"In the depths of despair, where the mind shatters and reality blurs, the true measure of a soul is revealed."
~ Anonymous
Chapter XVI
7 Years Ago
Year 2047
Clancy O'Connor grew up in the green hills of Ballymore, County Kerry, where Bataireacht was woven into daily life like the stone walls and fields. His father, Aidan, was a farmer and gifted storyteller, and his mother, Siobhan, a weaver with a tender heart. They imbued Clancy with a deep sense of heritage, his childhood a vivid tapestry of old tales, muddy boots, and the rhythmic clatter of shillelaghs in training.
From a young age, Clancy was captivated by Bataireacht, the ancient Irish art of stick fighting. He watched the village elders, their movements a harmonious blend of power and grace. His father arranged for him to train under Seamus MacCarthy, a master whose lessons focused not only on physical technique but also on cultivating resilience and mental strength. Seamus taught Clancy to push through exhaustion, to find balance in adversity, and to maintain unwavering focus. Before dawn, Clancy ran through mist-draped fields, his resolve hardening with each footfall. The drills were repetitive, bruising, and relentless, but each bruise stoked the fire within him. Improvement was not just in technique but in the resilience etched into his spirit, day by day.
Seamus taught more than combat. Beneath ancient oaks, Clancy meditated until the world around him melted away. These moments were pivotal—he learned that true strength was not only power but also stillness amidst chaos, mastery over his own mind. The mental and spiritual aspects of Bataireacht molded Clancy into more than a fighter; they forged his character, carving resilience into his very being.
The turning point came when Padraig O'Sullivan, a visiting master, introduced Clancy to a fluid, adaptive style of fighting. Padraig moved like water—impossible to grasp, ever-shifting—and he pushed Clancy to transcend rigid forms. Clancy learned to blend precision with fluidity, transforming his technique into a seamless art. In the eyes of Ballymore, he was no longer a boy training in the shadows; he was becoming a master in his own right, his movements carrying the elegance of a dance and the impact of a storm.
As Clancy's skill grew, so did his reputation. His victories in regional tournaments were not just about his prowess with a shillelagh but were a testament to his integrity and dedication. More than a fighter, he became a mentor—guiding young villagers not just in the art of combat but in the values of fairness and honor. Around evening fires, his students recounted their lessons, eyes alight with admiration. Clancy's presence reminded them that strength could coexist with kindness, that power was nothing without compassion.
In his mid-twenties, Clancy’s sense of justice led him to mediate a land dispute between the O'Haras and the Dalys, neighboring families locked in a feud. Though Clancy approached the mediation with fairness, tensions simmered until they finally boiled over. In a heated moment, Patrick Daly accused Clancy of betrayal, his voice trembling with rage. The tension snapped, and in the ensuing scuffle, Clancy defended himself—a blow that landed with tragic finality. Patrick fell, lifeless, and in that instant, Clancy felt the weight of the world collapse upon him, the horror sinking into his bones.
The Dalys' influence twisted the narrative, spreading rumors that cast Clancy as an aggressor. Despite the support of the O'Haras, the Dalys' power and bribes saw Clancy sentenced to life in Stonegate, the most notorious prison known. As the sentence was read, Clancy’s hands trembled, his breath catching in his chest. The words echoed around him, hollow and unrelenting, a stark contrast to the life he had led. The journey to Stonegate was a grim procession, but Clancy carried himself with quiet dignity. Injustice stung deeply, yet Clancy remained unbroken, his spirit refusing to yield.
Stripped of his gear and thrust into Stonegate’s bleak reality, Clancy relied on the strength within. The prison tested him in every conceivable way, yet he remained unbroken. His days were spent with one task, the only task that mattered in Stonegate: survival. His integrity earned him a rare privilege—his shillelagh was returned, a symbol of his spirit. Even within the prison's cold stone walls, he mediated disputes, his sense of fairness a flickering light in the darkness, impossible to extinguish.
Stonegate's harshness tested Clancy daily, yet his spirit never wavered. He forged alliances, fostering camaraderie among the prisoners, his strength inspiring others to hope. Each night, under dim cell light, he spoke of Ballymore, of dreams beyond the prison walls. He painted pictures of the rolling hills, the warmth of home, and the freedom they all yearned for. In a place designed to strip men of their humanity, Clancy's unwavering faith in justice and honor became a lifeline, not just for himself, but for many who had lost the will to believe.
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Clancy’s dead, lifeless eyes stared back into Yoki’s, the light gone, a silent scream etched onto his lips. He had been a good man—too good to die, too good for a place like Stonegate. Yoki knew Clancy's story, every sacrifice—Clancy had died because of him. The realization hit Yoki like a blow, his chest tightening, breath catching in his throat. The weight of so many lives lost pressed down, a burden that clawed at Yoki's soul. In that moment, Yoki remembered Clancy sharing a story of hope, lifting his spirit on a day when despair had nearly consumed him. Now, that light was gone, extinguished, leaving the world emptier in his wake.
Yoki knelt beside Clancy's body, a storm of emotions surging through him—grief, guilt, and rage. He touched Clancy's shillelagh, the smooth wood a reminder of the man's strength and honor. "I swear," Yoki whispered, his voice barely audible, "I'll carry your light, Clancy. I won't let it fade."
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You’ll start losing track soon enough, Yoki. The Painkiller’s voice twisted through his thoughts, slithering like a serpent tightening its coils.
Yoki wanted to speak, to deny the Painkiller's words, but his tongue felt like lead, his mind a mire of fog, unable to untangle truth from the Painkiller's venom. He was stuck—one step forward, two steps back. Why him? Why did he deserve such a life? Fourteen years, or was it fifteen now? The memories blurred together, a tapestry of pain. Of regret.
Time was nonexistent in Stonegate. Nearly four months of solitary—that much he knew. Beyond that, he had no idea. Had it reached September? Had he turned fifteen yet? Winter’s grasp had left, but he was unsure of the seasons. His mind snapped back to reality when Doc exclaimed, “How could you! The Chief will reprimand you in sanguis for this!”
Chief, he said. Hadn’t he mentioned that before?
It sounded familiar, but Yoki couldn’t dwell on it before Fruitcake’s blood-lipsticked grin disrupted his thoughts. “Chief wants you dead, Yoki,” Fruitcake sneered, his grin widening. “You’ve been trouble, and The Academy—they’ve left you here, left you to me. You wonder why they haven’t come?”
“The Acad—what? How did you—” Yoki stammered, his mind struggling to piece together the information. Clancy’s death, Fruitcake’s betrayal, and now The Academy’s—
“Abandoned you. They abandoned you, Yoki. I was told you were mine for the taking. He gave the order. Oh, how sweet it’d be if only you knew. How he wished you could’ve come without that police genocide. You are nothing now. He doesn’t want spoiled goods. Power. That’s what he wants. Do you know who sold you like trash? Do you want to know, Yoki? Oh, you’d be so surprised! I crave your reaction. Don’t be shy. Where’s that strength, Yoki? Bring it to me.”
Doc should’ve known Yoki couldn’t resist that. Yoki's impulsiveness—his history of charging into danger without a second thought—was something Doc had witnessed too many times before.
Kill him.
Yoki’s entire body tensed, muscles coiling like a spring ready to snap, vision narrowing to a red haze. Yoki moved like lightning, his muscles straining with raw, unfiltered rage. He could feel his pulse thundering in his ears, the heat of his fury radiating through his body, but Fruitcake vanished before his hands could snap his neck, leaving nothing but empty air in his grasp. Yoki turned, seething. The injustice of life, the way he was toyed with like a doll—it all consumed him. Whoever this Chief was, Yoki would find out from Fruitcake as he ripped his tongue from his head.
Yesss. Burn, Yoki. Become rage itself.
Yoki's shadow twisted, dark and thick, a blackness beyond natural light. It stretched across the ground like a living entity, writhing with hunger, seeking Fruitcake. Fruitcake's grin faltered, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. But before Yoki could strike, Fruitcake vanished again, leaving only empty air.
An explosion of pain shot through Yoki's legs, a white-hot agony that surged upward, consuming him. He looked down, horrified. What was left were the bloody stumps of his quads, legs sliced clean off above the knees. A scream of agony tore from his throat, raw and guttural, the sound of a man broken by a world that had taken everything.
He landed roughly on the bloody stumps, numb from the shock. His screams echoed, blending with the distant shouts of guards rushing into the room. Chaos ensued, their voices cutting through the air with frantic commands.
Stone wrapped around Fruitcake, only to shatter under some unseen force—Clancy moved, headless, as if pulled by invisible strings. His body jerked unnaturally, a grotesque mockery of life, manipulated by some dark force. Guards now, too, were moved like marionettes, stone erupting from their hands under Fruitcake's control.
The scene was a nightmare—a swirling chaos of color and shadow, reality fracturing around Yoki. He saw Doc lunge, stone manipulating in his hand, only for Clancy’s headless body to intercept, driving his shillelagh through Doc's chest. The sight twisted Yoki's stomach, a sickening dread gnawing at him as darkness closed in. . .
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Yoki awoke strapped down, unable to move or even blink. Panic surged through him as he realized the extent of his immobility. His surroundings were dark, the air cold. He lay on a slab of stone, a single droplet of water landing on his forehead, trickling down his face.
Another drop followed, then another, each one a tiny hammer against his sanity. Yoki strained against his restraints, muscles tensed with effort, but they held firm. He could do nothing but endure.
Time lost all meaning. The steady rhythm of water droplets became his only companion, each one a reminder of his helplessness. His mind began to fracture, slipping in and out of consciousness, each drop pulling him deeper into an abyss of despair.
With each droplet, Yoki relived a different death. He drowned, his lungs burning as water flooded in. He was engulfed in flames, his skin blistering and peeling. He fell from a great height, his body shattering upon impact. He was torn by beasts, their claws raking his flesh. The memories were vivid, the agony unrelenting. Drip. He was back, trembling, panting, his sanity fraying.
Days passed—or perhaps weeks. His beard grew scraggly, his skin chafed against the cold stone, sores forming where the restraints bit into his flesh. Muscles atrophied, his body weakening under the strain. The constant drip, drip, drip was a metronome of misery, slicing through the last threads of his resolve.
In rare moments of clarity, he thought of Clancy, of Ballymore. The memories were a fragile thread connecting him to a reality beyond the torment. But even those memories began to fade, swallowed by the darkness.
One day, or perhaps many, the door to his cell creaked open. Through a haze of pain and delirium, Yoki saw Indigo enter. Her face was a mask of concern, her eyes searching his for any sign of recognition. She approached silently, her presence a balm to his tormented mind.
Behind her, Greenfield entered, his expression cold and calculating. He looked down at Yoki, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Yoki couldn’t tell if they were real or just another hallucination, his mind too fractured to discern the difference. He wanted to reach out, to beg for their help, but the restraints held him immobile.
Indigo placed a gentle hand on his cheek, her touch warm against his cold skin. She said nothing at first, but her eyes filled with sorrow. Then, almost inaudibly, she whispered, “I'm sorry, Yoki.” The words hung in the air, heavy with regret. Greenfield stood back, his smirk widening as he watched Yoki's torment.
Drip. A single droplet of water hit Yoki's face, pulling him back into the cycle of death and pain. He was crushed, suffocated, impaled—each death more gruesome than the last. The pain was unending, his mind a prisoner to the relentless torment.
The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him once more was Indigo’s sorrowful eyes and Greenfield’s triumphant smirk. The cycle continued, the water droplets falling, each one a harbinger of a new death, a new torment.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Each drop a reminder of his helplessness, each death a step further into madness. Yoki's mind shattered under the relentless assault, his sanity slipping away like a dream upon waking.
The final drop hit his face, and in that moment, Yoki awoke to the suffocating grip of silence. His soul shattered beyond repair, Indigo's eyes, once filled with hope, now mirrored the emptiness Yoki had become. There was no world outside anymore—only the void, as hollow as the man he'd become.