Ishiki woke to the sll of rot and rusted iron.
His consciousness returned slowly... the first thing he checked was, the hole in his chest. Which it seed, wasn’t there.
Then he felt cold, seeping through his clothes and into his bones like water through cracked pottery. Then the pain radiating from his wrists where iron manacles bit into flesh.
Finally, awareness of the darkness, that surrounded him.
He tried to sit up and imdiately regretted it. His head slamd into sothing hard—stone, by the feel of it and he collapsed back onto the floor with a grunt that echoed strangely in the confined space.
"Easy there, mate," a voice drawled from sowhere to his left. "You’ve got about four feet of clearance. Any higher and you’ll be kissing the ceiling."
Ishiki blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Slowly, shapes erged from the darkness.
He was in a cell that was carved directly from dark stone, lined with irregular patterns.
The walls were rough-hewn, bearing the marks of crude chisels, and the floor was slick with a film of sothing he desperately hoped was just water.
"What... the hell..." he rasped, his voice hoarse.
The last thing he rembered was a guard suddenly appearing out of nowhere and thrusting the spear into his chest and then the impossible darkness.
Had it been real? A nightmare? An illusion?
Ishiki sat up and looked around with narrowed eyes. He was indeed behind iron bars.
A single torch burned sowhere beyond the iron bars, casting flickering orange light that barely penetrated the gloom. It was enough to see the shape of his cellmate: a man sitting against the far wall, knees drawn up, watching him with eyes that reflected the torchlight like a cat’s.
"Where..." Ishiki’s voice ca out as a croak. He swallowed. "Where am I?"
"In a prison," the man replied, as if that explained everything. "Secondary Ring’s dirty little secret prison. Three levels down, carved into the bedrock beneath the pretty white streets. You’re in the deep cells, friend."
Ishiki processed this slowly. He activated [Ghost Blade] instinctively, letting the skill’s enhanced perception wash over him.
The world sharpened. He could hear the distant drip of water echoing through unseen tunnels. The faint vibration of footsteps—far above, muffled by layers of stone.
The slow, rhythmic breathing of other prisoners in adjacent cells, separated by thick walls. And then he saw the city above... it was actually dark now and the city was illuminated by the hundreds upon hundreds of lamps.
Underground. He was definitely underground.
"How deep?" he asked.
The cellmate tilted his head. "Perceptive. Most fresh at takes a day or two to figure it out. We’re about 100 ters down, give or take. Deep enough that screaming won’t reach the surface and if the torches go out, you’ll never find your way back up."
Ishiki’s stomach turned. He looked at the man more closely. He was in his mid-thirties, maybe, with a gaunt face and hollow cheeks that spoke of prolonged malnutrition.
His hair was long and matted and his beard was unkempt reaching almost to his chest. He wore the remnants of what had once been nice clothing—a rchant’s tunic maybe... now it was torn and filthy.
"Na’s Carver," the man offered, extending a hand that Ishiki didn’t shake. Carver withdrew it without offense, shrugging. "Suit yourself. You’ll warm up eventually. They all do."
"What are you in for?" Ishiki asked, settling into a sitting position against the opposite wall. The stone was cold enough to leech the heat from his body within seconds.
"Murder," Carver said simply. "I Killed a cloth seller near a park... I stabbed him seventeen tis."
Ishiki was taken aback... ’How ruthless.’
He swallowed hard before asking another question. "What... what for?"
Carver’s smile was a jagged thing, more grimace than grin. "I don’t know? They said that I did..."
Ishiki’s eyes narrowed... what the hell was this guy talking about? Was he alright in the head? Ishiki doubted that now.
But still, curious he asked. "Did you?"
Carver didn’t speak for so ti and then shrugged. "Does it matter? I’m here either way. But since you asked—no. The real killer was soone’s spoiled son. That bastard had a gambling debt, killed the shopkeeper when he wouldn’t extend more credit. But you know... daddy’s rich, daddy’s connected, so they needed a scapegoat."
He gestured to himself with a theatrical flourish. "One expendable rchant with a previous grudge against the victim. Perfect patsy."
Ishiki heard it with a dark expression on his face... and then went silent, he didn’t have words to say further. This was the dark side of the paradise apparently.
’How in the goddamned hell did I co here?’ He was puzzled. He didn’t rember a thing of what happened?
Anyways... wasn’t it a bit funny? After so much ti, he was back at square zero. In a prison once again.
He started off in a prison too during his trial... back then the conditions were much more harsher and he was destined to die...
Carver suddenly laughed and then asked in a low voice. "What did they catch your for? You are pretty young... is it because of so girl?"
Ishiki blinked and grimaced. "No... for murder apparently."
"Oh!" The man seed a little excited. "Did you actually do it?"
Before Ishiki could respond, the sound of boots echoed down the corridor. Heavy, asured steps. Two sets.
"Ah," Carver said, settling back against the wall. "Your welcoming committee. Enjoy."
The cell door screeched open, rust grinding against rust. Two guards stepped outside the bars—both large n in leather armor reinforced with iron plates. Their faces were hidden behind visored helms, rendering them anonymous and vaguely insectoid.
"Prisoner 447," one of them barked, voice distorted by the tal. "On your feet for Interrogation."
Ishiki first crawled out of the small space they called prison cell and then stood up with his chains clinking. The guards grabbed him by the arms and dragged him without ceremony.
Ishiki gritted his teeth... and looked around. They took him through a dark corridor lined with cells on both side with people inside looking at them with amusing smiles.
He could actually break free and run from here if he wanted... using his exclusive skill. Honestly that would be a very bad move.
He didn’t knew what happened to him and how did he ended up here. First he needed to get so information and then think about running.
The interrogation room was exactly as miserable as Ishiki had expected.
A single table. Two chairs. A torch mounted on the wall, guttering and smoking. The interrogator was a wiry man with a thin mustache and eyes like chips of flint. He wore the insignia of the captain in the army.
"Sit," the man commanded.
Ishiki sat.
The interrogator leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "Do you know why you’re here, 447?"
"No," Ishiki said flatly.
"Let refresh your mory. Today evening, a representative of the Partike Organization—one of the three largest food distribution companies in the capital—was found dead in an alley near the rchant district. And you were brought here by the rchant’s guards."
"I didn’t kill anyone," Ishiki replied.
"Witnesses place you fleeing the scene."
"I was running from the guards, of course, I didn’t wanna get arrested for sothing I didn’t do."
The interrogator’s smile was thin and joyless. "How convenient. And what, pray tell, were you doing there?"
Ishiki hesitated. "I... saw sothing, I guess... I shouldn’t have."
"Elaborate."
"Child trafficking. A carriage with crates full of kids.... So, I followed it."
The interrogator’s expression didn’t change, but sothing shifted in his eyes. "Child trafficking. That’s a serious accusation. Do you have proof?"
"I saw it with my own eyes."
"Ah, yes. Your eyes." The interrogator leaned back. "Tell , 447, do you suffer from delusions? Hallucinations, perhaps? Did you use drugs for the first ti?"
Ishiki’s jaw tightened. "I know what I saw."
"What you think you saw," the interrogator corrected. "The representative you murdered was a pillar of the community. A man of standing. And you... you’re a vagrant. Whose word do you think carries more weight?"
The interrogation lasted two hours. They asked the sa questions in different ways, circling, probing, looking for inconsistencies. Ishiki stuck to his story. Eventually, they dragged him back to the cell.
Carver looked up as Ishiki was thrown inside. "How’d it go?"
"Peachy," Ishiki muttered, slumping against the wall.
"They’ll be back. Until you eventually accept. You’ll get fed once, around midday. Gruel, mostly. Sotis bread if you’re lucky."
Ishiki closed his eyes... ’This is so... wrong.’
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