"Why is he speaking like that?" one of the boys whispered to his friend, casting a wary glance at Aziz. All five of them seemed to be around his age. Wait, how old am I? Aziz wondered suddenly, a small jolt of confusion hitting him. How could he have forgotten something so fundamental? He shook his head, trying to clear the fog from his mind, and in doing so, accidentally revealed the purple eyes of Mal, hidden within the tangled mass of his hair. It was only for a split second, but one of the boys caught sight of it. Fear radiated off him in waves.

"A demon!" the boy with dark hair and a silvery undertone screamed, charging at Aziz with his torch raised high, his voice trembling as much as his hands. Instinctively, Aziz shifted into a stance, his mind already assessing the threat. His master’s words rang clear in his memory:

“The idea of self-defence is the idea of the human. The snake strikes if the threat is even close, no matter the level of danger. Remember, little snake, those who threaten you, threaten me. They threaten the Bloodcoil Sect. Always strike first.”

Master Zhang had taught him only three techniques, something that had initially surprised Aziz. He had expected more—weren’t all sects supposed to have countless forms and arts? But Master Zhang had explained that the three masters of the Bloodcoil Sect needed only three techniques each because that was all they required. Their techniques were unmatched in lethality, a bold claim, but true. The Bloodcoil Sect had once dominated much of the Kingdom. It was surprising how much a martial manual seemed to contain knowledge about the history mixed in with their techniques and teachings. The more Aziz had been reading the manual the more he felt like it was more of a memoir. A diary of the three Grandmasters.

The temptation to test his skills on this boy was strong, an almost irresistible itch, but Aziz held back. He still didn’t fully understand the situation, and acting rashly would be foolish. Instead, he simply raised a hand, channelling his dark energy into an unseen tendril. With a subtle motion, he wrapped the tendril around the charging boy’s ankle and pulled gently. The boy tripped, falling flat on his face with a loud thud. The room went silent, and a few of the others turned away, embarrassed for their fallen companion. They hadn’t seen what Aziz had done—they couldn’t have. His Shadow Grasp, the final technique of Master Zhang, was undetectable to anyone but a highly skilled martial artist. And these children were not martial artists. They were not a threat.

“Ha! Marcus, you idiot!” shouted the tallest boy, stepping forward with a wolfish grin. “Look at that! The fool tried to be a hero, trying to impress the girl.”

The tall boy turned to the green-eyed girl and flashed a smirk. “See, Nessa? You can’t rely on whelps like that. Stay close to me, and you’ll be fine.”

Nessa didn’t seem impressed by his bravado, nor amused by Marcus’s tumble. Instead, she kept her focus on Aziz, her eyes sharp and discerning.

She’s smart, Aziz noted. There was a depth in her gaze, something beyond her years.

“You were kidnapped too,” she stated, her tone more certain than questioning.

“Yes,” Aziz replied, scanning the group more closely.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Their clothes were worn and torn like his, their hair unkempt. But they were different from him. They didn’t look starved, and their clothes, though damaged, seemed almost new—as if they had just been taken. The realization hit him hard. Had these children only just been kidnapped? Now that he looked around, there didn’t seem to be any other pits leading down to the tunnels.

“We didn’t even know there was another level until that wall opened up,” she murmured, stepping closer to him.

She’s not a threat, Aziz confirmed, watching her movements carefully. There was no aggression in her approach, no ill intent. He didn’t need to kill her.

“The third level?” Aziz asked, his voice rough from disuse. It felt strange to talk this much.

Her expression softened as she gazed into his dull purple eyes, the true colour barely visible when Aziz wasn’t actively drawing on his internal energy. “Yes. You’re the first one we’ve seen. Deca and Nona said nothing about another level.”

Deca. The name rang a bell. He was one of the mercenaries, someone under the Order. Nona must be another of their ranks. These children must be from the upper levels, unaware of the horrors that lay below.

“Why were you brought here?” Aziz asked, piecing together the situation. The children were placed on different levels, each for a reason—a reason that didn’t apply to him when he was first taken.

“We were all taken yesterday,” Nessa explained, her voice tinged with sadness. “They told us to wait until the doors opened. They took us from our homes.”

A heavy silence fell over the group, even the tall boy losing his cocky demeanour as the gravity of their situation sank in. We’re all in the same boat, thought Aziz.

“I’m Nessa Von Sherman,” the girl said, offering a small bow, her manners intact even in this nightmare. The other boys seemed enamoured by her, while the tall one bristled slightly, annoyed that Aziz didn’t bow in return.

“Oi. You freak, Nessa is greeting you. Show some respect,” the tall boy said, puffing out his chest as he stepped toward Aziz.

A small threat. Aziz was about to assume a defensive stance when Nessa intervened, swivelling on her heel to face the boy. “Enough, Roof. The boy has clearly been through a lot.”

Roof didn’t back down immediately, sneering at Aziz. “I can see that. The freak looks half-dead, like a ghost. Did they pull you out of some slum?”

“We’re all in this together now. This isn’t the time for fighting,” Nessa said firmly, positioning herself between Roof and Aziz, her hands on her hips.

Aziz raised an eyebrow, watching as Roof finally backed off with a huff, re-joining his two lackeys. The trio quickly shifted their attention to Marcus, who was just getting back to his feet, his head still spinning from the fall. The torch he had been holding lay sputtering on the ground, its embers barely clinging to life. Nessa picked it up and blew on it gently, reviving the flame before helping Marcus to his feet. She turned back to Aziz, a small, understanding smile on her face.

She’s kind, Aziz thought. Kindness has no place in this world.

“Would you like to come with us? We’re moving up to the next level to check for other survivors. Unless… there are more coming?” she asked, her voice hopeful, though the light in her eyes dimmed as Aziz shook his head.

No one else. Just him.

“I see,” she said softly, her gaze dropping for a moment before she turned, holding the torch out in front of her. “Come on, everyone. It’s time to move.”

The others fell in line, following her lead, while Aziz trailed behind, deep in thought. It was best to survey the situation for now, staying out of the torchlight and moving with the shadows that trailed behind the group. The purple hue in his eyes was likely faint enough to go unnoticed, but it was still safer to keep his distance. Purple eyes would raise too many questions.

Every now and then, Nessa glanced back, checking to make sure he was still following. She didn’t push him to come closer, seemingly understanding his need to remain in the dark—where he felt most at ease. The smallest of the group, Marcus, shot him frequent looks of distrust, while Roof continued to harass him until Nessa put a stop to it. They’re children, Aziz thought. But why do I feel so different? Deep down, he felt a great sadness, as if he had lost something precious far too soon.