They called Poseidon a prison.
It was more accurate to call it a tomb.
Carved into the ocean floor, bound by iron and ancient spellwork, Poseidon held the world's most dangerous Arcana wielders—those too powerful to kill, too dangerous to be free. It was a place where time did not flow. Where light was a stranger, and silence a constant companion.
Kael Aerwyn had been here for two years.
His cell was no wider than a storage closet. The walls pulsed with anti-Arcana runes. His flames, once a source of pride and power, now flickered weakly when summoned—if at all. Every day was the same: wake, breathe, wait, sleep. Dreams brought no comfort. Only relived horrors.
Then, on a day like any other, came the sound of footsteps.
A man entered Kael's cell—not a guard, but someone different. He wore a long, dark coat and a porcelain mask painted with a permanent smile. His voice was calm, composed, but far too young for the gravitas it carried.
"Kael Aerwyn," he said. "The World Government has a proposition."
Kael sat up slowly. His body ached from disuse. "Go on."
"There's a mercenary group. Operatives under contract. We take in criminals with… valuable skills. You complete twenty missions. You walk free."
Kael laughed, bitter and dry. "You think I want to be free?"
The masked man didn't flinch. He simply placed a folder on the ground.
Inside were profiles. Missions. Faces. One photo made Kael's heart stop—a man, charred and gaunt, with eyes like burning pits. His father.
"Your past isn't done with you," the visitor said. "But maybe, if you walk toward it, you won't have to keep running."
He left without another word.
Kael stared at the photo for hours. Then he closed the folder, stood, and said only three words:
"When do we begin?"