here—in a sanctuary where no one could watch him, mock him, or pity him—the dam broke completely.
Gil collapsed to his knees, his physical and emotional exhaustion violently bursting through his chest.
"I'll kill you!" he roared into the vast cosmic silence, his voice cracking and tearing with pure, raw hatred that shook the ethereal floating golden orb. "I swear , I'll kill every single one of you! I'll make every last bastard in your clique pay for this!"
Screaming at the absolute top of his lungs, the hot tears he had fought so hard to suppress in the waking world finally spilled over, washing down his cheeks.
Overcome with blinding fury and grief, he raised his arms, balling his hands into a tight fists to slam them onto the floating island's soil with everything he had—
Thud,Thud.
Gil froze.
A shockwave of utter disbelief washed over his mind, instantly cutting off his cries.
Slowly, terrifyingly, he looked down at his left side.
There, resting solidly against the floating island's soil, holding his weight... was his left hand.
He blinked, his breath hitching violently in his throat.
He opened and closed the fingers. He felt the coarse texture of the celestial soil beneath his palm. He looked up his arm—past his wrist, past his forearm, past his elbow, all the way to his shoulder.
In this strange, ethereal realm—in this spiritual form he barely understood—he wasn't broken. His body was completely untouched.
Here, in thi sanctuary of his own, he was still whole.