There was no light in that place. Rael was completely surrounded by nothing but rock and more rock. The darkness was faintly lit by flickering torches—and by a strange sword at the very center of the chamber.
It was a curious sword, bound to the ground by chains that wrapped around its hilt and blade, yet it stubbornly refused to remain still. Its rebellion was made visible by the flame that it constantly emitted. And that flame stirred something deep in anyone who drew near. As if the sword's fury at being chained could somehow be shared—transmitted through its heat, like an emotion too powerful to name.
But Rael no longer had all his senses intact. What he could feel, at best, was the weight of his own misery, buried alive in a place drenched in shadow.
"I can't believe this is how I'll die," thought the young prince.
He was on the brink of death. Though his sight was useless in that darkness, he could feel the blood trailing down his body from the wound that had led to his downfall. Death was calling to him.
"To die like this… like a dog. Killed by my own blood…"
If he'd had the strength to see—or if his senses had sharpened like a bat's in that void—he would have noticed he was not alone. Deep in this subterranean prison, ten elite soldiers stood hidden among the shadows, silent and perfectly still. They were the highest rank a noble warrior could attain.
All of them watched him carefully, unmoving, unseen. Not even Rael could detect them. But that would soon change.
As Rael's hatred grew, the sword seemed to come alive. Flames licked up its blade, brightening in tandem with his anger, his anguish, his despair.
"I won't accept this. I refuse to believe it. CURSE THEM. Curse them all!"
The light from the sword intensified. It feasted on his rage, fed on the bitterness that boiled in his soul. Its flames slowly reached out toward Rael's body, still breathing—but barely. They curled around him like a promise, igniting him from the inside.
He felt it—heat rising from within, swelling in his gut, roaring in his chest.
And with it came more hatred.
More fuel.
More purpose.
Rael rose.
His muscles protested. His bones screamed. Blood poured from his wounds like a broken dam. And still, he stood. He had to. He needed to do something. Anything.
He needed to let the rage out.
The moment Rael rose, the ten silent soldiers moved as one—instinctively, flawlessly. Like shadows given form, they surged toward him, each one poised to strike, blades drawn to end the anomaly before them. The speed was inhuman—honed through a lifetime of brutal training.
But Rael… Rael moved faster.
Even broken and dying, something unnatural stirred within him. The sword called to him. Whispered.
"Use me… wield me…"
Seconds stretched into eternities. Rael thought of nothing but the pain, the betrayal, the injustice that had buried him alive. Rage was all that remained.
He reached out.
And just as his fingers brushed the hilt—ten blades pierced through him.
His body was skewered completely, clean strikes in perfect unison. No healer, no magic known to man could repair such devastation.
The blows were meant to end Prince Rael forever. And they did.
His mind dimmed. The world disappeared. At last, peace.
But then came the soundless scream that rose from deep inside his chest.
The hatred.
And in the place where the prince died, something far worse was born.
"I will kill every last one of them!" roared the demon.
And so he did.