In a damp, decaying cell that reeked of mold and old blood, darkness reigned like a tyrant. The walls were cracked, the floor uneven and filthy. Rats darted in and out of crevices, as if they too were prisoners of this forsaken place.
A single sliver of light crept in from beneath the rusted iron door—barely enough to distinguish form from shadow.
Opposite the door, a young man sat in silence.
He was painfully thin—malnourished to the point where his bones pressed sharply against his torn clothes. Open wounds covered his arms and chest, untreated, festering. His condition was critical. It was clear: he would die within days if left alone.
His right hand covered his face as he muttered under his breath.
"Tonight is my only chance. If it fails... I'll say goodbye to this filthy hell tomorrow."
He raised his head. His face, though sickly pale, held a haunting beauty. Jet-black hair hung down to his ears, messy and stuck to his sweaty skin. Beneath his eyes, deep black circles hinted at endless sleepless nights and pain.
But it was his eyes—dark as the void—that truly stood out. They reflected sorrow, loss, and a relentless will.
Suddenly, the faint light from under the door vanished.
Darkness consumed the cell entirely.
He stood up slowly, stretching his stiff limbs, then spoke in a quiet, resolved tone:
"Alright... it's time. All or nothing."
From his tattered pocket, he pulled out what looked like the broken remains of a toothbrush.
Its edge had been sharpened—crude, yet deadly. The kind of object born from desperation.
He stared at it for a moment, took a deep breath, closed his eyes—
—and stabbed his arm.
The pain was excruciating, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to make a sound. One noise, one scream, and the guards would be on him. And that... would be the end.
He pulled the brush out from the bleeding wound and pressed his hand firmly on his shoulder, whispering:
"Absorb."
At first, nothing happened.
But then—his other hand flickered to life with a black flame. It hovered just above his skin, moving with his hand like a magnetic shadow.
"Good. That should be enough... I can make at least two D-rank items with this."
He looked upward, eyes glinting with restrained excitement, and whispered:
"O imp... O imp, come forth! I have something for you..."
A faint crack echoed in the air, and then—out of thin air—appeared a chubby purple imp, no larger than a clenched fist.
It had a tiny horn on its forehead, no teeth, and a body so round its neck had vanished beneath layers of fat. Though it tried to look angry, it was more ridiculous than terrifying.
"I am the Imp of Pain's Spirit, you lowly human!" it snapped. "Dare insult me again, and I shall bite off your head!"
The young man raised an eyebrow.
"You took your time."
"I was sampling a fresh despair buffet from a convict three cells over. Much richer than your flavorless agony."
The man ignored the insult and extended the black flame toward the imp.
"Take it. All of it. Now tell me—how many life points do I get?"
The imp looked at the flame with exaggerated disinterest, then slurped it into his mouth and chewed... thoughtfully, like a wine critic.
Finally, he swallowed.
A second later, he spat out a small paper scroll into the air. It landed neatly in the man's palm.
His heart pounded. He opened it quickly, desperate for hope.
His face froze.
Then twisted in quiet rage.
Total Life Points: 14
Below the title, three images were drawn with descriptions:
High-quality Bamboo Rope (0.5 ft) – Rank D – 10 Life Points
Cotton Trousers (Cold-Resistant) – 7 Life Points
Basic Cooking Knife – 7 Life Points
"...Are you kidding me?" he muttered.
He turned to yell at the imp—
—but it had already vanished.
"That useless blob... These pathetic items don't even begin to match the pain I offered! This is fraud! I demand a refund, damn it!"
Clutching his bleeding shoulder, he cursed under his breath. Then slowly—he inhaled, and exhaled.
He sat down again, placed his hand beneath his chin, and began thinking.
"It would've been perfect... if I could just buy the knife and store the remaining seven life points. Then, later, I could add three more and get the rope."
He sighed bitterly.
"But unfortunately... life points can't be stored. Once the imp spits out the scroll, you're indirectly forced to spend every last point from that scroll—immediately."
Sweat trickled down his brow. The cell was getting hotter—or maybe it was just the pressure.
"And even if I bought the knife…"
He scoffed.
"What good is it against the guards? With their mana-infused weapons and elite enchantments?"
Silence followed.
Then something changed in his eyes. Determination replaced the anger.
"Fine then... I've made my decision."
He stood up, walked toward the door with firm, unshakable steps, and a hardened gaze.
"My escape... is only possible if I choose that item."