A vast field stretched out before him, an ocean of tall, crimson grass blades swaying under the cold light of a full moon. The night felt heavy, shrouded in a thick, unnatural silence broken only by the soft, sinister rustling of that red grass—each blade looking sharp enough to cut anything it touched. The air was thick with dread, as if the land itself was holding its breath, waiting for someone brave or foolish enough to set foot in it.
But the small teenage boy clutching a young girl in his arms was neither brave nor a fool; he was desperate. He had to cross this dreadful, frightful field to save himself and his sister. He had been running for so long he'd lost all sense of time or direction. How he had arrived in this cursed place no longer mattered. The only thing that mattered was the girl in his arms. She was light, too light, her body limp and pale—a fragile weight he dared not drop. Her clothes were mere tattered remnants, and her face, though ghostly, was the one anchor tethering him to reality in this nightmare. He couldn't let her die here. He couldn't let them both die here.
His body was battered, and exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. His muscles screamed with every step, but there was no time for weakness. The soldiers were closing in. Their footsteps grew louder, their voices rising above the whispering wind.
There were sixteen of them, a mix of men and women armed with an array of weapons, chasing a boy they did not understand. They crested the ridge behind him, entering a place just as strange and unknown to them.
As they reached the top, they all froze at the sight before them—a scene both dreadfully beautiful and beautifully dreadful. An immense field of tall, blood-red grass swayed in the winds. And there was the boy, already within the field, desperately trying to cross it with the small girl secured on his back.
"There he is!" one soldier yelled. "We need to get him before he disappears!" The group surged forward, jumping down from the ridge to stand at the field's edge, ready to enter.
One man, his voice sharp with urgency, called out, "Stop right there! You don't know what you're walking into!"
But the boy couldn't stop. He was already too far gone. The ground behind him seemed to shift, the crimson grass twisting into writhing, bloodthirsty tendrils that reached for him with raw hunger. He couldn't afford to hesitate.
The soldiers were also fatigued and tired, wanting nothing more than to end this long chase and return to the city. A woman soldier grabbed the arm of the man beside her, her voice trembling. "We need to stop here."
The man looked at her, shocked. "Stop? After everything this brat has put us through? After all we've done to catch this rat? We're not stopping until we drag him back to the council!"
She gripped him more fiercely. "You don't understand. This place... It's the Grave of Roses. We can't just walk into it. The grass here... it's alive. It thirsts for blood. No one survives it."
Before she could finish, two soldiers, driven by desperation or arrogance, leaped into the field. The moment their feet touched the crimson blades, the ground erupted. The grass coiled around their ankles, sharp and swift, yanking them down. Their screams were severed as the tendrils wrapped around their bodies, draining them of every drop of blood and life until their forms crumpled, discarded as if they had never existed.
The defiant man stared, the reality of the woman's words crashing down on him. Her eyes wide with horror, she said, "We need to get the captain. This is beyond us." She fumbled for her communicator, calling for help.
Meanwhile, the boy kept moving, his breath ragged, his energy nearly spent. Every step was a battle against the living field; the blood-red grass curled around his legs like venomous snakes. He felt its sharp sting against his skin, but he would not stop until he was free of the soldiers.
Strangely, though the grass attacked, its strikes seemed less fierce against him than they had been against the soldiers. His hands tightened around the girl, pressing her closer as if his mere will could shield her. The world blurred into a haze of crimson as he fought against the encroaching tendrils. Every few moments, a surge of strength flared within him, enough to push the grass back for a precious second. But it was never enough. The field kept coming, always searching for blood.
The boy knew he couldn't last much longer. He was losing his sense of direction, surrounded by an endless sea of red. Perhaps he possessed one last trick to escape this field.
Every second stretched into an eternity. Each pulse of energy was fleeting. His body grew weaker, but he forced himself onward. The only thing that mattered was the girl on his back.
His muscles trembled, sweat stung his eyes, but he did not stop. He had to protect her. A promise was the only thing keeping him going—the promise to get her out of this hell.
Then, without warning, it happened. A dark blue, mist-like substance enveloped his body. A brilliant flash of light erupted where he had stood just a second before, and he was gone.
The world shifted in a dizzying rush. The sound of the grasping grass and the soldiers' shouts faded instantly. He stumbled, and the field was gone.
A wave of relief washed over him—his unusual teleportation had saved him again. But his respite was short-lived. He now stood in a vast, ancient forest. The air was thick and damp, heavy with a sinister feeling of dread and imminent danger. Towering trees loomed like ancient sentinels, their gnarled limbs twisting in unnatural ways. The damp soil sank beneath his feet. This was a Forbidden Forest, a place no one dared to enter. The boy had no idea where he was.
This forest wasn't just dangerous; it was deadly. Even the bravest soldiers knew that. The creatures that lived here were the stuff of nightmares. Only the most experienced and powerful fighters from the outside world ever ventured in, and even they did not stay long.
But the boy had no choice. He had made it this far, and he wouldn't stop now.
He staggered against the rough trunk of a tree, gasping for air, his legs threatening to collapse. The girl in his arms was still unconscious, a heavy, precious burden. Her breathing was shallow and weak. Why was an entire army chasing a boy and a little girl? What could this fragile child have possibly done? No one knew. But the boy was the only wall standing between her and a world that wanted to destroy her.
She was malnourished, her body frail and weak, as if she had been deprived of food and water for a long time. The boy sank to the ground beneath the tree, desperate for a moment of rest.
Suddenly, he reached his hand into the empty air in front of him and pulled out a bottle of water from nothingness. Gently, he brought the bottle to the girl's parched lips, trying to soothe her dehydration. Cradling her with one arm, he managed to trickle a few drops of water into her mouth.
Her body reacted with a bitter, weak cough; she was too frail to accept even this small mercy. His heart ached, but he stopped, knowing she couldn't handle more. They were both in a terrible state.
After a moment, the water seemed to help. Her breathing became slightly less ragged, though she remained unconscious. He knew she couldn't hear him, but he needed to say the words, to make the promise aloud.
"We're safe for now," he murmured softly, trying to reassure himself as much as her. "Just a little longer, and we'll be far away from here. I promise you."
His heart pounded as the shadows of the forest pressed in. The darkness was oppressive, thick, and suffocating. But he refused to give up. Not now. Not when they had come this far.
"I'll get you out of here," he whispered, his voice barely a breath. "I'll find a way. Just hold on."
The forest loomed, its silent threat surrounding them, but he had made a vow. He would keep it, no matter what the forest had in store.
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After a long and feverish stupor, consciousness returned to him like a punishment. A deep, penetrating cold was the first sensation to pierce the veil of unconsciousness—a living, breathing entity that gnawed at his skin and burrowed deep into his marrow, settling into his bones as if it owned them.
Then came the smell—a thick, suffocating cocktail of wet rust, creeping black mold, and the unmistakable coppery tang of old blood. This was not the eerie, organic danger of the Grave of Roses or the ancient dread of the Dark Forest. This was something man-made. Something infinitely more cruel.
The boy hung slumped in a metal chair, a pathetic figure swallowed by the grim concrete vastness of the underground bunker. Heavy iron manacles bit into his wrists, their cold so profound it had long since merged with the deep, throbbing ache in his joints. The tattered remains of his school uniform clung to him like a second skin of shame—a grim ledger of his suffering, stained dark with sweat, dirt, and dried blood.
His eyelids, heavy as stone, fluttered open. A single, flickering bulb swung gently from a wire overhead, casting frantic, dancing shadows on the walls. In that half-conscious haze between agony and oblivion, a memory surfaced—not of this place, but of before. A face. A promise. A whisper of warmth in the endless cold.
Outside the chamber, two guards stood watch. One noticed the faint flicker of life in the boy's eyes and quickly disappeared down a dimly lit back alley. Minutes later, the heavy door creaked open.
The man who entered was clad in immaculate black and silver armor, a cape flowing from his shoulders like liquid darkness. He moved with the confidence of someone in his prime, his face a mask of smug, imperious pride. Two stars glinted on his shoulders. A name was etched on a polished steel plate over his heart: Serik.
His eyes, cold and sharp as flint, scanned the room before landing on the boy. A slow, twisted grin spread across his face, the expression of a hunter who had finally run his prized quarry to ground.
"So, the little ghost finally returns to the land of the living," Serik's voice was a silken drawl, laced with disdain. "You led us on a magnificent chase, brat. Through hellscapes and forbidden territories." He leaned in slightly, his tone dropping. "I always knew you were no ordinary street rat, being the brother of that bitch."
He began to circle the chair, his boots echoing on the concrete with a rhythmic, terrifying finality.
"You belong to a cursed bloodline, don't you? The same family that somehow managed to tear a hole right through Draycrest's defenses. The ones who let the darkness pour in and devour thousands of our citizens." He stopped directly in front of the boy, leaning down until his face was inches away. "And to think, after a full year of hunting... I finally have you." He chuckled darkly, a sound without warmth. "After all this time in exile, my promotion is finally assured."
The boy's lips were cracked and swollen. A crust of blood sealed one corner of his mouth. He said nothing. He had no words left for this man.
Serik's affable mask vanished, replaced by naked malice. "Where is your sister?"
The words struck the boy like a physical blow, sending a lightning-flash of memory through him, a bolt of energy striking his sister in the back as they fled, the blur of soldiers, the collapse into darkness. He didn't know what happened after, but deep down, he knew. His sister was gone.
Before he could even try to speak, a fist armored in black steel hammered into his face. His head snapped back. Bright, hot blood erupted from his nose and lip, spattering the floor in a constellation of crimson. The boy gasped, a wet, ragged sound, but he did not cry out. The sound was trapped in his chest, choked by the shackles and sheer, overwhelming pain.
Yet the question, the sheer audacious cruelty of it, ignited a feeble spark of rage in the ashes of his spirit.
"You killed her," the boy croaked, the words scraping his raw throat. "Why... why do you even ask?"
He knew they had. Serik knew he knew. This was never about information. It was about the sport of inflicting pain.
Captain Serik snarled, leaning in so close the boy could smell the expensive soap on his skin. "Your kind doesn't deserve to live. Do you have any idea what I had to endure because of your damned sister?" His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "But you should know, we kept her in a cage at the central block. I wasn't in favor of it, but what could I do? The officials wanted a lesson for the whole city. She was guarded day and night by four of our best." His voice took on a cruel, mocking tone. "They fed her just enough to keep her alive one more day, nothing more. And if by some miracle she was still breathing when you staged your little rescue..." he sneered, "...she would've been begging for death. You didn't save her, you fool. You only hurried her along."
He straightened up, his smirk returning. "What did you gain in the end?"
The words were a poison dagger, twisting deep in the boy's soul, more painful than any physical wound.
"You killed her," Serik repeated, each word a hammer blow. "What were you thinking? The whole city wants your blood. Did you truly believe you could win?"
A raw, animalistic sound tore from the boy's throat. He lunged forward against his restraints, teeth bared, a mad dog straining to sink them into his tormentor's flesh. The metal chair screeched against the floor but held fast.
Serik's smile widened, a horrifying sight of pure delight. "I know she's dead. But you..." His voice took on a theatrical quality, laced with malicious amusement. "You, on the other hand, are still alive, and the government wants nothing more than to dispose of you. But I have one good news and one bad news for you."
He leaned back against the chamber wall, enjoying his cruel game. "You're wondering what they are? You see, despite government orders to eliminate you quickly, I can do whatever I want with you. I'm different." He paused, letting a false hope kindle in the boy's broken heart. "I will not kill you, but only on one condition." He pushed off the wall and approached the boy again, his mouth so close to the boy's ear that his breath felt like a serpent's kiss. "If you manage to survive my... treatment... for the time I'm stationed here, you'll have earned your freedom. Consider this your first payment toward that price."
He raised his hand. The air itself crackled and hissed, coalescing into a shimmering blade of pure, blue lightning. It hummed with malevolent energy, casting an electric blue glow on Serik's triumphant face.
He brought the sizzling tip close to the boy's cheek. Tiny, agonizing arcs of electricity jumped from the blade to his skin, stinging like a hundred wasps. The boy's breath hitched, his body trembling involuntarily.
"Let's start with something small."
The blade moved in a blur of searing light and a sound like tearing meat.
A scream, raw and utterly terrified, ripped through the bunker, echoing off the walls. It was a sound he didn't even recognize as his own.
His right pinky finger lay on the concrete floor, twitching, the end blackened and sizzling. Serik watched it with twisted fascination, his grin manic.
For the boy, the world dissolved into white-hot, all-consuming agony. It wasn't just the pain of the loss; it was the lightning. The energy surged up his arm, setting every nerve ending on fire, frying his senses from within. His vision swam, tunneling into blackness. He begged for unconsciousness to take him.
It did not. Mercy was a currency not spent here.
Serik watched his convulsions for a moment longer, then dissipated the blade with a wave of his hand. "I think that's enough for today. I'm satisfied."
And then he was gone, leaving the boy to his gruesome suffering and unimaginable pain.
For three days, nothing happened, but that didn't mean his torment had ended. No food or water came. Only the oppressive darkness, the gnawing cold, and the metallic taste of his own blood on his lips remained.
The first two days, the phantom pain in his missing finger created a universe of suffering that eclipsed all else. But by the third day, a new agony emerged, thirst. A desperate, scraping burn in his throat that made his cracked lips feel like desert sand. His body, already broken, began to scream for sustenance.
On the fourth day, a guard tossed a single, stale crust of bread and a half-cup of murky water onto the floor just beyond his reach.
Seeing the sustenance after so long, the boy moved. It wasn't a conscious thought; it was a primal instinct. He threw his weight forward, toppling the heavy chair with a crash that sent fresh jolts of pain through his body. Ignoring the shriek from his mutilated hand, he used his teeth. He lapped at the spilled water like a beast, not caring about the grit and filth on the floor. The relief was so profound it was almost a new kind of pain. Then he devoured the bread, grinding the hard crust with his teeth, swallowing without chewing.
It was not sustenance. It was a fleeting postponement of death.
And it was only the beginning.
Every week, the same process repeated itself with Serik returning, not for interrogation, but for sport.
He beat him with his fists. He mocked him. And then, with that crackling blue blade, he took another finger. One per week. The process was always the same: the searing, unimaginable pain, the instantaneous cauterization that left a blackened, horrific stump, followed by three days of starvation.
The boy began to count the weeks in missing pieces of himself. His mind, once sharp and resilient, began to fray at the edges, unraveling into a fog of pain and hunger.
On the fifth week, when four of his five fingers were already gone, the boy had somehow learned to bear the pain of losing them one at a time. Serik, displeased with this development, decided that instead of taking just one finger, he would take the entire hand. The lightning blade sliced through flesh and bone, leaving behind a smoldering stump and Serik's sadistic smile.
This time, the boy didn't scream. As the blade sheared through him, his world simply short-circuited. He plunged into a blessed, silent blackness.
When he awoke, he was a little less whole. His body was a wasted map of suffering, his ribs pressing sharply against his skin, the chair now holding a skeleton draped in parchment. The stump of his wrist stood as a grotesque, blackened monument to Serik's cruelty.
Then suddenly, Serik vanished without a trace. Perhaps he had gotten his promotion. For the boy, this might have meant freedom; he had withstood all the suffering and torture. He had earned his release. But he couldn't have been more wrong.
For the next five months, Serik didn't visit, so the boy lost no body parts. Instead, he became a plaything for the soldiers, who kept him starved and played cruel games with bread and water in front of him. When they deigned to feed him, they left only the last crumbs and a small sip of water. Most days, they beat him for no reason other than to vent their frustrations. Yet the boy endured, clinging to the belief that one day he would be freed from this place.
All his hopes were crushed when a familiar face finally returned. Serik was back, but this time with even more anger burning in his eyes. Perhaps he had been demoted due to his actions and sent back to his old post. This left him seething with rage, and who better to take it out on than a one-armed teenage boy whose life was already in his hands?
He stormed into the bunker, his aura radiating fury.
"You," he hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "You ruined everything. I should be a Commander. I should be adorned in gold, but because of you and your sister, I lost everything."
The blue lightning erupted from his hand once more, its hum angrier, more violent than ever.
"I took your hand last time. Now..." His gaze dropped to the boy's legs, a cruel light in his eyes. "...let's take your walk."
Those words struck the boy with the weight of a mountain, and with them, he surrendered himself to destiny. Terror, colder and sharper than any blade, finally pierced the numb shell he had become. He stared up at Serik, his eyes wide, pleading.
The blade hissed.
The pain was a nova, exploding in his foot, then his ankle, then his shin. Week after week, piece by piece, Serik carved him away. His toes. Then his entire left foot.
The boy's world shrank to a single, constant scream of nerves that no longer existed. He collapsed into his own filth, unable to move, unable to care. They no longer shackled him. It was unnecessary.
His right hand, gone.
His left foot, gone.
His body was a collection of horrors, a patchwork of bruises, infections, and cauterized stumps.
He lay on the cold concrete, eyes open but unseeing. His mind, his last refuge, began to fail him. Memories surfaced, fragile and beautiful as soap bubbles: his mother's voice humming as she cooked rice; his father's strong, kind hand on his shoulder; his older sister gently brushing his hair, her laughter light; his little sister's giggles as they played hide-and-seek.
Were they real? Or were they just a beautiful dream he'd invented to escape the nightmare?
What crime had they committed to deserve this extinction?
The tears would not come anymore. They had been carried out long ago. All that was left was a single prayer to a god he no longer believed in.
Let it end.
Please, let it end.
Someone… anyone… just kill me.
Because this wasn't life. This was the long, slow process of being unmade.
And with that final, despairing thought, his eyes closed, and the last faint light within his broken body began to gutter and fade.
He was still unconscious.
In the dark room beneath the bunker, a boy lay discarded on the cold floor, a shattered thing surrounded by the echoes of his own torture. The air hung thick with the stench of rot, old blood, and despair. His body held no strength, no future, only a past written in pain.
He was unconscious. Or perhaps he was finally dead.
Or maybe he was dreaming. Drifting through the shattered fragments of his memory, visiting a happier world one last, final time.
End of the Prologue.