The creature's lifeless body lay crumpled at Rhys' feet, smoke still curling from the scorched ruin of its neck. The purple runes etched into the broken iron bar glowed faintly, flickering like dying embers.

Rhys' jaw was bleeding and throbbed from biting the chain, and his one remaining arm hung limply at his side. His ribs screamed with every shallow breath, and his shoulder — the one the monster had grazed — still bled freely. The stone floor beneath him was streaked with his blood, a grim mosaic of violence.

And yet, despite the pain…

He laughed.

A raw, almost maniacal laugh — the kind that came when the only other option was to cry.

"Nah, keep 'em coming," Rhys rasped, his voice hoarse. "I'm making it out of here alive… no matter what."

The words echoed through the chamber, swallowed by the stillness.

But then —

The Mark of the Damned began to flare again.

A sharp, sudden burn radiated from his neck — way hotter than before — a searing pulse of crimson and violet light.

"Gah—!" Rhys staggered, clutching at the Mark as if he could rip it from his skin.

The glow intensified, the Mark's lines twisting and spreading from his neck, down to his upper back and towards his phantom arm, like cracks in molten glass — burning through his skin and carving into his flesh.

He could feel it. The Mark was changing — no longer a simple brand, but morphing into something more complex.

The pain was unbearable, fire and ice slicing through his nerves, carving a new symbol into his neck and shoulder. It was like it wasn't just burning him — it was becoming a part of him.

And then the pain exploded down his left side.

Rhys fell to his knees, eyes wide as his phantom arm — the one the Reaper had torn from him days ago — began to take shape again.

Though the process was not instant or smooth. Not at all.

It started as a sickening writhing beneath the skin, muscle and sinew twisting into place — like something growing far too fast for nature to allow. Tendons slithered up from his shoulder, binding together, and bone cracked into existence — piece by jagged piece.

His fingers were the last to form — nails sprouting from raw flesh, curling and flexing as the arm finally completed itself.

Rhys gasped, his new left arm twitching involuntarily. It felt alien to his body— the skin a shade a bit lighter than the rest of his body which made it feel like it didn't quite belong to him.

And running from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers were the same crimson and violet marks — the Mark of the Damned now burned into his skin like a twisting tattoo.

"Wh-what the hell…" Rhys muttered, flexing his new fingers, the sensation a mix of pain and unfamiliar strength.

But there was no time to process it.

A clanking of metal boots echoed through the corridor beyond the chamber.

The guards.

"Hey! What the hell was that noise?"

"Did the creature kill him?"

"No… he's alive."

The voices grew louder.

Rhys forced himself to stand, the pain dulled by the lingering shock of what had just happened to his arm.

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The first guard appeared — clad in dented black armour, his face twisted into a sneer. Behind him, two more followed, eyes narrowing as they took in the scene.

Their gazes locked on Rhys' glowing Mark — still pulsing violently — and then on his new arm, still raw, still smoking.

"He's a… an Eshe user," one of them whispered, voice laced with fear.

The sneer on the lead guard's face twisted into something worse — a cruel smile.

"Looks like we've got a fighter," he said softly. "Guess we should give him some more friends to play with."

Hearing this, Rhys' heart dropped.

The lead guard slammed his fist into the wall, activating an insignia on the wall and a distant grinding of stone filled the air.

More magic? Rhys remarked internally.

Another gate was opening.

Rhys' blood ran cold as the sounds of snarling and clawed footsteps echoed down the corridor.

The guards weren't going to kill him themselves. They were going to watch him get torn apart.

The guard with the glowing insignia opened his mouth to command the creatures.

"Tear apart this filth, you beasts!"

Two new monsters emerged — both smaller than the last but just as twisted, their bodies a chaotic blend of muscle and bone, their mouths brimming with teeth. One crawled along the floor like a spider, while the other dragged itself forward on misshapen limbs, its jaw unhinged and dripping with a dark, tar-like substance.

After his previous battle, Rhys couldn't fight. He was exhausted. His new arm still felt wrong, and his Mark was burning through his veins like molten lead.

He wouldn't survive a second round.

But… he didn't have to win.

He just had to get out of there somehow.

His eyes darted around the chamber — the broken cage, the twisted bars, the creatures, the guards.

The monsters aren't even paying attention to the guards, probably because of the insignia. That's why they are so confident about being here.

A plan was formed.

The guards were watching for a fight, not an escape. Rhys moved fast.

He bolted toward the broken cage, grabbing the iron bar still faintly glowing with runes. His muscles screamed in protest, his newly formed arm twitching with unfamiliar strength, but he pushed the pain aside.

The monsters snapped their heads toward him, their twisted bodies tensing like coiled springs.

"Come on then!" Rhys roared, raising the bar high, its runes flickering in the dim light.

The creatures snarled — jaws unhinging as they prepared to lunge.

But Rhys wasn't aiming for them.

He spun, heart pounding and sprinted straight at the guards.

"What the…?!"

"He's coming at us!"

The lead guard took a step back, hand reaching for the sword at his hip — but it was too late.

With a guttural cry, Rhys hurled the iron bar — not at the guards — but at the insignia on the wall.

The glowing symbol — a jagged mark etched in silver and purple — flared as the bar struck it, runes clashing with runes.

The sound was like shattering glass mixed with a deep, resonant thrum.

For a split second, nothing happened.

Then the insignia fractured — a web of cracks spreading out from the point of impact — and the purple light flickered violently.

"No—!"

The insignia collapsed inward, the magic imploding in a burst of violet sparks.

And the moment it did—

The monsters froze.

Their eyes flickered — once, twice — before something shifted behind them. Their movements, once controlled and sharp, suddenly turned wild.

The monsters were now unrestrained.

One of the creatures, the spider-like one, let out a blood curdling shriek then whipped around and lunged at the nearest guard.

"Get them back under control!"

"They're not listening!"

The other monster — the one with the gnarled limbs — tore into a guard's leg, teeth sinking deep into his thigh. The man's scream echoed through the chamber as blood sprayed across the stone floor.

The lead guard, the one who had taunted Rhys moments ago, stumbled backward — his confidence shattered — as the monsters turned their full, feral attention on them.

"Fall back! FALL BA—"

He didn't finish.

The spider-like creature pounced — claws ripping across his chest, armour crumpling like tin.

It was chaos.

Just what Rhys needed.

While the guards fought to contain the monsters, Rhys slipped through the open gate, making sure to swipe the guard's keys — his body screaming with every step, but his mind racing ahead.

Keep moving.

He didn't look back.

The sound of the guards' dying screams echoed through the prison halls as Rhys vanished into the corridor beyond.

The sounds of battle faded as he moved further into the prison's winding halls. The stone was damp, the air thick with rot and rust. Every breath burned.

What he needed now was to find an escape route. But after that, then what? He was in an unfamiliar place and had no idea what the world of the trial ahead had waiting for him. But just then…he remembered.

Silas and Goro.

He didn't care about them — not really. But he needed help if he was going to survive this place. And they were the only ones he could use.

The next corridor opened into another holding area — the same cell where Silas and Goro had been.

Rhys appeared in front of the holding cell, breathless.

Silas' sharp eyes flicked to Rhys — noting the new arm, the Mark's fresh pattern, the blood on his clothes.

"Master Rhys, you must have reawakened your power!" Silas said excitedly. "I take it that is the source of the commotion?"

Rhys' chest heaved, every muscle screaming for rest.

"Yeah, sure man," Rhys said hurriedly. "We're getting out of here."

Silas arched his brow. "We?"

Goro rose silently from his cot, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the stone wall.

Rhys exhaled slowly, standing upright. "Silas Montclair. Goro. I beseech you to come serve and me."

Silas' eyes widened in shock.

"Until you draw your last breath."