Morder couldn't sleep.
He lay staring at the ceiling, which was slick with viscous blood and crawling with scattered insects. There was no mattress or soft reprieve here; the cold, hard stone was both his pillow and his shroud.
He pressed a hand against his stomach as it roared with hunger. The pangs were so sharp, so agonizing, that he found himself eyeing the vermin scuttling across the floor.
Escape required thought, and thought required energy. But both were luxuries he didn't possess.
He pushed himself up halfway, wiping his face, only for a thick liquid to drip onto his forehead.
He looked up slowly.
Water was seeping through the cracks in the stone above, mingling with stale blood as it leaked down.
A large cockroach skittered past his hand.
Desperation, cold and hollow, finally broke his resolve.
He lunged, crushing the insect in his grip.
He bit down hard, forcing himself to chew.
A wave of nausea surged through him, threatening to bring up what little bile was left in his system, but he fought to swallow the first bite.
The victory was short-lived.
His body convulsed, and he retched, vomiting the foul thing back onto the floor.
He wasn't a scavenger; his palate craved the meat and fish he once knew.
He never imagined he would sink this low.
Clutching his stomach, he slumped back onto his spine, covering his eyes with his fingers.
'What a wretched state I've fallen into…' he exhaled deeply.
In the midst of his misery, the sound of footsteps echoed toward his cell.
He shifted his gaze to the right and saw a pair of boots halt before the bars.
Looking up, he saw a knight holding a bowl in one hand and bread with water in the other.
The sight triggered an explosion of noise from the neighboring cells.
The other prisoners went wild, howling like a pack of starving wolves at the sight of what was, to them, a royal banquet.
The knight passed through the iron bars as if they were mist and set the tray on the floor.
He turned his back to Morder, his voice dark and hollow.
"Eat. You have a long day ahead of you."
Morder scrambled toward the food with a frantic hunger, as if he had been waiting a lifetime for this single moment.
He looked into the bowl and found beans, their aroma so rich it felt like a dream.
Beside it lay soft, warm bread and a cup of cold water.
He began to eat like a wild animal, devouring the meal with primal intensity.
The knight let out a low, mocking chuckle.
"Look at you… eating like a pig."
With that, the knight vanished.
Morder froze, a mouthful of food stuck in his throat as the insult hung in the air.
He took a slow, deliberate sip of water to wash it down.
"You speak as if you're immortal," he muttered to the empty air. "Everyone is marching toward the same grave."
One of the prisoners began to wail, begging Morder for a scrap, a single bean, a crust of bread.
Soon, the entire block joined in, a chorus of weeping and desperate pleas.
"…"
To Morder, their cries were nothing but white noise.
The bowl that had been full was now empty; the warm bread was heavy in his stomach.
It was finished.
This meal was the achievement he deserved—not the stagnant water dripping from the ceiling or the filth of an insect.
Deep down, he knew he was meant for better things than this.
He leaned back against the wall, patting his full stomach.
As he did, his hand brushed against his tattered clothes—his black tunic was shredded, caked in dried blood and the grime of the pits.
"It seems I'm in need of a new set of clothes."
Morder managed a short nap after his "golden meal," sinking into dreams of escape from this pit of madness and death.
The dreams were shattered by a cold spray of water.
He bolted awake, instinctively dropping into a defensive stance.
Standing before him was a knight, hand outstretched, water still dripping from his gauntlet.
"Is this how you wake people in this prison?!"
The knight said nothing.
He unlatched the cell door and gestured for Morder to move.
Once outside, the black blindfold was secured tightly, and a rough shove sent him marching forward.
'This filth-ridden treatment won't go unpunished,' Morder hissed to himself.
They reached the diamond peaks.
The other prisoners were already at their stations, their picks striking the gems with a rhythmic, hollow ring.
Morder took up his axe and began to work.
Lucas, the prisoner he had met the day before, edged closer.
"Hey… how are you holding up, kid?"
Morder didn't stop.
He swung the axe, though with less ferocity than the previous day.
His strikes were measured, almost casual.
Lucas watched him, his eyes narrowing.
"Have you thought about what we talked about yesterday?"
"…"
"Hmph. I bet you don't even remember… what a coward. It seems the magic parchment only chooses the useless."
Morder froze.
The pickaxe bit into a diamond vein and stayed there.
His mind raced through fragmented memories.
'The magic parchment… does he know about it? Its appearance was sudden, and I haven't had the chance to truly dig into its nature.'
'It seems that paper chose me because it saw something I couldn't see in myself…'
He reached up, his fingers brushing against the mark on his neck.
It began to throb with a deep, crimson glow.
Heat radiated from the skin, as if his blood was preparing for a slaughter.
'It gave me a chance at life in exchange for my life… every healing costs me a portion of my years. It's a challenge between me and that parchment.'
'If that thing is using me, then I'll use it right back.'
Morder turned to Lucas, a thin, artificial smile stretching across his face.
"I've thought about it, Lucas. That is your name, right?"
Lucas beamed, a look of profound relief washing over his face.
"You're finally talking! Do you want me to explain the escape plan, or do you have ideas of your own?"
Morder flexed his fingers, waving them dismissively.
"No need for that. I have a plan that will send you all straight to Hell."
"Wow, what's that—"
Lucas stopped, the realization slowly dawning on him.
"What?! What do you mean?"
Suddenly, a knight manifested between them, his voice sharp and jagged.
"Why aren't you working?!"
"Sir!" Morder cried out, pointing a trembling finger. "This person… he's planning an escape!"
The knight turned his gaze toward Lucas.
With a lightning-fast motion, he seized the prisoner's head and hoisted him up.
The other slaves stopped to watch, frozen in terror.
Lucas shrieked, begging for mercy as the knight's grip tightened.
"I never said it! He's the one who suggested the damn idea!"
It was useless.
With a sickening pop, the knight crushed his skull into fragments.
As the lifeless body hit the floor, the knight turned toward Morder, but he met a sight he didn't expect.
Before the knight could fully face him, Morder spat a mouthful of diamond shards directly into the guard's visor.
"Argh! You filthy Mongrel! How dare you!"
The knight reached for his sword, but Morder was faster.
He swung his heavy pickaxe, severing the knight's hand at the wrist.
He caught the falling blade mid-air and, with a singular, fluid motion, cleaved the knight in two.
The sword dripped with fresh blood.
Morder raised the blade to his lips, his expression serene.
"It would be a sin to let this blessing hit the floor."
He licked the blood from the steel.
Immediately, the mark on his neck flared with a violent light, beginning to bleed in unison with his hunger.
The mine erupted into shock.
A large contingent of knights began to close in, but the expected slaughter turned on its head.
The prisoners, fueled by a sudden, desperate madness, swarmed the guards.
Chaos swallowed the cavern.
In the distance, the cathedral bell began to toll with a frantic, rhythmic clang, signaling a state of emergency.
Morder stood amidst the carnage, a wide, filthy grin plastered on his face.
He savored the massacre he had ignited.
"Exactly as planned. Now, to seize the moment and reach that cursed gate."
He sprinted between the diamond crags, his speed increasing with every step.
Just as he neared the entrance, a massive fist slammed into his jaw, sending him spiraling into the dirt.
He spat blood and pushed himself up, looking at the knight blocking his path.
This one was different—his sword was wreathed in roaring flames.
"Trying to flee, you cursed Mongrel?!"
"It seems you've caught me," Morder replied, his voice dropping to an icy edge. "Which means you have to die."
The knight lunged like a cannonball.
Morder met the strike, the screech of steel on steel ringing through the air.
A flurry of consecutive strikes followed, blades blurring in the dim light.
Morder ducked a swing, grabbed the knight by the collar, and slammed him into the ground with such force that a crater formed in the earth.
But the knight wasn't finished.
He unleashed a jet of searing flame that roared toward Morder like a rocket.
The fire caught him dead-on.
Morder recoiled, his skin blistering under the intense heat.
He gritted his teeth, fighting the agony that threatened to drown him.
'I have to avoid those cheap shots… I don't want the healing to drain my life away.'
In that moment, the magic parchment flickered into existence, the script written in what looked like fresh blood:
[KILL THE RAT]
[THIS IS A COMMAND, NOT AN OPTION]
Morder smiled, swinging his stolen sword.
"Who said I was running… it seems this parchment likes to provoke me."
He lunged at the knight, but the guard took to the air, raining down a barrage of flaming arrows.
Morder blurred from point to point, dodging the projectiles until he found his opening.
He leaped, catching the knight by the throat.
He drove the blade deep into the man's gut, and together, they plummeted through the gate.
The heavy stone doors slammed shut behind them.