“How long was I out anyway?” He asked, rubbing his own head, feeling as though he needed to knead out the fogginess.

Gaston looked up at the ceiling, “Well…I think they’ve been feeding me once a day, so probably a whole day. Speaking of which—you must be hungry! Well…I doubt you’ll have much of an appetite once you see what they’re feeding us.”

“A day? No…no need to eat their scraps. We’ll get a nice, warm meal soon enough. We’re getting out of here,” Bastian promised, squeezing his fists.

Gaston looked at his friend with his one eye that wasn’t swollen shut, giving a small thumbs-up, “I was hoping you’d say that when you woke up. Ready when you are, Bast.”

Though simply deciding they were going to escape wasn’t enough. They were in unknown territory, likely surrounded by a large number of mercenaries, all paid to make sure they didn't do anything stupid.

Bastian didn't waste any time getting to work on studying the layout of the dungeon for prisoners. Of course, he found that all of the possessions he had brought with him were taken away–gemstones, dagger, and the sack containing the crystal. Though by some stroke of luck, he found that his precious ring was still on his finger.

A sigh left his lips as he sat back down, not seeing any visible weaknesses with the prison he was in. Even worse, he found himself unable to channel his bound magic.

‘Was it that medicine that Gunter gave me? Frederick must’ve paid him off,’ he thought.

“I’ve always wanted to start a guild of my own, ya know?” Gaston admitted, ruffling his messy, red hair.

“Really? Never took you for the leader type,” Bastian said, tapping his knuckles against the walls, checking for any weak spots in the structure.

Gaston chuckled, “I know that. But, it’d be nice to have a place where outcasts like myself could be welcome. I’d invite others with Curses of their own—give them a place to call home.”

“You can save those big dreams of yours for when we escape, Gas,” Bastian told his friend, “It sounds nice, though.”

“You’re right,” Gaston held a smile.

Further inspection led to a discovery on the part of Bastian, noticing unique symbols inscribed on the walls around them. Circular hieroglyphs, which had lightning bolt-esque shapes between the lines—dormant spells.

‘Trap spells—I guess these are meant to be activated to restrain prisoners without needing to come near them. Can’t say I’m surprised. Frederick is cautious,’ he thought.

It didn’t appear that the prison had any exploitable weaknesses, at least not enough to make an irrational move quite yet.

“One thing is still bothering me…” Bastian said, sitting with his knees up.

“Yeah?” Gaston responded, following with a hoarse cough.

The hazel-haired young man looked towards the grimy ceiling, breathing out, “Frederick got what he wanted–the crystal. At least, that’s all I thought he wanted. So, why’re we still alive?”

“Yeah…That is odd, isn’t it…Kinda thought of that myself–at least, with you here now, thought they had no use for me,” Gaston chuckled, ruffling his own hair, “After all, I was just the bait for ya, yeah?”

“Don’t say that with a smile, please,” Bastian exhaled.

The thought lingered in his head. It simply didn’t add up why he was kept alive, especially now that the crystal was in the hands of the sleazy individual responsible for his chaotic week. There was no doubt in his mind that Frederick planned to simply spare them, whether out of goodness or his heart or fear or prosecution–that wasn’t it.

‘Just what else does he want?’ He thought.

Before he could find an answer, the sudden scraping of metal echoed through the dreary dungeon. Both of the men didn’t speak a word, only listening as heavy footsteps became louder, pacing down the stairwell.

Into the sparse light, a man with a scarred lip and shaggy, gray hair came into view, wearing a suit of golden armor that was devoid of any blemishes. Beside him were a pair of soldiers–the one on the left being a man, the right a woman, dressed in silver armor that was decorated with gilded roses.

“Good. You’re finally awake,” the silver-haired stranger spoke with a gruff, deep voice, staring directly at Bastian, “The Master will see you now.”

From behind the rusted bars of the cell, it wasn’t hard to see the unsettling nature of the stranger’s eyes; both of which were purely white without irises, as if sight was a foregone aspect of the man’s life.

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“What if I refuse?” Bastian asked, staring directly at the silver-haired man.

There was no reaction from the golden-armored figure as he responded, “You are not in any position to do so. Should you do anything “unwise”, we are permitted to kill your friend. Open the cell.”

Bastian wanted to respond, though he understood there was little to gain from trying to reason with the man. It was clear that he wasn’t just somebody paid by Frederick, but a more important underling.

The two prisoners watched as the steel-plated man besides the stranger approached the cell door, inserting a key into the lock.

Click.

In came the two soldiers of the estate, with each going to the prisoners. It wasn’t an advantageous position in the least for them; no weapons, magic being restricted, and the guards being fully equipped—an impossible situation to escape from.

“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you. I’m itching for an excuse to use my blade,” the man in steel armor warned as he removed the chain that bound the adventurer.

Bastian glared at the paid guard, “Yeah, yeah.”

As he was roughly grabbed by his forearm, he was hoisted up by the armored figure, hearing his friend across the room.

“Hey, hey, hey! Gentle!” Gaston winced out as he was brought to his feet by a tug of the guard responsible for him.

The unkind sentry held Gaston’s wrist, bending it back at an unnatural angle. An immediate gasp left the already battered man’s lips as he yelped, helpless to the guard’s grip.

“I’d suggest you keep your mouth closed,” the harsh, feminine voice behind the helmet spoke without any kindness.

“Hey! Stop that—!” Bastian yelled, stepping towards them in aid of his friend.

Though before he could even find his foot reaching the cold, stone floor in his first step, the breath was knocked from his lungs.

It was the uncaring fist of the soldier that had unshackled him, harshly forced against his stomach. Against his bruised, defenseless body, it felt like a hammer being driven into his guts, feeling as though his insides were burning.

“Eeugh…!” He spit out a mix of blood and saliva, almost keeling over before being grabbed by the guard beside him.

Gaston muttered through his own pain, “Bast…!”

It was the cruel reality of their powerlessness of the situation. Like two toddlers against adults, they had no means of resisting.

Experiencing firsthand the lack of humanity displayed by the cruel guard shed light to the young adventurer on what his friend had endured in his captivity. Only then did the bruises on his skin become clearer, their origins more defined; a regretful thought.

‘Gaston…You’ve been enduring this the whole time?’ He realized.

Standing there with his same unmoving expression, the silver-haired man spoke up as the prisoners quieted down, “Good. It seems you’re quick learners. My associates here are advocates of violence, so I would not tempt them further, unless you have a glutton for punishment, that is. Now, come along.”

There wasn’t much choice in the matter as Bastian found himself being tugged forward by the guard, who had a rough grip on his bound wrists.

“Walk,” the order came from behind the paid soldier’s steel helm.

Though there were things he wanted to say, and especially do, such as elbowing the rough guard in the head, he knew it was best to restrain himself. It was obvious that any actions he took wouldn’t affect just himself, so he kept quiet and walked.

Moving through the dimly-lit dungeon only made it clearer to him what sort of people he was dealing with, seeing as the contraptions of torment were stained with dry blood; they weren’t without use.

Looking to his left, he watched as his close friend was practically being dragged by the silver-plated guard. Gaston’s legs more so stumbled than walked, like a newborn calf, though it wasn’t surprising considering the bruises on his legs.

‘...I can’t do anything yet. Sorry, Gaston–just hold on a bit longer. I have to choose the right moment,’ he planned.

Traversing the steps through a narrow passage, he watched the back of the man shelled in gold, having to squint as brightness awaited the top of the stairwell. The foul prison led out into the corridor of an interior that could only be described as “unfathomably wealthy.”

The perfectly-furnished walls of oak were decorated with scenic paintings, held in gilded casings. Tables displayed antiques, jewels, and relics, secured in glass cases; pots inscribed with symbols of forgotten kingdoms, necklaces that housed diamonds more pure than a mountain spring, and curios that the young adventurer recognized.

From enchanted swords inscribed with blazing power, to chainmail armor made of a leviathan’s scales–it seemed ridiculous to him that such things were kept merely as pretty possessions.

‘This is all Frederick’s collection? I knew he was rich, but…this is a different level entirely–who needs this much? And yet, he was still willing to ruin lives over a single crystal,’ He questioned.

“Keep moving,” the guard behind him said.

A shove came to his back, forcing him to walk quicker without ogling the countless treasures on display. Out of the corridor, he found himself entering the main hall of the exuberant mansion, completely blinded by its radiance.

It was as if he stepped into a world of gold, looking upon a chandelier of gilded glass, shining with orange runes. A grand stairwell to a higher floor was decorated with golden rails, and a silken carpet to match.

“…You’re kidding me…” Bastian mumbled.

Beside him, Gaston was just as awestruck, despite the dreadful circumstances, “It’s the stuff made outta dreams.”

Colossal statues forged of pure gold stood tall; a sword-wielding knight, holding his blade to the sky; a champion of combat, mighty and blessed; a row of what looked to be the former heads of the Ul Samson family, sculpted with utmost perfection. Keeping the statues spotless were over a dozen maids and butlers, seeming to work tirelessly on wiping down the many treasures of the nobleman, as the sculptured sparkles like gems beneath the glow of the chandelier.

There was something peculiar about the servants of the Ul Samson mansion; the complexion of their skin was like that of the statues–golden and gleaming. It wasn’t natural, that much was clear by a single look, as the expressions of the tireless workers seemed dreary.

‘I’m starting to understand now. This sickening obsession Frederick has–he’s insane,’ Bastian thought.