The guard rushed to Ragnar's cell, his face in bewildered fury. "What in the hells is going on here? The prisoner here died weeks ago!" He fumbled with a large ring of keys at his belt, his eyes darting between Ragnar and the empty cell across the corridor.
The suited man, the reader, froze, his pen hovering over his notebook. His gaze darted between the skeletal prisoner and the commotion at Ragnar's cell.
The guard found the right key, a thick iron piece, and forced it into the lock.
The mechanism groaned, then clicked open. He yanked the cell door inward, stepping inside, his rod raised. "What's your prisoner number? How did you get in here?"
Ragnar didn't answer. The moment the guard crossed the threshold, he lunged at him. The jagged metal shard, no bigger than a coin, was already in his hand. He thrust it upward, a rapid, savage strike targeting the guard's throat.
The guard's eyes blew wide. A choked gasp escaped him as the sharp edge tore flesh. Blood gushed, dark and warm, marring his coat. He stumbled back, dropping his rod, hands clawing at his neck. A gurgling sound replaced his words.
He slumped, striking the stone floor with a dull thud, his body convulsing once before going still.
Ragnar stood over him, the small piece of metal still clutched in his hand, dripping red. The act was quick, brutal, and without hesitation. He felt a cold clarity, not to the panic that should have consumed him.
He turned, his eyes falling on the suited man. The reader stood paralyzed, his face pale, his notebook clutched to his chest. He was like a deer caught in the light.
Ragnar took a step towards him, then another. The reader flinched, taking a step back.
Ragnar stopped a few feet away. His eyes flicked between the man and the notebook. He saw the fear in the reader's eyes.
He could end this man's life as easily as he had ended the guard's. Yet a nascent impulse restrained him. This man wasn't a threat, not like the guard.
The reader was a pale, thin men, with a head of disheaveled dark brown hair. Looking at his hands, they were the soft hands of a scholar rather than a soldiers. His eyes held a frantic, slightly unhinged zeal, yet they were currently drowned out by raw terror.
"The notebook," Ragnar said, his voice low, rough. "Let me see it."
The reader, still trembling, slowly extended the notebook. Ragnar took it, his fingers brushing against the cold leather. He opened it. The pages teemed with symbols, like brushstrokes. He couldn't make sense of any of them.
They looked like ancient Chinese characters, or something even more alien, certainly not any European language he knew.
He closed the notebook and flung it back to the reader, who fumbled to catch it.
"What are these symbols?" Ragnar asked, his voice still rough.
The reader swallowed hard. "It's... it's Old Xianic language," he stammered.
"And where are we?"
"A prison," the reader replied.
"No shit Sherlock, I'd gathered as much," Ragnar retorted.
The man blinked. "Sherlock?"
'It's definitely not Earth,' Ragnar thought. "What I mean is, what country is this?"
"The Inelis Empire," the reader said.
"Alright. Next question," Ragnar continued, his eyes flicking to the strange, liquidy tables in the cells. "What are those strange suction tables?"
"I'm not sure myself. I think they suck out the life out of those people."
Keeping an eye on the reader, Ragnar then knelt beside the fallen guard.
He stripped the long dark coat from the body, pulling it on. It was a bit large, but it would serve. He took the peaked cap, pulling it low over his blonde hair.
He unbuckled the guard's belt, taking the thin rod, which felt solid and heavy in his hand, and the ring of keys.
As he stood, dressed in the guard's uniform, a thought surfaced: he had killed a man. A real man, not a character in a story. But then, the memories flashed in his mind.
The intelligence and awareness from Earth, combined with Min Min's brutal memories, pushed away any hint of remorse. A grim resolve took its place. He had to survive.
He glanced at the cell across the way, at the tilted table where the skeletal prisoner had lain. He walked closer, peering at its surface. It wasn't solid stone or metal. It had a strange, liquidy sheen, like dark, viscous oil.
He reached out a finger, almost touching it, then pulled back. It seemed to ripple, a dark, hungry surface that would suck in anything that lay upon it, like quicksand.
The reader still stood there, clutching his notebook. Seemingly afraid that if he moved, the prisoner would have immidietly attacked him.
He would be right.
Ragnar kept the reader in his line of sight, ready to react if the man made any sudden moves.
He was lucky these people didn't seem to possess strange powers, or he would have been dead long ago.
"You will walk with me," Ragnar said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Without a single word. Understand?"
The reader nodded, a quick, jerky movement.
"Are there any more guards where you just came from?" Ragnar added, his eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the man for any hint of a lie.
The reader swallowed hard. "Just... just one more guard at the entry point," he whispered, his voice shaking.
Ragnar gestured with the baton. "In front."
The reader hesitated for a moment, then turned and began to walk down the corridor.
Ragnar followed behind him, the guard's boots clicking on the stone floor. He concealed the metal shard in his hand, as a precaution.
They walked through the long, damp corridor, past rows of cells, most of them empty, but a few had a similar set-up with the suction machine and malnourished prisoners.
To lighten their path, they relyed on the lantern the guard had carried, which Ragnar now held.
Finally, they reached a heavy, metallic door at the end of the corridor. It was thick, reinforced with iron bands, with no visible handle, only a small, intricate keyhole. Ragnar scanned the guard's key ring.
To avoid alerting the guard supposedly waiting on the other side, he quickly found the correct key. It was clear which one fit. He inserted it and turned.
The heavy door swung inward with a low groan, revealing a dimly lit room.
Ragnar immediately lowered his head, eyes scanning the space. A man sat at a metallic table, picking his nose, seemingly oblivious to their arrival. He wore a simple, drab uniform, similar to the guard's but without the coat or cap.
"Done?" the man asked, his voice nasal, without looking at Ragnar. "Strange, someone got a pass from the Majesty to get in here. We rarely get guests." He continued picking his nose, then flicked something away with a casual air.
Ragnar moved swiftly. He closed the distance in a few long strides. The piece of metal was already in his hand, pressed against the man's neck before he could react.
But the man, his eyes surprisingly sharp, flicked to Ragnar's hand, then to the metal at his throat. In a blur, he twisted, his hand shooting out, grabbing Ragnar's wrist. He locked onto Ragnar's arm with tremendous strength, pulling him off balance.
Ragnar stumbled, the metal scraping uselessly against the man's skin as he was yanked forward, then slammed to the ground with a jarring impact. The baton clattered away. The man was on top of him, pinning Ragnar's arms to the cold floor.
As Ragnar struggled, pinned beneath the guard, the reader's face contorted. A flicker of desperate resolve, or perhaps just pure terror, crossed the man's features.
Then, a glint of metal. The next thing Ragnar knew, a blade was embedding itself in the guard's neck, blood spurting.
The guard's movements slowed, his eyes wide with disbelief as he looked up, a hand weakly reaching for the knife protruding from his neck. His grip on Ragnar loosened, and he slumped, falling heavily on top of Ragnar.
Ragnar, gasping, shoved the dead weight aside, scrambing away from the body, he sat on the ground and looked at the reader, who stood trembling.
'Thank God for the plot armor,' Ragnar thought.