He signaled the girls to stay quiet as he silently approached from behind. Lifting the wooden beam high up over his shoulders, he hit the wiry man behind his head.

  With a loud thud, the wooden beam struck the man's head, and he began to bleed out almost immediately. Ima was momentarily frozen by what he had done. The man fell to the ground as his body went limp.

  Ima had just killed a man.

  The wooden beam fell from his grasp. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. He turned to face the girls, seeking reassurance that what he had done was worth it.

  But they remained silent. Ima moved slowly toward them and started to untie the rope that was fastened around them as though they were animals. The first girl he let go of fled the alley without even saying "thank you."

  On the other hand, the others remained motionless, the fear on their faces palpable. Even though they were free to leave.

  "Run! Why aren't you running?"

  They answered with a deafening silence. Ima could feel their fear and smell their thoughts. The cause of their hesitation was naked on their faces. They were afraid of suffering the same fate as the girl who was burned.

  He realized that he couldn't save them—and it wasn't because he was weak, pathetic, or a coward. They swallowed the fear served to them on a plate, choking on its bitterness yet refusing to spit it out because they didn't believe they could be saved.

  If someone did not want to be saved, then he would not save them. His goal was but a candle in the wind, and it had just flickered out.

  Ima turned and walked out of the alley, passing the fallen wooden beam and the man's body without a word.

  He glanced down at the ground where the girl's ashes were lying, being carried away by the wind. His hands were bloodless, but he could feel the man's blood dripping from them.

  "Ima the coward had killed a man." The thought echoed in his mind, each word a lash. "Ima the pathetic had tried to be a hero." He let out a laugh, but it was hollow, a sound born of desperation and disbelief.

  Ima's stomach churned violently. His breath hitched, a suffocating weight pressing on his chest. It felt like his insides were twisting and contorting, as if the world itself was conspiring to choke him.

  He could hear yelling behind him. When he turned around, he saw flames. There was something familiar about the scene As the girlss ran away from the tall man, they were burnt one by one.

  No, not this...

  He couldn't look away, yet every fiber of his being screamed for him to stop.

  I did this.

  The thought crashed through his mind like a tide. The fire, the pain, the girls... it was all his fault.

  His body trembled, the world spinning as the screams of the girls rang in his ears. One... two... three. He barely registered the fourth girl, her form crumpling to the ground as the fire claimed her.

  His knees buckled, the ground rushing up to meet him as darkness closed in. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't move—everything around him blurred and faded until there was nothing but the overwhelming weight of his guilt. And then, nothing at all.

  Through blurry eyes, Ima dreamed of a place that was rough and damp, only lit by flickering candles on each wall of the room. A place where the ground was cold and the air smelled musty.

  He could feel the weight of something cold and heavy pressing down on his hands and feet. Like twins in a womb, he couldn't pull his hands apart from each other, nor could he part his feet.

  He looked down to find the source of his discomfort. His hands and feet were both bound with iron chains.

  "Where...where is this?"

  His gaze fell upon a large set of doors, which spoke in two voices, muffled

  . "Yeah, he's the bastard who killed Windler. Heard it straight from one of the girls."

  "And you still went ahead and killed them?"

  "Shit, man. They pissed me off. What was I supposed to do?"

  "What you were supposed to do was think. The master's coming in today. He's not gonna be happy."

  "You kidding me? Fuck."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The sound of hurried footsteps echoed from the door, then sickening wet thud. Footsteps, slow, steady, closer, then closer, and then... the heavy sound of the door creaking open.

  A man slithered in. He was dressed fancy. Long brown curls cascading over his shoulders, a neatly trimmed mustache perched above a thin, sneering mouth. His dainty, pointy shoes clicked softly on the floor, the polished leather gleaming in the dim light. A hat sat jauntily atop his head, the brim slightly tilted. His plump stomach stretched the fabric of his finely tailored clothes. His wear were the ones of the movies, the ones that depicted medieval times.

  "Ah, so you're the one who killed Windler." The man's voice was cold, laced with a sense of superiority. "Well, you'll be put to good use now, won't you?" He turned to the man that stood at the door.

  "Send him for the test before getting him to the mines." He then spun around and slithered out of the room down the hallway pass the body of a man until he was out of sight.

  …...

  How did he get here? Why was he here? Nothing made sense—nothing has made sense ever since he came to this world. Has he been arrested? Is this a prison?

  He looked back at the corpse in the hallway. "Yeah, i killed a man…" he glanced down at his hands."Yes, I killed a man."

  He stared at his hands for a moment, as if seeing them for the first time. A strange calm washed over him, almost like a release. He blinked slowly, then let out a small, almost amused chuckle.

  "This isn't the time to go through a psychotic episode."

  The voice was clear. It was one of the voices from behind the door earlier. Then the second man could only be the one who was dead on the floor.

  "You are dead," said the man "Whoever you were before, He's dead." It was only now that Ima seemed to realize he was in a cage. He gazed at the man through the bars. That sounded about right, he's dead. Ima is dead and here he is nothing.

  The man took his silence as acceptance. He took out a heavy set of keys attached to a think iron ring. The keys clinked together as he held them up to open the cage.

  He grabbed him by the back of his shirt, dragging him into the corridor. As they passed, he looked down at the body. It was the tall man. He felt lightheaded as the flashbacks to the fleeing burning girls returned.

  "At least their pitiful souls were at rest. Their killer had died too in the end." He thought

  "Well….one survived."

  The man led him through twists and turns until they reached a door identical to all previous ones he had seen on the journey, wooden with a handle. The man opened the door, pushing Ima in. He stumbled almost falling but managed to regain his balance.In the room similarly chained men awaited him. He had long understood, ever since he saw that fancy-dressed man, he wasn't in jail. Wherever he was, it was clear it wouldn't do him good.

  The room was cold, thick with the stench of sweat and decay. His mind reeled, replaying the night over and over again—the man he had killed, the girls' screams, the fire licking at their bodies.

  A voice sneered, "Look at what they brought in—a girl."

  Laughter followed. "He looks weak as fuck. Why'd they even bring him?"

  Ima remained silent. Exhausted. Numb.

  Another voice spoke. "Dexter, shut up. The boy looks dead."

  Dexter cackled like a hyena. "Aren't we all dead here?"

  "Leave him alone," another voice cut in. Ima turned his head slightly to see the speaker—an older man with tired eyes and calloused hands. "He's new. He'll figure it out soon enough."

  Dexter scoffed but backed off. The room fell into silence, filled only with the occasional sound of chains clinking as the prisoners shifted. Ima took in his surroundings properly for the first time. The men around him were hollow-eyed, some barely conscious. Some were whispering to themselves, others staring at the ground as if they had long accepted their fate.

  The door creaked open again. A guard stepped inside, expression blank. "All of you, get moving."

  hains rattled as the prisoners were yanked to their feet. Ima stumbled forward, unsteady. The older man beside him cast a glance his way, but if there was sympathy in his gaze, it was fleeting.

  They were marched down dimly lit corridors, their footsteps muffled against the damp stone floors. Eventually, they emerged into a much larger room—cavernous, with high ceilings and rows of tables set up along the walls. Strange equipment glowed faintly, some humming with energy. At each station stood men and women in dull, gray uniforms, their expressions hard and indifferent.

  "What's happening?" Ima whispered to the man beside him.

  The older prisoner exhaled sharply. "Testing," he muttered. "They're gonna see what kind of Motus you've got."

  Ima's brows furrowed. "Motus?" The word was foreign on his tongue.

  The man gave him a sharp look. "You serious? You don't know what—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Doesn't matter. You'll find out soon enough."

  One by one, prisoners were dragged forward and placed in front of the uniformed officials. Some had their hands pressed against strange stones that pulsed with light. Others were forced to drink foul-looking liquids. A few had metal devices clamped around their wrists, sending crackling energy through their bodies. Some screamed. Some convulsed. Some stood still, silent, as if resigned to whatever was happening.

  Ima's stomach twisted.

  Then, his turn came.

  A guard shoved him forward, forcing him onto a stool in front of a man with graying hair and a scar across his jaw. The man held a heavy, blackened metal plate in his hands, its surface charred and scratched.

  "Hands on the plate," the man instructed, his voice flat.

  Ima hesitated. The official's eyes narrowed.

  "Now."

  He had no choice.

  Slowly, he placed his hands on the surface.

  For a moment, nothing happened.

  Then—heat. A rush of something surged through his palms, not painful, but foreign. The plate hissed as smoke curled up from his fingertips. The warmth inside him spread, intensifying, and then—flames. A flickering, unsteady glow sparked to life around his hands, licking at the edges of the metal.

  Gasps came from some of the other prisoners. The official's expression remained unreadable, but he pressed something into a ledger and barked a command to the nearby guards.

  "Fire Motus. Mark him. He's going to the caravan."

  Ima stiffened. He didn't know what that meant, but the murmurs from the other prisoners made him feel it wasn't good.

  The guard grabbed him roughly, forcing him to his feet. A cold piece of metal was pressed against the back of his neck—some kind of branding tool—and a sharp, searing pain shot through his skin. Ima gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out.

  The older prisoner from before gave him one last look.

  "Guess you won't be here long, kid."

  Ima's breath was unsteady. His hands still tingled from the fire that had ignited within them. His neck burned from the mark.

  He had no idea where they were taking him.

  But something told him that wherever it was, it was only going to get worse.