It was damp and dark. The high ceiling was all black and gray, with only a single hole where sunlight could enter. Yet somehow, in spite of the rain drumming against the walls, even this reduced amount of light never greeted Fray Fenrir.
Water dripped slowly from the stone above, echoing through the empty space, making the silence feel heavier.
He was there, on his knees. His wrists were chained together with cold iron chains, held aloft above his head as his arms were extended at the wrists.
His torn clothes, likely the result of endless whipping, were drenched in blood. The heavy and soaked fabric clung to his body, as soft bangs of black hair stuck to his forehead, matted with dried and fresh blood.
His chest rose and fell unevenly as he struggled with each breath.
His purple eyes were dulled, lifeless, and every time he tried to breathe, soft groans escaped his lips. His body trembled from pain and exhaustion that had long gone past its limit.
"So, still not giving up?" a cold, merciless voice asked.
Fray coughed hard, blood spilling from his mouth as his head leaned closer to the floor. His vision blurred, but with great effort, he forced his eyes open.
There… polished and clean black boots stood in front of him, untouched by the filth that the dungeon contained. On the boot, near the high ankle, was the wolf emblem, neat and pointed, that it almost taunted him.
Fray slowly looked up, raising his eyes to meet the gaze of the man who owned those boots.
The man was tall, dressed in a sleek black uniform of the Combat Tamer Association. Fray weakly smiled, despite his circumstances.
What he saw was a pair of cold, emotionless green eyes that looked at him, not as a human being, but as something akin to an object.
"No, big… brother," he mumbled as his head whipped to the floor again, the chains rattling softly. "No matter how… much time you ask, I… am not giving anything to that old fucker."
The man's eyes flashed with clear annoyance. In the next second, his hand struck Fray's cheek, hard enough to snap his head to the side and leave a dark bruise blooming on his pale skin.
"Insolent," he muttered coldly.
Fray spat blood onto the stone floor and slowly lowered his gaze again, staring at those same polished boots. The red mixed with rainwater beneath them.
"Even… F-rankers have pride, y'know," he said weakly. Despite everything, despite the pain burning through his body, he smiled.
"Pride?" the man scoffed. "This little show of yours is not pride, Fray. You're just being childish."
"Damian," Fray said quietly. "Oh yes… maybe I am."
"You never cared for that beast of yours anyway. Not to mention, it was an F-grade scrap," Damian said, his voice calm and reasonable.
"If it can save the clan leader's life, then at least it has some worth."
Damian Fenrir, the elder brother of Fray Fenrir, stood straight as he spoke, as if this was nothing more than a logical discussion for him.
"That's exactly why…" Fray scoffed, his breath hitching. "I am not giving it. And you know what to do, bro." He coughed hard, blood staining his lips as his skin turned pale as a ghost. "Kill me."
Damian's eyes narrowed.
Kill the host. That was the only way to acquire a beast if the host refused to hand it over. And it was the one thing Damian Fenrir couldn't do. No matter what, Fray was still his own blood…still family.
He turned on his heels, the regal shoulder drape of his uniform swaying with the motion. "I will be back, and you'd better change your mind. Or else… I will accept your request," he said over his shoulder as he walked away.
Fray waited until the clinking sound of boots against the stone floor disappeared, and the heavy double doors of the torture room shut tight once again. The echo lingered for a long moment, then silence returned with suffocation.
His body jolted from another hard cough. If not for the chains, he would have already kissed the floor. He dangled there helplessly, his muscles screaming, as he tried to think back… to where it had all gone wrong.
He was Fray Fenrir, the fourth-born of the prestigious Fenrir Clan, a beast-taming clan known for taming mighty wolves. Fray was born into a family of geniuses, where every member was B-rank or higher. It had never produced a lower ranker than B.
Now, that was not exactly the truth. Not never produced, but never allowed them to live.
Fray learned that truth after he awakened as an F-rank tamer, bonded to an F-rank beast that could hardly even be called a beast.
From that moment on, the cheerful family he once knew completely disappeared. His three siblings abandoned him. His father and mother, who had never shown much interest in him to begin with, turned colder, then cruel. After that, they did everything in their power to torture him.
He was disregarded by Aries, the Beast Taming Academy, and cast aside as if he had never existed.
Forced to marry the Queen of Dragons, a powerful S-rank tamer, only to become her daily life servant.
Hell, hell, hell. That was all he knew in his twenty-seven years of life.
Was being an F-rank really that much of a crime? Fray always wondered. It's not like he chose to become one, is he?
And now here he was, chained inside a torture chamber made for high-grade criminals of the Combat Taming Association, all just to split him away from his F-grade, no-name beast.
He would have easily given up on it just to save his own skin. He truly would have. But when he learned that they needed the beast to save the life of the clan leader of Fenrir, his father, Fray strongly rejected it.
Fuck that old man. He hoped he would die horribly.
Fray knew that splitting a beast from its host meant serious damage to the host's body. Sometimes it meant death. But it seemed that old fossil didn't care at all. Fray was about to scoff and spit out something rude, but he swallowed it down as the doors opened again slightly.
A figure slipped into the darkness.
"You're back so soon," Fray whispered, a sharp edge of sarcasm in his voice. "Damian."
He watched as the figure approached him. But somehow, it did not have that clink, clink sound of Damian's high boots. Instead, it was completely silent.
And when it stepped into the dim sunlight coming through the small window high near the ceiling, Fray understood that it was not Damian Fenrir at all. The figure's body was covered by a long black coat, a hood pulled low, and a black mask hiding his face.
But those eyes, Fray never failed to recognize them.
"You—"
"No need for talks," the figure said, already too close.
A silver dagger slid out from his coat sleeve. In one swift motion, he drove it straight into Fray's heart. Blood spilled everywhere. Fray was too stunned to even scream. The only thing he managed to do was slightly turn his head and stare at the figure, his eyes wide and fading.
"You talked enough," the figure finished his sentence as he twisted the dagger with sickening pressure.
"You suffered enough. You lived enough, Fray Fenrir."
He pulled the knife out. Blood sprayed as the last flicker of life in Fray's purple eyes vanished. The figure raised his hand, drawing out the purplish aura that began to form around Fray's body, his bonded beast, which was forcefully responding.
"I pity your existence," he said, a tiny orb forming in his hand, manufactured by the beast. "You never knew the worth of what you had. Your ignorance led you here, so… now let go of that pathetic life."
He finally stood up, looking down at Fray, those eyes shining with a maniacal glint. "Rest… in peace." He mumbled.
"Fray Fenrir."
The next moment, Fray felt a thin slice across his neck. Then his vision tilted violently as his head was severed from his body. Darkness swallowed everything immediately, faster than he could protest, faster than he could think.
Motherfucker.
He died… with those unspoken words buried forever in the darkness of his mind.
God damn it all!