The first thing Kaizen felt was pain. It was always pain. He had long since forgotten what it was like to wake up without agony searing through his body. His arms and legs had been broken so many times that they no longer set properly. Every time they forced him to stand, his body crumbled under his own weight, and every time he fell, they laughed.
The cell was damp, its walls slick with filth and something that smelled of iron—perhaps blood, his own or someone else's, he no longer cared. There was no sunlight, no warmth, only the heavy stench of suffering that clung to everything like a curse. Chains bound his wrists, his ankles, his neck. They left just enough slack for him to slump against the cold stone floor, but not enough to move freely. His muscles had wasted away from starvation, leaving only sharp bones and raw wounds.
The guards came. They always came.
One of them knelt and grabbed his chin, forcing his head up. Kaizen barely had the strength to resist. A sharp blade traced along his lips.
"Open," the guard ordered.
Kaizen clenched his teeth.
The blade pressed deeper. Skin split. Blood trickled down his chin.
"Open."
He refused.
A sharp kick to his ribs made him gasp. The moment his mouth opened, fingers forced their way inside, gripping his tongue. Cold steel followed, slicing deep. Kaizen choked on the rush of blood as the pain set in. He coughed violently, his body spasming.
"Good. Now you understand."
The guards stepped back, watching him struggle. They always took pleasure in seeing him writhe, in hearing his muffled screams.
Then came the drowning.
The cell door creaked open, and they dragged him out, his body too weak to resist. They chained him to a stone slab in the center of the chamber, his head tilted backward over a small pit filled with murky water. One of the monks, dressed in crimson robes, stepped forward. He carried a wooden bucket.
"Confess," the monk said, his voice empty of emotion.
Kaizen remained silent.
The bucket tilted.
Water rushed over his face, into his nose, his mouth. He thrashed weakly, his broken limbs barely moving. The water receded, and he gasped for air. Before he could recover, the bucket poured again.
Again.
Again.
Each time, his lungs burned more, his throat convulsing as he tried to force the water out. His body wanted to live. His mind no longer cared.
The torment lasted until he lost consciousness.
When he awoke, he was back in his cell. His limbs were still broken, his lips torn, his body shaking from the lingering effects of near-drowning. The door creaked again, but this time, it was not a guard.
Bhikkhu entered.
The High Monk's steps were calm, measured. He did not carry weapons or tools of torture. He carried only his voice, and that was far more dangerous.
"You still resist," Bhikkhu said, his tone almost gentle. He crouched beside Kaizen, staring down at him. "Even after all this time, you refuse to break."
Kaizen said nothing.
Bhikkhu smiled.
"You have been here for years, Kaizen. Do you even know how much time has passed?" He paused, waiting for a response that never came. "Five years."
The words were like lead sinking into Kaizen's chest.
"Five years of suffering," Bhikkhu continued. "Five years of waiting. Five years of pain. And yet you refuse to tell me what I need to know."
Kaizen's breathing was ragged.
Bhikkhu leaned in closer.
"Tell me where the remaining Shards of Eternity are, and this will end. No more pain. No more suffering."
Kaizen stared at the monk, his expression unreadable.
Bhikkhu sighed.
"Perhaps," he murmured, "you need a reason to speak."
The High Monk stood and turned to leave. Just before stepping out, he glanced back.
"Aoi is still alive."
Kaizen's blood ran cold.
"So is Sakura. So is Itsuro."
Kaizen's fingers twitched against the stone floor.
"They are waiting for you, Kaizen," Bhikkhu whispered. "All you have to do is tell me what I want to know."
The door slammed shut.
Kaizen lay in the darkness, his body broken, his mind fraying.
For the first time in years, he felt something stir inside him.
Hope.