He awoke in a cramped, dank cellar. Shackles bound him to the wall, gripping his right arm in an unyielding embrace. His attire lay tattered, barely clinging to his frame. A throbbing pain hammered in his head, prompting him to ignite his core. A surge of sweet, invigorating power cascaded through him, banishing the headache in a burst of internal light. With a flash, he jumped out of the chains that held him captive. "That was easy," he murmured.

Above him loomed an iron gate, the only break in the otherwise unyielding stone walls. The cellar was not crafted from bricks; rather, it appeared cut out of the rock. He leapt, fingers grazing the cold metal of the gate, only to be repelled by a violent shock of something like electricity. The force sent waves of agony through his body, hurling him back to the ground with a resonant thud. As he lay there, dazed, his eyes caught sight of a young man peering in.

"Better not do that," the young man advised with a look of disgust, as if perpetually assaulted by the stench of shit. His short brown hair was unkempt, and he wore a blood-stained overall. "If you try to flash, I'm certain it'll be the end of you." With those words, he turned and left. Immanuel could hear a heavy door open and fall shut.

Settling onto the cold, damp stone, he closed his eyes and began to meditate, seeking solace in the rhythm of his breath.

Thinking about his recent defeat, he couldn't help but feel anger. He was plucked from the air and held to the ground like a child. With all his new power and training this fucking dog defeated him without much effort.

"Were these fucking blue dome idiots really defeated with such ease, or was it just our group?" He asked aloud uncertainty creeping into him. "Could it be that we were merely unlucky, finding ourselves pitted against a force far superior to our own?"

"I should have run when I had the chance." He sighed.

"Where could Elio be now?"

---

As time blurred into a disorienting haze in the cellar, he occasionally conjured some meat and nuts to eat. A tiny hole, inconspicuous in one corner of his cell, became his makeshift waste disposal, although he wasn't sure if that was its intended purpose.

During his meditations, he focused on understanding the nuances of his other form. He sensed that channeling energy into it allowed it to manifest more tangibly. Tentatively, he experimented, feeling the transformation begin to take hold before hastily retreating from the brink. He sensed a critical point, a threshold beyond which there would be no turning back. In that moment, as he sensed his own body being let go, a reflex surged,stopping the transformation in its tracks.

Driven by boredom and curiosity, he eventually yielded to the temptation to push further. Seated on the cold stone, he mustered his energy, flooding his skill with a concentrated force. His entire essence trembled under the strain of the reaction. Just as he neared the point of no return, he pulled back, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and exhilaration. "Damn it, this is fucking hard," he thought. There was a juncture where he had to trust in his skill, yet the sensation of his body beginning to morph was terrifying.

Taking a deep breath, he attempted the transformation again. And again, and again.

Finally, as his core energy dwindled to a mere whisper, he sat back, exhausted.

---

"If I ever get out of this, I need to establish some rules for life," he mused, "I can't just go around attacking people. In this world, anyone could carry the equivalent of an atomic bomb. Sure, there are tells - the quickness of their movements, a certain flash in their eyes, an intangible aura. But these are traits that can be easily concealed. So, rule one: no unprovoked attacks on others."

His thoughts wandered to future possibilities. "I need to gather a crew, acquire a ship, and just roam the planet. Discover new things, trade them in different markets. I don't have to kill stronger beasts to get the cores; I just need enough moneys to buy them. Rule two: become rich and buy cores instead of fighting stronger beasts. How many filthy rich fuckers just buy their power? Or is there some downside to it?

Lost in contemplation, he crafted a mental blueprint for his future, sifting through his past experiences for guidance.

---

His routine of push-ups was interrupted by a voice from above.

He looked up to see a girl peering down at him, her face as pale as porcelain, with nearly shaven blonde hair and big eyes that lent her an ethereal beauty. However, her emaciated appearance made her look sick. She, too, seemed to wrinkle her nose in disgust, as if the world itself offended her senses.

"You're still doing push-ups? Have the dogs been bringing you food, fattening you up for what comes next?" she asked, her tone dripping with a mix of boredom and indifference.

Immanuel jumped up at the sound of her voice, happy and relieved he was not forgotten. "No, I'm actually starving. Got anything to eat?" he said hastily. Dusting off his tattered fighting suit.

“I’m going to open the gate.” She started, “just so you know, the room above is sealed the same way as this one. If you help me, I’ll throw you a bone." A sigh followed her words, betraying her weariness.

"Can I get some real food, then?" he asked.

"Yeah, what did I say?" she responded, her tone distracted.

"You mentioned a bone." .

"Huh," she muttered.

He heard a lever and something started to rattle. The gate lifted. Immanuel waited a few more moments before flashing up.

As he materialized on the stone floor, the cool air of the room brushed against his skin. He surveyed his surroundings, his mind racing. 'First step to freedom,' he thought, feeling a wave of adrenaline surge through him, bolstering his determination.

But then, he hesitated, recalling his newly self-imposed rule: 'Don't attack unless it's necessary to defend your life. Damn, does this situation call for it?' With a swift, almost reflexive motion, he flashed behind the girl, securing her in a chokehold. Her response was not one of panic or struggle, but a deep, resigned sigh.

Her voice was calm, almost indifferent, as she spoke, "Look, I don't particularly care what happens, but if someone finds me dead, it's going to complicate things. Some of us here are quite skilled in torture." There was a certain authenticity in her demeanor that convinced him of her indifference.

She bore a striking resemblance to a brooding, edgy teenager enveloped in a cloud of melodramatic gloom. Yet, there was an undeniable authenticity to her, as if the gloom truly was part of her. She hadn't so much as flinched when he grabbed her neck. So, reluctantly, he released his grip.

She then moved towards a tray, picking up a scalpel and a container.

"I need a sample of your blood. We'll test it for any interesting reactions. If it's nothing special, you'll be handed over to the dogs," she explained matter-of-factly.

His stomach tightened at the thought. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

She corrected him, "No, you'll be used for other... forms of entertainment." Immanuel nodded his fists clenching.

As she sliced into his underarm, collecting the blood in the container, her expression twisted in disgust. Yet, intriguingly, she also inhaled deeply.

His wound began to heal almost immediately, closing up before her eyes. She let out a deep sigh. "Your regenerative abilities are even better than the dogs. Cursed Ghana," she muttered, cutting into his arm again. As she leaned in close, he caught the scent of her cropped hair, reminiscent of damp, musty earth. Then, unexpectedly, she licked the fresh wound. Immanuel stood frozen in shock, then she did it again.

Without warning, she bit deeply into his arm, drawing blood with a fervent suckle. He felt his blood draining rapidly, his head starting to spin from the sudden loss.

Reacting very late due to the unexpected twist, his core erupted with energy. He yanked his arm away and leapt back, putting distance between them. She remained motionless for a moment, then slowly stood straight, her face smeared with his blood, which dripped down her chin in a macabre display.

"What are you?" she whispered, her eyes wide.

"What?” He looked around the room for something to flash behind or to use as a weapon.

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“What are you?” She whispered again.

“Human?" Immanuel responded, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"No, you're something else." she insisted.

She suddenly pressed her hand to her mouth, inhaling deeply, her face contorted in the beginnings of a smile and then morphed into chock. She moved her head to the side, her movements becoming increasingly erratic, almost as if she was on the verge of a seizure. Her eyes then locked onto his again.

"No," she whispered, her voice barely audible. She moved closer, speaking rapidly, "You healed without using your core." Her proximity caused him to step back, an instinctive reaction to the intense shift in her presence. Her hand quivered as she touched her blood-stained lips, then she inhaled deeply again.

As tears broke free, tracing clean lines through the blood on her face, her expression was one of profound joy. It looked absolutely mesmerising. She looked like a dark angel, reminiscent of one fallen from grace, perhaps once a member of Satan's legions. There was a wild, unsettling beauty about her, even with blood splattered across her face.

Slowly, she approached again, her movements deliberate and cautious. Gently placing her hand on his cheek, she whispered again, her breath tinged with the metallic scent of blood. There was a profound vulnerability revealed as she was drawn out of her usual state of indifference, exposing a raw, unguarded side of herself.

“I will explain.” She came very close to Immanuel. “Let me explain.”

"When they create us, the process is flawed, constantly experimental and perpetually failing. It condemns us to a state of chronic illness, an endless nausea that ebbs and flows in intensity but never truly dissipates. That is, until now," she explained, her gaze flickering with a trace of madness, hinting at the depths of her suffering.

She suddenly turned around.

"Please, return to the pit. I'll come back for you, I promise." she asked with a sense of urgency. Immanuel, weakened by the loss of blood and shaken by the strange and intense encounter, silently nodded. He cautiously moved past her, their eyes locked, and then leaped back down into the pit. The cage sealed shut above him a moment later, the familiar hum of the protective barrier returned.

Alone again in his confined space, he summoned some meat and nuts, focusing on replenishing his strength. As he ate, his mind raced, trying to piece together what the fuck just happened.

---

As he attempted his transformation once more, the sound of the door creaking open interrupted him. The dark angel opened his gate, allowing him to flash out again. Her appearance was noticeably sickly.

"The effect isn’t permanent. Please, let me have some..." Her voice trembled with desperation, compelling him to nod in agreement. She approached him and gently sank her teeth into his arm, a sensation surprisingly more pleasant than before. She drank from him, but stopped much sooner this time.

She straightened up with a laugh tinged with blood, a sound both eerie and liberating. "I can't remember the last time I smiled since awakening," she said. "The nausea is unbearable, always teetering on the edge of ending it all. But you must do it the right way, or they'll just revive you. Oh, curse Ghana, this is blissful." Taking a deep breath, she added, "I brought food. The dogs eat only meat, so there's meat and water."

Immanuel moved towards a basket, discovering an assortment of meat and began to eat and drink.

She was standing there doing nothing with a sly smile, every now and then taking a deep breath.

"We need to get out of here," she stated suddenly. Approaching him closely, she whispered. "We must escape."

"You don't need to persuade me; I'm a prisoner. But how do we escape?" he asked.

She exhaled a frustrated sigh. "It's nearly impossible, curse Ghana."

"Can't you hide me in a box, walk out with me?" he suggested.

She looked at him with like he’d gone mad. After a moment Immanuel decided to chance topics, "So, drinking my blood temporarily heals you, makes you feel better.”

"Yes," she affirmed, glancing at his arm where the bite had already healed. "Normally, healing works through the core, not the blood, but with you, it's different."

“How did the attack go?” Immanuel asked.

"We were aware of the impending attack, having tracked your scouts for a while," she explained. "When it finally happened, it was less intense than we had expected."

“Are there other prisoners? Did some manage to run?”

"No one fled, as far as I'm aware. They all fight to the death. Also, they seem to hold a belief that surrendering is worse than death, which is true. We've taken a few prisoners," she explained.

"Someone with red hair and pale skin? He's a 'red'. His veins turn red under his skin when he uses his core. His name is Elio," he asked.

She looked at him with a sad smile. “I will check the other prisoners.”

.

"I hope this isn't some elaborate scheme, but I'm going to trust you. You're my only chance out of here," he said with a mix of wariness and resolve. "Our forces were divided. I'm pretty sure most of them went to attack the other families in the city. Now, if they've won that battle, there's a good chance the leader will come to attack this place with full force. Either he severely underestimated you or he needed to get rid of some people. I have no idea which,"

His watched her with a mix of suspicion and anticipation, as if expecting that at any moment, an insidious smile would creep across her lips, followed by a triumphant declaration of deception: "Got you."

She nodded, clasping both of her hands.. "I'll try to hold them off as long as I can."

"Who?" he inquired, a hint of concern in his voice.

"The cursed dogs! They're after your head for killing one of their own. Oh, how I wish you hadn't done that."

"Well, he—"

"She."

"She didn't leave me any choice," he said, his frown deepening.

"How long until they attack?" she queried, her voice laced with urgency.

"I have absolutely no clue," he admitted.

He then exhaled a sigh tinged with frustration. "It's completely impossible to know the strength of your enemy, isn't it? Leave them be for what, ten years, and you might find yourself up against a force entirely transformed, while you've been drunk on your own power."

Realization dawned on her face, and with a sudden urgency, she said, "Curse. Go back, take the food with you. I'll bring more later. I need to make preparations. When the moment comes, we either escape or die." She uttered these words with a smile, as if both outcomes held a peculiar appeal to her.

Immanuel picked up the basket and jumped down to his cell. She closed the lid but notably didn't reactivate the protective measures. After she left, he tentatively reached out to jump up and touch the gate. Feeling nothing, he flashed out, "Well, at least my damn cell is a bit more bearable now."

---

She returned the next day with more food. Hearing the door, Immanuel quickly flashed down, then reappeared as her face came into view. Without hesitation, she bit him, then sighed contentedly.

"So good," she murmured, closing her eyes in satisfaction, reminiscent of a contented, well-fed cat.

"Happy to help," he responded dryly.

"You're not what I expected," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Those arrogant, fight-to-the-death, 'I'll kill all you unnatural creatures' types – that's what everyone else from that cursed city seems like." She licked her lips and broke into a radiant smile. "Oooh, I even feel like eating again! I used to force food down, but now I'm actually hungry! I have to be careful not to show it, though."

"Let's talk about the plan," he urged, steering the conversation back to their escape.

"I have a few plans, but if the city sends a substantial force and fighting erupts, I'll hide, sneak to you, get you out, and into the tunnels," she explained.

"So we just take a tunnel and leave?" He tilted his head and squinted.

"Well, it's not that simple. You can't go too deep into woods; the deeper you go, the more dangerous the monsters. Plus, we're encircled by exceptionally skilled trackers. No, what we need is the Seasick Mermaid."

"The Seasick Mermaid? What the fuck is that?"

She was silent for a while before answering.

"It's the Veilborn Elder’s personal ship. He acquired it from a king who journeyed from beyond the Frostfang Peak, in exchange for eternal life," she revealed.

“Let’s steal it.” Immanuel said, a smile playing on his lips.

“Well, there's a problem. I don’t know, and it requires a lot of beast cores to power it up if we want to move quickly. Once we're out, we can rely on the sails,” she explained.

“I need to be completely honest with you,” Immanuel said, stepping closer to her. “Look.” He showed her his hand and deftly pulled out a core from his storage.

“You have a spatial treasure?" she inquired, her eyes widening in wonder. As her fingers brushed both the core and his hands, he felt a surprising warmth from her touch.

"Is it embedded in your skin?"

"Are you familiar with such artefacts?" He asked

"We have spatial treasures, often in the form of boxes or chests; they are bigger on the inside than on the outside."

He revealed to her his tattoo, a small, intricate triangle. "I don’t know how, but this is the spatial treasure."

"That tiny symbol?" she questioned.

"Yes." With a swift motion, he made the core vanish, then stepped back and summoned his ornate armor.

Curse Ghana!" she exclaimed, her hands exploring the armor's surface. "It's real," she murmured in awe, her eyes returning to him. "What are its limits in storage?"

"I can't say for certain, but I believe I have enough beast cores to power the ship." Immanuel said with a smile.

"So, I have three objectives: navigating the caves, mastering the Mermaid's controls, and ensuring the hounds don't kill you."

"I wish I could do more. I feel useless just waiting here." She leaned in, her whisper intimate. "No, you've done more than you realize.” Her cheek brushed against his, a fleeting, tender moment before she stepped back, a hint of shyness in her demeanor. "Can I have another drink before I go?"

"Of course. Take what you need. It's the least I can do." She drank deeply, as she did, he felt a drain on his own strength. When she was done he quickly stowed the armor away and leaped back in his small cell.