Blood dripped steadily from the man’s body, each drop falling into a small pool of crimson that echoed through the dungeon like a cruel reminder of his suffering. The rhythmic drip, drip, drip of his blood, as it splattered against the cold stone floor, was the only sound that broke the oppressive silence of the chamber.
Drip…
Drip…
Drip…
The man’s form, bound by heavy chains to the stone wall, seemed barely human anymore. His body was caked in a mixture of blood, dirt, and filth, his once-pristine skin now a canvas of open, festering wounds. Each wound was poorly bandaged, and the infection that had set in was evident—pus oozed from the sores, leaving streaks of grime and decay trailing down his battered body. Yet, amid the horror of it all, the man’s flesh was not consumed by the maggots wriggling in his wounds. No. In some twisted irony, they were keeping the man alive by devouring the infection, prolonging his suffering.
His legs, long weakened from being unable to bear his weight, hung limply beneath him, while his arms, stretched painfully upward, were bound by chains that cut into his raw, bloodied wrists. His once-powerful frame now sagged, helpless, his strength drained after months—perhaps years—of unspeakable torture. The unkempt, matted hair that fell in tangled knots around his face was a testament to the agony he had endured, each strand representing a moment lost in this hellish prison.
In the dim light cast by a few torches in the far corners, his tormentor stood, masked and unmoving, her eyes fixed upon the dying man. Her silhouette was haunting, the flickering torchlight casting long, exaggerated shadows, making her seem more like a specter than a living, breathing being. Beneath the mask, the gleam in her eyes betrayed a sickening amusement. It was not just cruelty that sparked her gaze, but something darker, something far more malevolent. A twisted lust, not for flesh, but for pain and suffering—an intoxicating desire to see him fall lower still, to crush the last shred of his defiance.
The man, his breath shallow and ragged, finally lifted his swollen eyes toward her. Though his tears had long dried, the terror in his gaze was unmistakable—a final, desperate plea for mercy that would never come. His lips trembled as he struggled to speak, his voice barely a rasp.
“The gods will punish you... Someday, you will... you will hang from the Phoenix Gates of Ei'en," he managed to croak, his mouth bleeding with every strained word. His swollen eyes flickered, and a thin trickle of blood dripped down from the corner of his lips as he fought to maintain his last vestiges of defiance.
The woman’s laugh broke the tension, sweet and seductive, though it was laced with dark amusement. “Really?” she said, her voice lilting with mockery, as she stepped closer to the dying man. “You think the gods will come for me? When have they ever cared about the likes of us? No, no, dear fool,” she added, her foot pressing against his broken neck, forcing his head back against the cold stone. “If your precious deity truly cared, it would have come to stop this long ago. Or perhaps you haven’t realized—gods like yours are just as powerless as the rest of us.”
The man, fighting against the overwhelming wave of weakness threatening to drown him, managed another weak cough, spewing a mixture of blood and bile that landed at his feet with a sickening splatter. He tried to speak, but his strength had failed him. His words came in broken gasps. “You... You are the devil,” he muttered, his vision blurring as his life bled out.
The woman tilted her head slightly, as though pondering his words, her lips curling into an expression of mock sweetness. “Don’t you think?” she murmured, crouching down beside him, her gloved fingers brushing against the cold skin of his temple. “If the gods truly cared, they would be here. But you and I both know, there’s nothing to save you. Nothing to save any of us.” Her voice dropped into a whisper, as she leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. “How will I be hanging from the Phoenix gate when it is us ruling this realm, not them.”
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Her footsteps, light and ghostly, echoed through the dungeon as she stood and slowly moved toward the door, her figure gliding as if she were a specter, leaving behind a trail of bloodied footprints that vanished into the shadows. Just before she exited, she paused, looking over her shoulder at the man’s nearly lifeless form.
“Oh, and one last thing,” she said, her tone playful, almost casual. “Tell your precious deity… tell it I begged for mercy. It won’t matter,” she added, her lips curling into a smile. “No god will ever do to me what they have already tried. Goodnight, dear soldier.” With a flick of her wrist, she sent him a final, mocking kiss before stepping out of the chamber.
As her footsteps faded, the man’s vision began to wane, his consciousness slipping like sand through his fingers. He could feel his soul slowly being tugged from his battered body, the agony of his dying body fading into a strange, numb emptiness. The last of his energy was spent in one final, futile attempt to hold on to life, but his body gave way. His shoulders, stretched too long under the weight of his shackles, gave a sickening pop as his joints dislocated, yet there was no scream of pain. He had endured too much, and now there was nothing left to feel.
His death came quietly, like the snuffing of a candle in a darkened room. He was no longer a man, but a husk, his spirit released into the void, leaving behind only a broken, bloodied body that barely resembled the man who had once lived.
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64 Years Earlier, Ei'en central market
Ryohei walked with pride as the crowds of people whispered to themselves an air of excitement to all those who saw him. He made showing himself to the public regularly made royalty seem less detached from the people. Of course Ryohei also liked to fancy himself an arbiter of justice; he was strict and uncompromising no matter who it was that broke his father's laws.
If he had one criticism of his father who had little to criticize it was that he wasn't connected enough to his own people. Ryohei was determined to gain the respect and support of the people, something his father had, but lacked their adoration as well. His father was simply too disconnected from the day to day lives of the people he ruled over.
That is why when he demanded that little pickpocket to hang it wasn't out of spite. It was to give an example to all other pickpockets that age was not a factor in punishment granted the girl had tried the pickpocket the wrong person this day, had it been anyone else she may have simply got a severe lashing, but with that life came risk, you don't execute someone if they pickpocket a commoner, but nobility changed that. If he didn't show the people that they were indeed different they would get grandiose ideas of equality which just did not exist in this violent world. Those sorts of ideas led to rebellion and ultimately death for the common folks.
“My Lord? Is it necessary to hang the child?” his young attendant asked.
“Law is clear on this. Quite clear. If I allow this child to get away with it others will think they can defy the royal family.” feeling his stomach turn slightly Ryohei was only twenties this year and the young girl couldn’t be much younger than him. Ryohei bit his lip as he watched onwards the haunting eyes staring out into the crowd nearly emotionless…those cursed eyes were penetrating into his mind.
The sound of the rope going taunt followed by the snap of the young girl's neck caused Ryohei to flinch and tense up his body even as he kept his calm exterior he took no joy in what just happened.
"What a sad day, this should not be celebrated" he whispered to himself.
Motioning for his small group of attendants to make their way back to the palace Ryohei had much to dwell on. Maybe he could ask Saisei? He thought as the crowd gave his small caravan a wide berth.