I tightened my grip on Dashiell's fist, watching his face contort with pain and disbelief. His wide eyes darted between my hand and my face, struggling to comprehend what was happening.
"How?" he gasped, trying to pull away. "You're supposed to be crippled!"
I smiled coldly. "Disappointed?"
With a sharp twist, I increased the pressure on his knuckles. The sound of his bones grinding together filled the cell as he dropped to one knee, grimacing.
"What's wrong, Dashiell?" I asked quietly. "I thought you ca here to see on my knees. Funny how things work out."
From her cell, Isabelle watched with wide eyes. Even she seed surprised by my display of strength. Bancroft had stepped closer to the cell entrance, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"This is impossible," Dashiell hissed through clenched teeth. "They drained your energy. Destroyed your ridians."
I leaned forward. "Let tell you sothing about strength, Dashiell. True power isn't just about cultivation. It's bone-deep. It's in your core."
Without warning, I kicked out at his other leg, striking the back of his knee. He collapsed fully to the ground, both knees pressed against the cold stone floor.
"There," I said, releasing his fist and grabbing the back of his neck instead. "That's better. You look good down there."
Dashiell tried to rise, but I pressed down harder, keeping him firmly in place. His expensive suit was getting dirty against the filthy floor—a small satisfaction I couldn't help but enjoy.
"Release imdiately!" he demanded, though his voice had lost its earlier confidence.
"Or what?" I challenged. "You'll call for help? Go ahead. Let everyone see the great Dashiell Blackthorne needing to be rescued from a supposedly powerless prisoner."
His face flushed with humiliation. Outside the cell, the guard looked uncertainly at Bancroft, who simply raised a hand, signaling him to wait.
"You're making a big mistake," Dashiell threatened, though his words carried no weight from his position.
"No, you made the mistake," I replied calmly. "Coming here, thinking you could mock . Did you really believe I'd just sit here and take it?"
He tried to break free again, twisting his body violently. I responded by increasing the pressure on his neck, pushing his face closer to the floor.
"Stop struggling," I advised coldly. "You're embarrassing yourself."
"I'll kill you for this!" he snarled, spittle flying from his lips. "When you're executed tomorrow, I'll make sure they draw it out for hours!"
I chuckled, the sound devoid of humor. "Big words from a man eating dirt. But before that happens, I want you to do sothing for ."
"I'll do nothing for you!" he spat.
Without warning, I slapped him hard across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the cell block. Isabelle gasped, and even Bancroft raised an eyebrow.
"That wasn't a request," I said, my voice deadly quiet. "I want you to tell who the trash is now."
His eyes bulged with rage. "You're insane."
I slapped him again, harder this ti. His head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming on his cheek. Readersupportat*madethistranslationpossible.
"Say it," I ordered. "Say 'I, Dashiell Blackthorne, am trash.'"
"Go to hell!"
The third slap drew blood from his lip. I leaned close to his ear. "We can do this all day, Dashiell. Every second you resist just makes you look weaker."
He tried to lunge at , but I easily subdued him, twisting his arm behind his back. He cried out in pain.
"Stop it!" he gasped.
"Say it," I repeated calmly.
His eyes darted around frantically, seeking escape or assistance. Finding none, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
"I..." he began, his voice barely audible.
"Louder," I instructed. "I want everyone to hear it."
He swallowed hard, the sound of his pride breaking almost audible. "I, Dashiell Blackthorne, am trash."
I patted his cheek mockingly. "Very good. Now wasn't that easy?"
From her cell, Isabelle was watching with a mixture of shock and satisfaction. Our eyes t briefly, and I saw the corner of her mouth twitch in an almost-smile.
"Let go," Dashiell mumbled, his face burning with humiliation.
I released him abruptly, causing him to stumble forward. "Run along now. I'm sure you have important things to do."
He scrambled to his feet, backing away from with fear in his eyes. When he reached the cell entrance, he turned to Bancroft.
"You said he was powerless!" he accused, pointing a shaking finger at . "You lied!"
Bancroft's eyes narrowed as he studied with renewed interest. "I said what was dically verified. It seems Mr. Knight is full of surprises."
Dashiell straightened his rumpled clothes, trying to salvage what dignity he had left. "My father will hear about this!" he declared, then stord out without looking back.
Bancroft lingered a mont longer. "Fascinating," he murmured. "Your recovery shouldn't be possible. Your body should be completely drained."
I shrugged. "Maybe your science isn't as advanced as you think."
The barrier reactivated with a hum as Bancroft stepped back. "Enjoy your small victory, Knight. It changes nothing about tomorrow."
After they left, a heavy silence fell over the cellblock. I slumped against the wall, finally allowing my body to relax. The show of strength had cost more than I'd let on, but it had been worth it.
"How did you do that?" Isabelle asked softly from across the corridor. "I thought they'd destroyed your energy pathways."
I looked at her, forcing a smile. "They damaged them, but they underestimated my recovery abilities. Always have."
She studied closely. "You're not telling everything."
Before I could respond, a voice ca from the cell to my right.
"Well, well," a gruff man said. "The rumors about you weren't exaggerated after all."
I turned to see an older man with a scarred face watching with interest. In the cell beyond him, several other prisoners had moved closer to their barriers, all eyeing with new respect.
"Don't believe everything you hear," I replied cautiously.
The scarred man chuckled. "I believe what I see, and what I just saw was impressive. They don't call Scarface for nothing—I've been in enough fights to know real strength when I see it."
Another prisoner, a lean man with calculating eyes, joined the conversation. "That was Dashiell Blackthorne, heir to the Blackthorne fortune. You just made him kneel and call himself trash. Either you're incredibly brave or incredibly stupid."
"Probably both," I admitted, which earned a round of appreciative laughter from the cells around .
"I'm Marcus," said the lean man. "Forr Guild assassin before I refused the wrong mission. That's Scarface, ex-rcenary captain. The quiet one in the back is Chen, forr alchemist to the High Council."
I nodded to each of them. "Liam Knight."
"We know who you are," Scarface said gruffly. "Everyone in this hellhole knows about the man who crashed the Blackthorne wedding and kidnapped the bride."
"I didn't kidnap her," I corrected. "I rescued her."
Marcus gestured toward Isabelle. "And yet, here you both are. So rescue."
I didn't take the bait. Instead, I asked, "How long have you all been here?"
"? Three years," Scarface replied. "Marcus has been here five. Chen, almost a decade."
I whistled low. "And they haven't executed you?"
"We're useful," Chen spoke for the first ti, his voice soft but clear. "I still make specialized elixirs for the Guild. Marcus trains their assassins. Scarface tests their combat disciples."
"Prison with a purpose," Marcus added with a bitter smile. "Death would be too rciful."
I leaned back against the wall, considering this new information. "And they just keep you here indefinitely?"
"Until we're no longer useful," Chen confird. "Or until soone more talented cos along."
Our conversation continued well into the night. As the hours passed, I carefully steered the discussion toward topics that interested —the layout of the prison, the guard rotations, the materials used in its construction. They spoke freely, seeing no harm in idle prison talk.
"This whole place is built from spirit-suppressing stone," Scarface explained. "Makes it impossible to use energy techniques. The barriers are reinforced with formation arrays linked to the central control room."
"Fascinating," I replied casually. "Must have taken years to build sothing this secure."
"Decades," Chen corrected. "The foundations were laid during the Great War. There are rumors of tunnels underneath that predate the Guild itself."
I raised an eyebrow, feigning only mild interest. "Tunnels? For what purpose?"
"Escape routes for the Guild leaders, supposedly," Marcus said. "Not that anyone's ever found them. Probably just prison myths to keep hope alive."
As the night deepened, our conversations drifted to their grievances against the Guild. Each had their own story of betrayal or injustice—talents exploited, loyalties abused, lives ruined by the very organization they once served.
"If you ever get out of here," Scarface said suddenly, "what would you do?"
I t his gaze steadily. "Build sothing better than what put us here."
"Easy to say," Marcus scoffed. "Impossible to do."
"Nothing's impossible," I countered. "The Guild isn't invincible—no organization is."
Chen studied thoughtfully. "You truly believe that, don't you?"
I nodded. "I do. And if I get out of here, I intend to prove it."
"If you get out," Scarface emphasized, "and that's a mighty big if, would you help others do the sa?"
The question hung in the air between us. All three n were watching intently, asuring not just my words but my conviction.
"Yes," I answered simply. "I would."
A silent understanding passed between us. They hadn't just been sharing prison stories—they'd been testing , evaluating whether I was worthy of their trust.
As the night guards began their rounds, signaling the end of our conversation, I caught Isabelle watching . She'd been silent throughout my exchange with the other prisoners, but her eyes held a knowing look.
She understood exactly what I'd been doing—gathering intelligence, making connections, planting seeds for what might co next. Even imprisoned and awaiting execution, I was already planning our next move.
The cell block eventually quieted as prisoners settled for the night. In the darkness, I replayed the information I'd gleaned about the prison's structure, security protocols, and potential weaknesses. Tomorrow would bring the High Council and my scheduled execution, but they were about to discover sothing important:
A cell doesn't always hold a prisoner—sotis it just houses a predator biding his ti.
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