Drip. Drip.

500 feet underground the Esteemed Chapels, a young man with auburn hair and dark, striking eyes was held captive.

Breathing heavily, he muttered.

"You bitch."

The man he was talking to was his captor, one of the corrupt Royal Guards of the Rose Chapel.

The Royal Guard simply looked down on him, whip in hand, a sneer that would take forever to wipe off.

"For every single traitor that goes against the Queen, this is their punishment. Don't take this personally, I'm simply doing my job."

With an expression contrary to the words he had just spoken, the man's eyes lit up with joy as he took another step forward, raising his whip high above his head.

The man in chains simply closed his eyes, accepting his fate.

Bloodied up, all he could was simply brace himself for the beatings he would have to endure.

One strike. Two strikes. Three.

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For every strike the man received, he simply grimaced, not daring to show any ounce of pain to satisfy his captor even more.

And with every strike the captor threw, he became more desperate to see some sort of suffering on the man. He began to whip even harder, not caring for the blood splattering all over his clothes. He simply struck, carefree of the life that is in his hands, as if he had done this countless times.

"You know, if it makes you feel better, you've probably taken this the best out of everyone I've had." Laughing, he continued. "I mean, you should've seen the looks on some of their faces, pleading for the pain to stop."

With another laugh, came another strike. At this point, the young man slowly drifted away and stopped resisting altogether. "Aw come on, where's the fun in that? You gotta give me something, now come on!" After feeding the man a low-grade healing potion from his supply, he suddenly jolted awake, his mind a fervor.

Clenching his teeth, his gums itched with hatred.

He looked up at his captor, and spit directly into his face.

"Fuck you."

His captor, stunned, simply looked down on him, like a volcano seething and ready to erupt. The hand around his whip clenched, and he simply whispered, "You're dead."

Despite the lack of screams, no one else in a 500-foot radius was even able to hear the cracking of the whips every second.

In the cellar, the entrapped man's life spark slowly drifted away, and eventually, it disappeared.

His captor, looking at the dead body, spit at the man.

"Who's spitting now, bitch."

With a satisfied smile, he cleaned up the scene and activated the enchantment rune on his forearm, disappearing a few seconds later.

The cellar became quiet, void of the sounds of whipping a few minutes ago.

The only thing remaining was the dead body of Rowan Dolidze, and the pool of blood surrounding him.

Yet, suddenly, his finger twitched.