Author's Note: Well, after two weeks, here's the fully translated chapter 4. Sorry for the delay; I was extremely busy last month. This chapter focuses on the fate of the Imperial troops captured in Nova Prospekt. I originally planned to upload it yesterday, but after reviewing it, I wasn't satisfied with the narrative, so I rewrote it. In this chapter, the location of the second portal is revealed.
Response to Kukuhimanpr: Indeed, Warhammer 40K fans, especially the more "passionate" ones… Unfortunately, "chaos" will inevitably be a descriptor used—though not often—for the garrison forces. This will continue until the Empire realizes that the Overwatch soldiers and synthetic units aren't actually demons, though their actions may seem demonic to more primitive eyes.
As for G-Man and Pina... well, something similar will happen, but not with Pina. It'll involve another character.
Response to Guest: I'm glad you enjoyed my interpretation of Breen. There's no denying he's a hypocrite, but at least his concern for humanity is real, albeit poorly executed. Unfortunately, in HL2, Breen didn't have the right cards to negotiate a better deal with the Combine. When he finally gained the upper hand by capturing Gordon and Eli, it all went to hell with Mossman's betrayal.
Response to Rollynolly: I'll clarify the timeline mentioned in the previous chapter. All events from Chapter 7 happened, except the part where Pina and her order are invited to the National Diet. Something occurred that prevented this, and as a result, the subsequent events from "Traveling to Japan" up to Chapter 10 never happened.
I was trying to be a bit cryptic with that note, haha. As for the rest of what you mentioned... I can't say much without dropping too many spoilers.
Response to Mend1cant Bias: I understand the timeline can be confusing. I prefer to explain the events and changes within the narrative itself rather than creating a separate chapter/note to lay everything out, especially since many of the events will be interconnected.
Regarding your specific question about the Empire's military numbers, I've always found it odd that they have so few soldiers considering their territory is similar in size to the Mongol Empire and has lasted for six centuries. If we look at the fall of the Roman Empire, which collapsed under constant rebellions due to a lack of troops, something similar should have affected this Empire, yet it's never mentioned in the anime or manga.
Not to mention that the demihumans could also rebel, not just the vassal kingdoms. The exact numbers of their army will be revealed later, but you'll have to account for the losses they suffered in the failed invasion of Ginza, the defense of Alnus Hill, the incursion into City 17, and the losses they'll sustain in the attempt to control the second Gate.
Response to !NukeBlast81: While the JSDF does have some advantages against the garrison forces, they face significant disadvantages. They have fewer troops and are equipped with outdated Cold War-era weapons. The odds are not in their favor.
Response to ColonelStrike: Thanks for the congratulations! That's exactly why I decided to create my own crossover. Most of the Half-Life crossovers I've come across (aside from one with a similar premise to mine, which was actually quite well written but sadly abandoned by its author after chapter 8, and one written by a friend of mine). They're meant to be the military might of a Multidimensional Empire, after all. I'm really excited to write about the Japanese soldiers' reactions to the Combine's transhuman troops, though the direct encounter will be delayed since they're still very far apart.
As for the Overwatch soldiers' appearance, I based it on Jim's Addon, except for the helmets. I don't see the point in them wearing helmets when their gas masks are already fused with ballistic helmets.
Response to Echthelion75: The garrison forces will handle the dirty work of conquering Falmart. If the real fleet of the Universal Union got involved, they'd wipe out everything in 7 minutes, no contest, the moment they spotted the Gate.
Response to Fisting Time: As I mentioned earlier, the two groups won't meet anytime soon due to the distance between the portals. For now, the JSDF is completely unaware of the second portal, and even if they knew, they couldn't do much about it due to the sheer distance. That said, things will change soon, and that'll be part of the upcoming climax.
With the comment responses out of the way, I'll leave you to enjoy the chapter. Also, just a heads up: chapter 5 will focus on the Imperial Senate.
Location: Earth, the former Nova Prospekt prison.
Nova Prospekt, in its prime, was a massive maximum-security fortress used to house the most dangerous human beings. Its steel and reinforced concrete walls loomed defiantly, a monolith challenging the very notion of freedom.
However, with the arrival of the Combine Occupation, this fearsome prison became something far more sinister and terrifying. The transhuman forces took full control of the facility, turning it into a military base.
Those unfortunate enough to be captured by Overwatch troops were led without hesitation through the main gates of Nova Prospekt. The fate awaiting them behind those gates was a mystery shrouded in chilling rumors. Very few knew the truth about what happened inside, but everyone agreed that being captured and taken to those facilities was the worst nightmare imaginable.
During the tumultuous days of the failed Resistance uprising, Nova Prospekt suffered minor damage that allowed for a swift repair the following day. However, the Administrator was not content with a simple restoration. He ordered a thorough overhaul of the facilities, sealing off any possible entry points that had previously allowed rebels inside.
The holes belonging to the antlions' nests were also meticulously sealed. Those insectoid alien beasts were mercilessly exterminated or captured for unknown but certainly nefarious purposes.
In addition to the structural repairs, Nova Prospekt received a series of cutting-edge technological upgrades. New security systems were installed, further reinforcing the already formidable containment measures of the prison. State-of-the-art surveillance cameras in every hallway, biometric scanners, and dark energy fields replaced the old bars to prevent any escapes.
The confinement cells were also completely renovated. The old isolation blocks were replaced by automated containment pods, designed to torment anyone who showed rebellion against the guards. These sterile chambers were constructed with practically indestructible alloys, impervious to any human or alien creature on Earth, and they lacked any access to the outside.
At the heart of Nova Prospekt, the prison administrators installed a new command and control center. From this ultra-modern operations room, the officers monitored every movement, every breath of the prisoners. Enormous holographic screens projected a 3D interactive map of the facility, allowing the watchers to track the location of every inmate in real-time.
Security measures were not only applied within but also extended to a wide perimeter around Nova Prospekt. High-power electromagnetic fields were deployed to interfere with any unauthorized signals or transmissions, and automated watchtowers were strategically placed, ready to open fire on any intruder who dared approach.
The security presence surrounding the imposing prison complex was overwhelming, a constant and intimidating reminder that escaping from there was virtually impossible. In the surrounding airspace, a dozen terrifying Gunships patrolled tirelessly, the beastly roars of their biomechanical engines reverberating through the air like distant thunder.
These combat ships not only maintained relentless aerial surveillance over the perimeter but were also armed to the teeth with a deadly arsenal. The dark energy turrets protruding from their flanks pointed toward the ground, while their warp cannons in their bellies had the sinister power to disintegrate any unauthorized target that dared approach, whether by accident or with hostile intent. Not even the slightest hint of a threat would be tolerated.
While the Gunships watched from above like hungry hawks, another formidable force of vigilance was deployed on the ground. Enormous and menacing Striders, those towering 15-meter-tall synthetic tripods, slowly roamed the exterior perimeter of Nova Prospekt. Each of their heavy steps resonated like distant thunder, causing the ground to tremble slightly with each passing stride.
These synthetic sentinels were not alone, however. Each Strider was accompanied by a full squad of highly intelligent Hunters. They advanced in formation alongside the biomechanical colossi, the sharp front limbs of each one poised to mercilessly tear apart any intruder who managed to evade the fire of the other sentinels. Their dart launchers pointed in all directions, ready to unleash a deadly volley at the slightest sign of a threat.
This lethal combination of air and ground forces created a practically impenetrable security net around the prison complex, turning it into a virtually impregnable fortress on the Administrator's orders.
Inside the facility once again, the surveillance situation was no less imposing. Hallways that had once housed the most ruthless and dangerous criminals of human society were now patrolled tirelessly by transhuman guards. These sentinels walked in a sepulchral silence, their assault rifles, submachine guns, and shotguns firmly gripped and ready to open fire at the first hint of trouble.
At first glance, these guards appeared tireless, showing no sign of fatigue or distraction in their body language. Their movements were precise, almost mechanical, as if they were living extensions of Nova Prospekt itself, programmed solely to maintain order at any cost.
At strategic points throughout the facility, automatic turrets were embedded in the walls, their infrared and motion sensors tirelessly scanning for threats. Biometric scanners and high-definition surveillance cameras monitored every square inch, leaving no corner out of their reach.
Even access to the maximum-security cell blocks was heavily guarded by additional measures. Instead of the old bars, practically impregnable barriers composed of dark energy force fields now stood, with an intensity that was enough to keep any organic being from entering unauthorized.
Any attempt at escape by prisoners would be quickly detected and crushed with overwhelming force. The security systems were designed to be relentless and infallible, making Nova Prospekt the most secure and impenetrable prison Earth had ever seen.
With its new and ruthless improvements, Nova Prospekt became a virtually unassailable fortress. A monument to absolute control and the might of the occupation forces over Earth. Those unfortunate enough to be imprisoned within its confines rarely saw the outside again… if they ever did at all.
In the maximum-security cells of Nova Prospekt, the prisoners were soldiers of Sadera, captured during the pitiful invasion attempt of Imperial forces against City 17. The most recent imperial captives were separated from their comrades who had previously surrendered at the Gate, being led to different cell blocks.
Those enemy soldiers who had been imprisoned the longest presented a pitiful appearance. Their faces and bodies displayed numerous bruises and welts, evidence of the brutal punishments inflicted by the guards for any attempt at disobedience or resistance. Their cracked and dry lips revealed the cruel deprivation of water they were subjected to, allowing them just enough to remain alive.
The sentinels of Nova Prospekt offered, or rather forced them to ingest the strict rations of food and water necessary to prevent them from dying of starvation or dehydration. After all, they could not be turned into new slaves for the Alliance if they perished before they could undergo the "enhancement" process.
In contrast, the demihuman prisoners seemed to be better treated, although the terror reflected in their eyes every time one of the guards passed in front of their cells spoke volumes. The reason for their better treatment was sinister: The Administrator wished to keep them in optimal condition so that the scientists could continue their experiments and research with these unusual creatures.
The Imperials were not alone in their captivity. Some shared a cell with a few unfortunate rebel survivors of the uprising, who had also been transferred to Nova Prospekt. However, the language barrier prevented any communication between these prisoners from such different worlds.
In the cell blocks, a sepulchral silence reigned, only occasionally broken by muffled groans and sobs from those who had succumbed to the physical pain or mental despair. The air was heavy with a nauseating stench, a mixture of sweat, blood, and hopelessness.
In a damp and cold cell in the maximum-security block, General Secundus lay nearly naked, stripped of all his former glory and power. His majestic golden armor, a symbol of his status and bravery in countless military campaigns, had been taken from him by those dark demons who now held him captive.
All his clothing, once an immaculate imperial toga tunic that represented his power, was now nothing more than a dirty, tattered rag. The fabric that once displayed the splendor of Sadera clung to his skin from the accumulated sweat and misery, torn and stained with dried blood.
His strong arms, accustomed to wielding swords and issuing commands with authority, now crossed uselessly over his chest in a desperate attempt to find some warmth. The bones beneath his bronzed skin jutted out, the result of the relentless hunger his captors imposed on him. There was something humiliating in his current condition: a warrior who had once been invincible, reduced to a mere shadow of his former self, forced to survive in this dark and stinking dungeon.
In Secundus' dark eyes, once bright with the confidence that came from leading legions of soldiers, only exhaustion and pain remained. His deep eye bags testified to the countless sleepless nights, where he could not escape either the nightmares or the reality in which he was immersed. It was impossible to differentiate between day and night inside the prison, as the windows were sealed, and the flickering light that barely illuminated his cell gave no clue about the passage of time.
His entire body bore marks: the cruel welts that streaked his skin were just tokens of the brutal beatings he had suffered at the hands of the demons. His torturers were inhuman, and he had nicknamed them "Tortoros animarum/soul tormentors." Their strange skins glistened in the light of the "magic wands" they wielded, cursed artifacts that seemed to conjure demonic lightning to torture him.
Whenever he dared to rebel or disobey any of the unintelligible orders they gave him, the paralyzing shocks of those magic rods fell upon his skin, burning his muscles and subjecting him to unimaginable pain.
And when his physical and mental resistance reached its limit, when he fell to the ground groaning like a wounded animal, they simply left, abandoning him in that dismal dungeon, with no more compassion than silence.
Wearily, the general brought a trembling hand to his forehead, his fingers brushing one of the many open wounds on his skull. Where the skin had torn, a constant, throbbing pain accompanied him day and night. He had learned to live with the pain: from the dark bruises and welts that adorned his limbs to the poorly healed fractures in his ribs, Secundus could barely remember what it was like to be healthy.
The general's lips, cracked and dry from dehydration, moved in a moan. Since his arrival in this hellish prison, he had learned what true thirst was: his tongue felt like cardboard, dry and rough, and the water his captors provided was barely enough to keep him alive, a cruel reminder of how insignificant his life had become to the demons.
Despite all this, the old warrior had not completely broken. The strength that had made him a hero on the battlefields still resided, albeit dimmed, within his chest. He knew he had to keep his mind occupied, that he could not give in to the despair that slowly tried to devour him from within.
Again and again, he reviewed the events that had led him to this hell. It had been the arrogance of the imperial leaders that had condemned them. When they crossed the interdimensional portal that appeared in the northern snowy mountain range, they were sure of their victory. The Empire's army had never known defeat... until they faced the dark magic of those demons and their accursed goddess.
Secundus swallowed with difficulty, remembering how those demonic artifacts disintegrated entire legions in a matter of seconds, their cursed magic surpassing everything the imperial mages were capable of conjuring. The portal, once their hope for expansion, had become their doom, the threshold to a hell where everything they knew was destroyed by malevolent power.
The general sighed and lay back on the cold concrete floor, which reminded him of the stones of the Coliseum, but much crueler. A latent question arose from within, one that he had avoided asking himself for days, if not weeks.
"How much time has passed?" muttered Secundus, his voice hoarse from disuse. He did not know if his imprisonment had lasted days, weeks, or even months. The concept of time seemed to have disintegrated after crossing the threshold of Nova Prospekt. Only pain and hunger were constants, keeping him conscious in that endless torment.
But although his body was broken, his mind wasn't entirely. He knew his soldiers, knew of their anger and hatred, not just against the enemy, but among themselves. Unlike many in the Empire, Secundus wasn't a man who discriminated against others because of their race. He had fought alongside loyal and strong demihumans. For him, strength and loyalty were all that mattered. But that didn't stop his men from unleashing their hatred against the "monsters" when they shared cells after their capture.
The Imperials, indoctrinated for generations in an ideology of superiority, saw demihumans as inferior beings, creatures whose only purpose was to serve humans as slaves. But these prisoners weren't simple demihuman slaves; they were battle-hardened fighters, creatures of cunning and strength. The fights between the two sides were brutal. The racial hatred of Secundus' men clashed head-on with the righteous fury of the former slaves. Fists, claws, and fangs flew in each fight, and more than once the blood stained the floors of the cells.
The bruises that now covered the general's body were not just the result of the demonic guards' brutality but also of those internal brawls. Secundus had intervened more than once to stop the violence, only to be knocked down by a wave of furious bodies.
He had taken blows from his own men, the "monsters," and even bites. The only reason those fights didn't result in deaths was the timely intervention of the demons, who used their damned magic to reduce everyone to a state of total agony with their electric shocks.
"Damn demons! I hope one day Emroy's judgment falls upon them..." thought Secundus, as he recalled those episodes of extreme pain. There was a horrible sound before the rods activated, like the hiss of a snake, and then the burning sensation of lightning running through his nerves. Each shock paralyzed him and left him moaning on the ground, with his muscles rigid and useless, as if they'd been turned to stone.
After ten bloody brawls between prisoners, the sentinels finally decided to separate the groups into different cells, keeping the Imperials and demihumans in separate blocks to avoid further disturbances. It was a decision that, ironically, probably saved lives, even if it was a temporary reprieve. But for Secundus, the separation brought little comfort. Isolation was his new executioner.
The demons didn't speak his language, but the "goddess" who commanded them had a constant presence. It was a feminine voice, soft and firm at the same time. Secundus heard her echoing through the corridors, in words incomprehensible to his human ears.
He knew that voice, the voice of the goddess who ruled this underworld, controlled the demons with surgical precision. Her orders were fulfilled instantly and without question. She was the very embodiment of absolute control. Upon hearing her, Secundus felt chills run down his spine, unable to comprehend the power of that entity but knowing she was responsible for his captivity.
His thoughts were interrupted by the distant echo of footsteps. Secundus sat up abruptly, his nerves on edge. There was no rest in this hell. With each approaching step down the hallway, he felt his heart beat faster. He knew that sound. He'd heard it countless times in the past few weeks, or perhaps months had passed by now, but each time those steps echoed in the dark hallway, the nerves beneath his skin began to burn.
"Gods, not again…"
He straightened up, leaning his bruised back against the cold concrete of the cell, ignoring the pain from the scars and marks time had left on his body. The sound was a familiar echo that traveled through the concrete walls, drawing inexorably closer to him. Secundus' breath came in ragged gasps. He couldn't help it. He was completely vulnerable. Each encounter with the soul tormentors took another piece of his soul.
He quickly adjusted his torn tunic, trying to preserve some dignity even though he knew, by the way those demons acted, that they didn't care. Nothing human mattered to them.
The silhouette of one of the "soul tormentors", a name he had decided to use to describe these demonic jailers, appeared in the shadows. It was tall, taller than any human should be. A thin dark energy field flickered in front of Secundus' cell entrance, but even through this impenetrable veil, the demon was visible. His mind recalled ancient legends, myths of infernal monsters that terrorized the weak and took the souls of the fallen.
The weapon it held, that strange, magical rod, was another reminder of these torturers' infernal power. Secundus clenched his jaw, unable to fully grasp the concept of these weapons that used demonic magic to torture him.
("Cursed magic…") He thought. ("What else could these tools be but an extension of the dark powers of the goddess of this hell?") The energy field crackled slightly as the guard passed near his cell, and Secundus' heart pounded in his chest as if it wanted to escape his confinement.
The torturer simply walked by, but its mere presence was enough to leave Secundus' body frozen, paralyzed by a primal instinct for survival. A shiver ran down his spine, the kind of shiver that could only be triggered by a force that transcended the physical, something that spoke directly to the soul itself.
("By Emroy, we are doomed") He thought, feeling the last remnants of hope drain from him with each day he spent in this cursed dungeon. This hell was insurmountable, beyond human control. How could one man, or even a legion, possibly think of surviving against demons with such overwhelming power?
Secundus shook his head, which fell over his face. His disheveled gray hair, a product of his advanced age, still retained a dark tone from his youth. He wanted to rid himself of those thoughts, to escape the constant despair that consumed him. ("I am not a man ruled by emotions") He reminded himself. He was a warrior, a general.
Defeat was not something he should be familiar with. And yet, here he was, unable to do anything but reflect on his inevitable end. The days blurred together in his mind like a mass of indistinct memories and nightmares.
With heavy eyelids, the veteran warrior allowed exhaustion to take over, his body demanding rest, if only for a moment. His eyes began to close, pulling him towards the abyss of sleep, but just as rest began to claim him, a sharp buzzing filled the air.
The familiar electrifying sound jolted his mind and body. His spine arched slightly, immediately recognizing the noise: the energy barrier of his cell was deactivating. The dark energy field that had served as an impenetrable door now glowed a deep, vibrant blue, almost hypnotic, like a threshold between his cell and whatever awaited outside.
He opened his eyes abruptly, his head turning towards the entrance just in time to see the energy field distort and, finally, vanish, forming a rectangular opening, a portal offering a brief glimpse of the dark corridor beyond. But the occasional flickering of that blue light made the shadow of what was about to enter seem almost unreal.
They advanced, like shadows darker than the night. Two of the soul tormentors' guards entered his cell with a terrifyingly firm purpose. Their "armor" or skin faintly gleamed in the dimness of the prison, each of their mechanical movements accompanied by a soft metallic click.
These were not humans, he thought. No human could move as dryly as a golem, so precisely. They were something else, something cold and calculating. Secundus felt his skin prickle in their presence, though they barely acknowledged him. The demons needed only to exist to make their power felt.
The sentinels were not alone. Dragging with them two newly captured prisoners, they shoved the captives with no compassion, throwing them into Secundus' cell as if they were little more than trash. The impact of the first one reverberated through the cell as he fell to his knees, gasping for air. The second, much younger, was pushed directly against the wall, his thin body trembling.
Secundus watched them. One was barely a boy, perhaps sixteen, but already wore the tunic of an imperial warrior. The other, older, bore the marks of having resisted harder, his face already bruised.
The younger one, the arrogant one, suddenly raised his head. There was a look in his eyes that Secundus recognized immediately: it was the pride, the stubbornness of the imperial noble, that unshakable sense of entitlement that often brought disaster. And disaster was what he invoked with his words.
"Let me go, you filthy beast! You have no idea who you're dealing with!" he shouted in a tone that could only be described as defiant and foolish, his words echoing in the prison. "I am Kaeso Pa Senecio, son of a noble family, with more wealth than you could ever imagine!" The words kept coming, unceasingly. "I demand you release me!" Each word was a mistake.
And then, the torturer acted.
Without any further warning other than a brief metallic hiss, the nearest soul tormentor unsheathed its magic staff and activated it with a dry snap. A flash of light ran down the weapon before a burst of demonic energy struck Kaeso's abdomen.
The young noble barely had time to scream before his nerves were assaulted by the pain. "AAAAAAAHHHHH!" His voice, laden with suffering, echoed off the concrete walls.
He doubled over, his body completely out of control. His limbs trembled violently, every muscle convulsing as if an invisible hand had seized the strings of his body and was moving them at random.
Secundus watched him, not in amazement, but with pity. He knew well what the young man was feeling. He had experienced that pain countless times since his arrival. He knew that those rods were not made to kill, no, the demons did not need something that simple. They were designed to hurt, to make you wish for death.
The guard's words broke the silence that had been left by the boy's scream. His voice, distorted by that damned armor and magic, echoed in perfect imperial Latin: "Your rank, your family, your gold, or whatever you are in that world of yours means nothing here. In this place, you are nothing, just like everyone else. If you disobey or challenge me again, I won't hesitate to destroy that pampered noble face of yours that you value so much. Understood?"
The words were accompanied by another direct discharge into the young man's body, his body bouncing off the floor.
The words flowed with an eerie precision, perfect, as if Ral/la and Elange, gods of knowledge and learning, had imbued those beings with the ability to master the imperial language in mere moments. The impact was almost physical. Secundus felt it in his chest, as if the air had been sucked from his lungs by an invisible hand.
For a brief but eternal moment, his mind went completely blank. It wasn't just surprising, but bewildering, a devastating blow to everything he had once thought he understood about the powers that governed the universe.
("How...?") His mind formed the question but his mouth was too dry, too paralyzed by fear to speak it aloud.
In front of him, Kaeso, still convulsing on the floor, no longer seemed so defiant. His young and proud arrogance had been swept away by the harsh reality of the pain inflicted by those inhuman demons.
Secundus closed his eyes for a second, trying to remember. Until just a few hours ago, those monsters only emitted guttural sounds, impossible to interpret, distorted and cruel. But something had changed, and the matter was terrifying in itself. What had led them to this sudden mastery of his language?
After all, how was it possible that these demons, who clearly served a dark deity, had learned in such a short time the language that had been spoken for six hundred years in Falmart? And not only learned: they had perfected every accent, every inflection, as if they too had been born and raised in the academies of Sadera.
The situation was becoming much darker. ("Ancient gods, gods of the Empire... What kind of sorcery is this?") The ancient prophets always spoke of entities that dwelled on the other side of the known world, creatures that had no form but could twist the will and thoughts of mortals.
Those who returned from such encounters -if they returned at all- did not come back as sane men or women. Their minds were broken, unrecognizable, filled with confusing words full of shadows. ("Are we dealing with demons from beyond the ocean? Or something worse?") The mere idea made his stomach churn. After all, that was one of the reasons why the Empire had stopped caring about searching for new continents.
Another chill ran down his spine as the transhuman sentinel turned to them once again. His distorted, monotone voice, as inhuman as the first time he had heard it, now spoke such perfect Latin, so cold, that it made the very air seem to freeze around him.
"Understand this once and for all, prisoners from the Empire of Sadera. What you were out there means nothing here."
That simple phrase struck like a dagger in the deepest part of Secundus. It was something he had known, deep down, since he had arrived in this hell. And yet, hearing those words from demonic lips, in his own language, made that reality materialize in a painfully tangible way.
The emotional blow was devastating. ("They're mocking us") He thought. ("It's the only thing that makes sense.") The torturers, these monsters that just a few days ago looked at him as if he were little more than cattle, now spoke the language of emperors, philosophers, generals... as if it were their own. Every word, every syllable that fell from those infernal lips only reinforced the total impotence in which Secundus found himself.
"You don't know what you're saying!" Kaeso managed to howl with his voice broken by the pain, his body still shaking from the aftereffects of the electric shock he had received. "I am a son of the House of Senecio! We are of the highest nobility!"
It was a desperate plea, a vain illusion that had not yet been fully dispelled from the young man's mind. He still clung to that belief, as if his titles and wealth had any power over these beings.
But Secundus, watching the scene with hardened eyes, knew it didn't matter. Here, in these cold walls, where demonic magic reigned and their captors were beyond any human understanding, the name of Senecio was nothing but empty air.
The transhuman guard did not respond with words this time. The rod in his hand hissed with almost beastly violence, and a second electric discharge tore through the air before hitting Kaeso squarely in the torso.
"AAAAAHHHH!" The young man's scream rose in a crescendo of agony, his back arching in the air as his nerves burned under the relentless assault of demonic electricity.
The silence that followed Kaeso's harrowing scream was even worse than the painful sound that had filled the cell. The stale air, thick with the acrid smell that always accompanied the use of magic weapons, seemed to suffocate everything. And despite the numbness and the desperate desire to close his eyes, Secundus forced himself to keep watching.
The cold, calculated tone of the sentinel was impossible to ignore. "Nothing you are matters here. Your histories, your titles... they are irrelevant. In this place, there is only one law, and that is the will of the Alliance."
Kaeso writhed once more, unable to contain his spasms. His muscles responded to the dark magic of the demons, but he was also starting to learn something else, something every prisoner here would learn sooner or later. That in this place, under the will of these demons, valor and status meant nothing.
Secundus tried his hardest to avoid drawing the guards' attention. Desperation drove him to shrink like a cornered animal, pressing himself into the farthest corner of the cell's door. It was an almost instinctive act. He didn't have the strength to fight, much less to resist. The pride of the general, the fire that had once burned so intensely, was now nothing but dying embers.
Every fiber of his being was tense, his body hunched like a crouched predator, ready to flee at the slightest provocation. But, unlike a predator, Secundus wasn't waiting for an opportunity to attack. No. He just wanted to go unnoticed. Avoid becoming the next subject of his captors' sadistic games.
However, those demons weren't stupid. As if it could smell his fear, one of the soul tormentors slowly turned its head toward Secundus' direction. The bright optical lenses that hid the guard's eyes flashed with a reddish hue, casting an ominous glow across the dark space of the cell. That little flash, so cold and methodical, was enough to ignite panic in Secundus' stomach.
The general held his breath, trying to stay still. But the guard's movement was fluid, like a predator stalking. Like the soul tormentors themselves, that movement had something almost supernatural about it, a disturbing grace for something that seemed so inhuman. Every step it took toward Secundus' cell was imbued with authority, with a power that went beyond the merely physical.
Raising its energy rod, one of those wands that had caused so much suffering to the general, the sentinel aimed it directly at him. The rod crackled menacingly, the sound like a swarm of furious wasps buzzing around him. Secundus' stomach knotted with fear, and though his mind wanted to run, he knew there was no escape.
"You, get up and follow us," the guard's voice came out distorted by the mask hiding its face. It seemed to lack any trace of humanity. Cold. Impersonal. Like one of the golems of ancient mages, only more terrifying, because these beings seemed to enjoy the pain they inflicted.
Secundus hesitated for a second, his legs barely responding to the command. But he knew what happened when you resisted. He knew what awaited him if he didn't obey. The contained fury of a man accustomed to commanding, to being obeyed, to being treated with respect, clashed against the absolute fear he felt in that moment. But it was that fear that finally made him move his legs, at first clumsily, as if he were learning to walk again.
Slowly he stood, his body trembling, his legs numb from the hours he had spent curled up in the cell. He felt his body almost wobble as he tried to straighten up, his knees buckling under the weight of the situation. His hesitant gaze traveled across the confines of the cell. His military instincts tried to find any weak point, any opportunity to escape, but reality was cruel. There was no hope. Not while these demons ruled this hell.
He had barely managed to fully stand when two more sentinels advanced toward him from either side. They moved with a precision that was chilling. Their movements were completely uniform, as if they were two parts of the same being, coordinated by a single mind. They were the monsters who tormented the souls of this place. They were the very manifestation of despair.
The guards' gauntlets closed tightly around Secundus' arms, immobilizing him effortlessly. There was no fight to be had against them. These beings not only had the physical strength of several men, but they seemed to enjoy every moment of their work.
The third guard, a little taller than the other two, approached from behind. The coldness of his movements was complemented by the almost robotic efficiency with which he grabbed Secundus' wrists and proceeded to fasten thick steel cuffs around them. The click of the cuffs locking in place echoed like a whip crack in the general's ears, sealing his fate. The feeling of enslavement was even more bitter than he had anticipated. The entire life of the general, dedicated to the Empire, was now being reduced to this: an impotent captive, of no value beyond the entertainment of these demons.
He turned his neck slowly, his muscles protesting from the stiffness, and his gaze fell on young Kaeso, who was still curled up on the ground, trembling. The boy who had once boasted of his status now seemed like a broken figure, filled with fear. The arrogance had vanished from his face, replaced by a palpable terror, reflected in the boy's wide-open eyes.
"Calm down, boy, the pain will pass," Secundus murmured, his voice hoarse from thirst, but maintaining a certain authority in his tone despite everything. His words, though few, were comforting, a final lesson for the young noble who barely understood the gravity of his situation.
His gaze met Kaeso's, and for a brief moment, he saw in the boy's eyes the same glimmer of despair that he felt in his own chest. Secundus knew there was little hope for the young man if he didn't learn quickly. "Listen to me well," he said, pausing to catch his breath. "Learn how to behave... Mind your tongue. If you want to survive here, that's the first thing you need to do."
But the time for warnings had already run out. Before he could say anything more, he felt the violent push of the guards behind him. His body jerked forward without resistance. It wasn't worth it. He knew what happened when you tried to fight, and Secundus was no longer in any condition to endure another beating.
Once in the main corridor, the scene that unfolded before Secundus' eyes was truly Dantesque. He had heard of divine punishments, punishments sent by the gods for those who opposed imperial will, but this surpassed any torture his mind had ever conceived.
The prisoners -both his imperial comrades and the strange bandits of City 17- were treated like mere sacks of meat, with no regard for their lives or suffering. The soul tormentors shoved and tossed the captives into cells without a shred of compassion, their bodies hitting the concrete with the wet sound of bones colliding with each other. A continuous spectacle of horror.
The cold, rigid corridor offered no solace. Secundus watched in horror as the men fought futilely, hurling themselves like madmen against the dark energy fields that gleamed with an unnatural intensity. Each impact against those barriers resonated with a terrifying buzz, sending the prisoners flying back with brutal force.
They would rise again, staggering, with nothing but overwhelming desperation to guide them. And yet, their attempts were useless, their cries of pain mixing with the endless echo of the demonic guards' electric rod discharges.
The prisoners' bodies convulsed, some with muscles still twitching as they sought comfort after a particularly painful shock. Some screamed, others simply remained silent, their faces turned into masks of pain and utter defeat. The energy flowed from the magic wands with an eerie ease, the electric roar like a hungry beast feeding off the prisoners' misery.
Out of the corner of his eye, Secundus could see several of his own imperial soldiers -men who had once marched proudly under his command- now reduced to shadows of what they once were. Young Decio, whose imperial tunic was barely held together in tatters.
He hurled himself blindly at the barriers, his eyes ablaze with madness fueled by hopelessness. His body bounced violently off the force field and collapsed to the ground like a sack of sand, only to attempt to rise again in a spiral of failed attempts.
"Please Zufmuut, help me, forgive me for all the times I couldn't pay you tribute, but get me out of here!" Decio shouted, his voice echoing through the concrete walls. The words were the voice of a lost man, someone who had lost more than just his dignity in this hell.
Secundus watched his companion with a mixture of compassion and resignation. The containment fields did not change with the assaults, showing not the slightest sign of wear. He knew that any effort to escape was in vain, he had learned that lesson in the days or weeks before, when his own attempts, along with others, had been thwarted time and time again. The magic wands, those instruments of pure evil, were wielded with such precision that they left the prisoners on the brink of death without crossing that final line.
The soul tormentors didn't even need to use those wands constantly. They simply remained vigilant, confident that no prisoner could surpass the defenses they controlled. Their weapons remained holstered at their belts, which to Secundus' eyes seemed like a sign of their supreme confidence, a terrifying certainty in the efficiency of their spells.
Secundus swallowed hard. Memories swirled in his mind. He remembered when he had shared a cell with several imperial mages, men and women whose mastery of the arcane secrets had earned them respect and fear in the courts of Sadera.
But here, in Nova Prospekt, their powers were nothing. One by one, the mages had tried to break the containment fields. They cast ancient spells, conjured symbols of protection and opening. It was all in vain. The energy of these demons was impenetrable, more powerful than any spell they had encountered in their world.
Secundus still remembered the dim look in the mages' eyes when one of them, an older man with a white beard, had knelt before the barrier after his final failed attempt. "We are doomed," the old man had whispered, before being dragged away by two of the soul tormentors towards an uncertain fate.
Speaking of mages, Secundus hadn't seen any of them for quite some time. The cells near his had slowly emptied of anyone who demonstrated an affinity for magic.
The more "normal" prisoners had started speculating about their whereabouts, rumors spreading like wildfire in the hushed whispers of the inmates.
Where were they? What had they done to them?
A cold, calculated thought emerged in Secundus' mind. According to some of the other prisoners, the soul tormentors had a habit of selecting those who practiced the arcane arts. "They are sacrificed to the goddess," they whispered. "She feeds on their powers to maintain her dark reign over this hell."
That theory, as absurd as it sounded, seemed the only possible explanation for the absence of the mages. The last ones who had shared a cell with him had been taken away one night by two tormentors, dragged down the corridors without even a scream of protest. They knew it would be useless. They knew this was their end.
Secundus looked away from the containment fields and closed his eyes for a moment. The face of that old mage, his despair so tangible, still haunted his dreams. The damnation of Nova Prospekt wasn't just physical; it was mental. And sometimes, he wondered if dying outright wouldn't be more merciful than continuing to exist in this place.
As he was led through the hallway, the general felt the grip of the sentinels tighten on his arms. They weren't human. He had noticed that long before, but the more time he spent among them, the clearer that conclusion became.
Their strange yet terrifying faces, manifesting their demonic nature, the fact they never seemed to blink. The eyes that gleamed in the sockets of those faces were not eyes in the traditional sense. No, they were infernal beacons, windows into a void where humanity had been stripped away entirely.
The guards, with each synchronized step, left no room for error. They were like machines, like golems. Mechanical movements, cold and devoid of the fluidity Secundus expected from flesh and blood soldiers. He had heard legends of golems, those stone and metal automatons that the most powerful mages could control.
These soul tormentors reminded him of those creatures, though much more terrifying, because these didn't just follow orders: they seemed to enjoy the suffering of others. They didn't need emotions, they only obeyed. And they obeyed perfectly.
Around him, the screams of prisoners filled the air like a choir of lost souls in the Underworld. The newer inmates struggled against the guardians, their flesh hitting the floor in impacts that echoed like cruel, macabre music.
One of the prisoners, a man from City 17, with wide eyes and cracked lips, lifted his head to plead for mercy. "Please!" he cried, his voice breaking into a sob. "No more, please, I regret being a Resistance pointer!" His words found no pity.
A brutal electric discharge from one of the soul tormentors' rods ripped through his body, sending spasms through his limbs as the prisoner fell to the ground in a stiff, twisted position.
Secundus tried not to look. He didn't want to see. But it was impossible. The spectacle of suffering around him trapped him no matter which way he turned his head. This was hell on earth.
("If that goddess presides over this place, then she has been cruelly efficient in choosing her servants.") The general thought bitterly. There was no escape, not even in death. The only way out of Nova Prospekt would be if the goddess herself freed him, and for that, he would have to earn her favor. But how? How could anyone win the favor of such a ruthless being?
As Secundus walked down the gloomy prison corridors, observing how the empty cells were pitilessly refilled with new captives, he couldn't help but feel that the situation worsened with every passing moment. The chilling cold of the concrete floor seeped into his bare feet, a constant reminder of the harsh reality of his imprisonment.
The soul tormentors had stripped the veteran general of his armor and even his boots upon being brought to Nova Prospekt, leaving him practically defenseless and vulnerable to the environmental hardships of the prison. A growing worry swirled in Secundus' mind, plagued by the uncertain future awaiting him. He wondered with unease, gripped by the thought that these demonic beings might decide to execute him without hesitation.
If the unthinkable were to happen, he would never again see his beloved wife or his three small children, those for whom he tirelessly worked to provide a worthy livelihood. The very idea of abandoning them in such an abrupt and cruel manner was like a dagger to the general's heart.
The thunderous roar of a gunshot echoed through the corridors, yanking Secundus from his gloomy thoughts. Recognizing the sound as one of the torturers' "lethal magic rods," the general turned his head just in time to witness one of the guards aiming their weapon at the ceiling.
The gesture wasn't an empty threat, but a powerful warning directed at a small group of prisoners stubbornly resisting being thrown into their cells. Despite knowing firsthand the deadly power of those weapons, the captives still refused to submit completely.
Suddenly, the echo of heavy, resonant footsteps caught the general's attention as it came from an adjacent corridor. It was then that a tall, imposing figure appeared, towering even over the Torturers by a full meter. A new demonic form that Secundus had never witnessed.
The newcomer was something more than a monster of steel and corrupt magic; it represented damnation itself. Dressed in a sinister green robe that enveloped it like a cursed cloak, its rounded, metallic head emerged like an aberration. Two black lines, like the tears of a martyr eternally tortured, extended from its empty eyes, etched into its emotionless face, transforming it into a macabre creature.
The soul tormentors, those beings whose mere presence drained the will to fight, stepped back without hesitation, like "fearful" subjects, to make way for what Secundus named in his tongue as "Purgator Nefandus," an entity dedicated to purging and consuming.
Its weapon, the Immolator, was not a mere combat device. For Secundus, it was the embodiment of the divine wrath of the feminine-voiced deity who commanded them. The green fires that spewed from its barrel could not be comprehended by an imperial-era mind. How could they? Corrupt magic, a power so deep and demonic it altered the very nature of whatever it touched. Pointing its curse at the three rebellious prisoners, the metallic beast did not hesitate. It pulled the trigger, and hell unleashed its fiery tongue.
The first prisoner, a young and reckless man, screamed as the malevolent flames licked his flesh. "Aaaahhh! My gods, it burns! IT BURNS!" The green tongues of fire clung to his skin as if they had a will of their own, melting flesh and muscle with an intensity that made his blood boil before turning into vapor within seconds.
The second fell to the ground convulsing, as if Flare himself had thrown him against the stones with the goal of reducing him to ash with his flames. Each spasm was a brutal reminder of his mortality. Screams, now reduced to a guttural echo, died in his throat as his body writhed grotesquely, soaked in the infernal burning of the corrupt energy. His skin hung like strips of ancient charred parchment.
The third, the most unfortunate, didn't even have the chance to scream. The cursed ray stripped him of all humanity in a matter of seconds, reducing him to a pile of bones and sizzling flesh. The demons' magic had consumed the living once again, delivering their bodies to the greenish flames as if the underworld had been opened.
The stench of burned flesh spread through the corridor. Secundus barely managed to suppress the bile rising in his throat as he felt his stomach churn at the disgusting fragrance of death by fire. As the soul tormentors dragged him down the hallway, his mind, a knot of tangled thoughts, flashed back to the battlefields where he'd witnessed terrible things... but nothing, nothing like this. The execution of these rebels was... different. A glimpse into hell itself.
When the cold metallic hands of the guards pushed him into another section of the maze of cells, the empty eyes of the Cremator followed him, silent. The sheer darkness in those sockets clung to Secundus' soul for a few brief, horrifying seconds before he was forced to look away. In his mind, the echo of those empty sockets remained, leaving a cold fear deeply lodged in his heart. One that wouldn't fade easily.
More and more, he felt the weight of the possibility. ("Will I be next?") He thought as he was led along, just another prisoner in this vast cemetery of the living.
The shadows around him seemed to stretch, devouring him. The corridor was endless.
The tension mounted with every step Secundus took. The volatility and nearly suffocating air of uncertainty wrapped around him, trapping him in a web of despair. Something dark, unspeakable, had settled in his gut, a premonition that something monstrous and abominable awaited deep within that hellish complex. Although he was a veteran of countless wars, there was a type of fear he'd never experienced in his world, the fear brought by Nova Prospekt's "demons."
Cautiously, the general kept walking, his bare feet brushing against the cold concrete floor. The faint echo of his steps sounded like a distant murmur in the darkness closing around him. He glanced warily at every crack, every corner of the new room they'd confined him to. He knew something had to be there, though at first glance, the room seemed empty. The guards never brought prisoners to a place without reason. There had to be some purpose to this room, some detail going unnoticed in the dimness.
Besides some stairs that descended into the abyss of the unknown bowels of the complex, there wasn't much else in the room that could be of use to him. That very emptiness was what fed the feeling that something was about to happen, a sensation spreading like poison through his veins. A dark premonition, almost tangible.
Secundus' heart raced wildly, and his muscles tensed involuntarily when the Tortores animarum pushed him towards the stairs. He knew it was useless to resist, and even more useless to fight. No matter how much his muscles tensed or how hard he tried to contain the fear, these demons were unstoppable. They showed no signs of fatigue, doubt, or compassion.
With every step he took down the endless steps into the gloom, his soul seemed to sink a little deeper. They were descending into a place where light barely reached. The embedded lights in the walls at regular intervals barely illuminated enough to outline the contours of the surroundings. As they descended, those dim points of light cast long, stretched shadows that moved and danced with them, like ethereal ghosts, silently watching their descent.
Each time the shadows flickered in his peripheral vision, Secundus' stomach churned in an anxious spasm. Everything in this place was designed to break the will, from the architecture to the oppressive atmosphere. This prison hell wasn't just designed to hold prisoners; it was designed to break their minds, to devour their souls.
Finally, after what seemed like centuries of endless descent, they reached what appeared to be a small antechamber deep within the bowels of Nova Prospekt. The room was claustrophobically small, barely larger than an average cell, but instead of bars or concrete walls, mysterious machines hung from the ceiling, inactive but menacing. Their heads were equipped with small red lights, blinking and bright, sweeping the room in a constant scan.
These devices, though apparently inactive, gave the impression that at any moment they could spring to life and unleash devastating force upon anyone in their path. Secundus had never seen anything like it. It was impossible to imagine what kind of demonic magic could create such things, but he was certain they served as some kind of surveillance or lethal device. Despite not knowing their true purpose, their mere presence heightened the sense of oppression and threat in the room.
The two guards, with their mechanical precision, led him without hesitation toward a metal door on the other side of the antechamber. Their perfectly coordinated movements created an echo that reverberated in the small, enclosed space, making Secundus feel as if the sound itself was imprisoning him. Nothing in this place was natural.
Without warning, one of the Tortores animarum emitted a guttural sound that rumbled in the air, an inhuman noise that made the general feel a knot tighten in his stomach. He didn't understand what the sound meant, but it was evident it had to be some kind of command or password, because as soon as the noise left its vocal cords, the metal door began to slide to the side with a high-pitched electrical whir.
When it opened, it revealed a new room on the other side, illuminated by a white, cold light that contrasted sharply with the suffocating gloom of the rest of the complex. The light was almost painful to Secundus' eyes, who wasn't used to such brightness after so long in the darkness of the prison.
Instinctively, he tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding light, a useless action given that he was still shackled. His only option was to blink repeatedly in an attempt to adjust his sight. However, the dazzling brightness was only a precursor of what was to come.
One of the sentinels pushed him roughly from behind, forcing him to take a step forward. "Get in now." The guard's words rang out as an absolute order, its distorted tone reverberating like thunder in the narrow space. Secundus couldn't help but flinch at the harshness of the command. His hands trembled slightly, but he kept his composure. There was no choice. Resistance was futile here.
His heart continued to pound, but all he could do was obey and wait for the inevitable.
Before the general could act of his own accord, one of the soul tormentors roughly shoved him into the new room. The push was strong enough to make Secundus stumble and fall to his knees on the floor, a dull thud echoing through the chamber as his knees collided with the hard concrete.
A dry, rough groan escaped his lips, born from immediate pain and accumulated fatigue. Every fiber of his being cried out for water, food, and rest, but instead, he found himself once again wrestling with the chains binding his wrists.
The thick cuffs prevented him from moving freely, making every attempt to get up an exhausting struggle. He pressed his palms against the cold, rough floor, trying to use the last of his strength to push himself upright. His legs wobbled beneath his weight, trembling as if they were about to give out at any moment.
He had barely managed to lift his head when a gloved, brutal hand grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him upright. The sudden motion made the world spin in his head. The dizziness, compounded by lack of food and water, caused his vision to blur momentarily, and the floor seemed to rise and fall beneath his feet.
The light in the new room, intensely bright, was the next thing to assault him. He wasn't accustomed to such clarity after days, maybe weeks, spent in the darkness. It was blinding, piercing.
The brilliant lights hung from the ceiling and walls, luminous orbs as perfect and unyielding as trapped stars. Secundus squinted, trying to adjust his vision to the sudden change. Despite the light, what captured his attention immediately wasn't the brightness, but a strange sound filling the room.
Footsteps, metallic, a soft and unsettling noise moving in his direction. It was almost like the echo of an old, broken machine, yet there was a kind of steady rhythm to its advance. Turning his head toward the source of the sound, what he saw took his breath away, chilling the blood in his veins. A shiver slid down his spine.
The first thing he saw was a strange figure moving clumsily from one terminal to another. On one of the screens... those that projected images from the air like floating mirages... he saw the silhouette of the being.
It typed on one of the many rectangular panels hanging from the wall, its fingers dancing frantically across what appeared to be a magical surface, but its body was dead. It was a completely lifeless gait. Despite moving from station to station, its arms hung like those of a corpse, limp and clumsy. Its grayish skin looked like the corpse of a man, withered and lifeless.
The appearance of that creature made Secundus take a step back, gripped by the horror that overtook him. Its features were hard to discern at first due to the bright light in the way, but as his eyes adjusted, more grotesque details emerged. The being wasn't an ordinary human. It was what had once been human, but was now stripped of all humanity.
Its skin was completely hairless, an unhealthy ashen gray. It seemed stretched taut over its skeletal frame, so emaciated that the ribs and bones of the limbs were clearly outlined under the thin layer of skin. The most disturbing part was the state of its limbs: they had been severed somehow, and instead of hands and feet, it had crude metallic prosthetics bolted onto the stumps.
The grotesque prosthetics creaked as it moved, each step stiff, awkward, and forced. It seemed incapable of moving naturally. Its movements were jerky, almost like those of a puppet whose strings were being pulled by an invisible hand. Worse still was its face, or what had once been its face.
Instead of eyes, the stalker had two black, empty holes. Its eyelids had been replaced by a metal plate that covered the upper half of its skull, from its forehead down to where its cheekbones once were.
On the sides of its head, near what used to be ears, small metal hinges were inserted, keeping the plate attached to the skull. Its mouth... that had also been altered. Although it had lips, they were dry, cracked, and stretched in an unnatural way. It had no nose, only two poorly healed holes that let out a constant sound, as if it were struggling to breathe.
But that wasn't the most disturbing thing.
Secundus felt the dizziness hit him again when he realized the creature had no genitalia. Any trace of humanity, any hint of its original identity had been completely removed.
The stalker was an empty shell, reduced to a slave that could no longer feel, think, or exist as a human being. Secundus' stomach churned at the thought of what other tortures they must have inflicted on that creature before turning it into what he now saw before his eyes.
Despite its grotesque appearance, the creature continued with its work. It was chained in some way to the terminal it worked on, its function reduced to maintaining what seemed to be those magical objects in operation.
Secundus watched, dumbfounded, as the stalker continued pressing the magical panels, completely absorbed in a task with no apparent purpose. The combination of the mechanical and the organic, of the living and the dead, was an abomination against anything the general had ever seen or heard in his life.
("What... what kind of torture is this?") He thought, with the horror pounding in his chest like an incessant drum. He had heard stories of atrocities committed during wartime, of tortures and punishments beyond human comprehension, but nothing had prepared him for this. This being had not only been destroyed in body, but also in mind and soul. Any vestige of will had been torn out, replaced with absolute submission.
As Secundus kept watching, his eyes began to explore the rest of the room. What he saw made him feel like he was in the very belly of hell. Along the walls, strange devices glowed with flickering lights.
There were several bodies, or at least, what appeared to be human bodies, bound to what looked like the entrails of mechanical creatures, with metal tentacles holding them suspended in the air. Cables coiled around the torsos and limbs of the people, keeping them there, immobile, trapped in the embrace of those strange devices.
Secundus' eyes widened in horror when one of the bodies groaned weakly, barely audible. It was alive, if such an existence could even be called life. Before he could even process what he was witnessing, he felt a sharp prick in his arm, just above the elbow. The pain was intense enough to pull him from his stupor.
He looked down and saw a thin metal needle had been embedded in his skin, connecting his arm to a nearby crystalline object containing some kind of substance. Before he could react, he felt his body begin to relax involuntarily, a heaviness in his eyelids. It was as if he were being slowly taken to the edge of sleep, his consciousness slipping out of reach as a dark fog began to fill his mind.
Turning his stiff neck, Secundus found one of the soul tormentors holding an empty syringe. The prick he had felt was undoubtedly some kind of demonic concoction administered to subjugate his will, a poison that muddied his mind and weakened his body with alarming speed.
The clarity in his eyes blurred; the room spun around him as if he were being dragged by a dark tide. His legs, which had once supported the weight of wars and battles, now wobbled like those of an old man about to give up at the end of his journey. The spell cast by the soul tormentors was nothing like the gentleness of elven arts; it was a curse that dragged its victim into the abyss of unconsciousness through a path lined with thorns.
The steps of the transhuman guards echoed on the floor like hammer blows on the anvil of fate. Before he could catch his breath, two more of these infernal beings grabbed him by the shoulders, their cold, metallic gauntlets closing around him like steel claws.
"Let me go, you damned demons!" Secundus shouted, but his voice faded into a weak echo against the unyielding walls of the chamber. His legs dragged furrows in the floor, marking the path of his futile resistance.
One of the guards responded with a deep, animalistic growl, a beast enraged in the form of a man. The tormentor's fist crashed into Secundus' abdomen with the force of a hammer, doubling the general over as a scream of pain escaped his lips, a tortured sound that resonated with the agony of his soul.
The drug injected into his veins did its work, each beat of his heart spreading the poison through his body, each pulse another nail in the coffin of his consciousness. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, signs of an internal battle as fierce as any he had faced on the battlefields.
Dragged like a sack of bones toward a chamber that seemed pulled from the darkest nightmares of men, Secundus could barely keep his eyes open. Bright lights flickered suddenly, shooting stars in the twilight of his troubled mind.
As his eyes struggled to adjust, the reality of the room revealed itself to him. Examination tables lined up like sacrificial altars, surgical instruments gleaming with promises of pain and despair. But what caught his attention and froze the blood in his veins was the central containment stretcher, a bed of torment adorned with shackles and straps, surrounded by monitors flashing cryptic data and screens projecting holographic images of his future tortures.
"By the gods, no! You can't do this!" Secundus' voice, rough with terror, erupted from his chest, but the soul tormentors showed no sign of hesitation. His arms were bound tight, dragged relentlessly toward the cold steel table where he would be imprisoned by both light and metal.
"Resist as much as you want," the raspy voice of one of the soul tormentors hissed as the echoes bounced off the metal walls of the chamber. "It only makes the drug work faster. The sooner you'll be unconscious."
Secundus tried to scream once more, to protest, but only a weak whimper escaped his parched lips. The poison pulsed through his veins like venomous webs that slowly tangled themselves around his mind. Each moment he was dragged further, each inch closer to the ominous steel slab, felt like a thousand steps toward eternal damnation.
All around him, the haunting faces of other prisoners reflected his same dread. Their terror and confusion were like mirrors, fragments of the same nightmare he lived. Each of them was escorted by their own set of soul tormentors, the inhuman faces beneath their helmets emotionless, uncaring. Every step closer to the altar felt like being led toward a twisted sacrificial table where they would all lose everything. Everything that once made them human.
Secundus gasped in shock as he was thrown onto the freezing surface of the metal table. An electric hum suddenly filled the room a sterile, artificial sound that contrasted starkly with the void of death hanging in the air. The table hummed with dark energy, its mechanisms coming to life with a deep, ominous purpose. Straps bound his wrists, ankles, and neck tightly against the table. He was completely immobilized, left at the mercy of the machines that surrounded him. His last attempt at resistance failed before it even began.
As the steel cuffs closed around his wrists with an unnervingly final click, the general felt as if the world were closing in. The machinery swirled, cold and malicious in its intent. A finality washed over him, and every ounce of his power seemed futile. The soul tormentors, faceless under their helmets, drew near, surrounding him with no mercy, no care for his cries. They were preparing to break him in every conceivable way.
Secundus' fingers twitched, the tendons in his forearms tightening one last time. Desperation and old, battered pride surged within him, one last fight for freedom. His arms, which had once held swords, led charges, and defended cities, now bulged under his tattered, bloodied skin. His veins throbbed, muscles straining against the impenetrable steel shackles. The once great general, hero of his empire, was now nothing more than a writhing man strapped to a table.
The effort was worthless. Each motion made the metal bindings tighten around him, like iron snakes wrapped around his limbs, and mocked every failed struggle. Every inch he moved, the machines squeezed tighter, bruising him. He felt his strength fading with every pulse of the drug in his veins, his warrior's reflexes dulled into sluggish movements. There would be no escape, not from this nightmare.
Despite everything, Secundus fought against the inevitable, pushing the boundaries of the little willpower left in him. A flicker of his old self remained, the man who once commanded battalions with only a wave of his hand. Yet here he was, gasping as he tried in vain to fight invisible chains tightening around his mind. The once heroic man now resembled nothing more than an animal in its final death throes, his limbs jerking in sporadic spasms as his body's resistance melted away.
Secundus' chest heaved with shallow, restricted breaths, his throat hoarse. His ribs rattled, crashing against the unforgiving slab beneath him. The iron clamps wrapped around his torso prevented his lungs from expanding fully, squeezing any attempt at breathing into brief gasps. The struggle to pull air into his lungs caused his parched tongue to slip between his cracked lips. The room's staleness sucked the life from him with every failed attempt at a full breath.
Somewhere beyond his muddled vision, the buzz of machines filled the space, grinding against the silence as they awakened. Secundus' fogged mind could hardly focus on the shapes surrounding him, yet he was aware of something movement, an impending horror just outside the range of his vision. He could make out the cold outline of a machine rising, coming to life as it prepared itself for the next horrific act.
He turned his head with difficulty, muscles tense from involuntary convulsions as the machinery's mass advanced toward his head. He tried to move -to scream- but the restraints pressed against his neck, preventing the motion. His Adam's apple bobbed visibly, an involuntary sign of fear as he gulped at the meager air he could steal. Silent, desperate prayers slipped from his chapped lips, pleading to the gods he now realized had long since abandoned him.
With a sharp snap, the device secured itself around his head, plunging his world into a thick, all-encompassing darkness. His sight gone, his only remaining link to the world outside of this pitch-black abyss was the rhythmic thump of his panicked heart in his ears. Secundus' eyes darted back and forth, the only part of him able to move as they strained to find a light, an exit, something, anything to prove he still existed. The darkness became a prison far more insidious than the iron cuffs on his limbs.
In that unyielding void, Secundus' body began to surrender. His fight turned to muscle fatigue, then lethargy, and finally numbness. The adrenaline rush that kept his heart hammering began to wane, the violent pumping of his blood slowing into resignation. Every panicked struggle, every hope of fighting back, began to die within him.
The pressure around his skull increased. A high-pitched ring invaded his consciousness, loud and piercing within the walls of his mind.
And then...it began.
A white-hot pain stabbed through his scalp as a sharp tool punctured the layers of his skin. The invasive instruments drilled deeper into his skull with mechanical precision, each twist slicing further into his flesh, aiming toward his brain. Even with the dulling effects of the poison that coursed through his body, the agony of having foreign tools burrow into his skull was an unparalleled horror. Words could not describe the violation he felt, the inescapable torment of being turned into something less than human.
Secundus' neck muscles bulged, the tendons straining painfully against his skin. His fists clenched tight, his nails digging into his palms as he tried in vain to form fists. His legs spasmed uncontrollably, the grates beneath his bare heels scraping cold against the soles of his feet. Every twitch, every thrash, was contained by the bindings that kept him perfectly still.
And all the while, the machine worked, its sinister precision digging into the soft matter of his brain.
Memories shattered one by one, fragments breaking off into nothingness with each methodical incision.
The colors of his home's walls were the first to slip away, followed by the fleeting taste of the wine he had savored during what would be his last night at camp. Even the familiar rhythm of his horse's breath, always so steady beside him before battle, was wiped away into oblivion. Bit by bit, piece by piece, those precious details that made up his life were erased.
Soon the faces of his men began to fade. Names that once meant everything to him, those of comrades who had fought by his side, became distant echoes. The sights and sounds of the battlefield, the clashing of steel and the rallying war cries, blurred into distant, fog-covered images.
Secundus tried to focus, to hold onto those images for a moment longer. But the grasping, prodding fingers of the machine within his mind were relentless, taking those memories and grinding them into dust.
His children…
His heart stopped momentarily when the faces of his children flashed through his mind. For one brief second, he could see them clearly, could remember how their eyes gleamed when they ran towards him, when he returned from a campaign.
But the poison in his blood and the instruments tearing through his brain gave him no respite. That image, that cherished moment, began to fade, slipping out of his reach. The faces of his children blurred like watercolor smeared under the rain.
"V-Velia..."
The name of his wife escaped from his mouth, a hoarse and barely audible whisper. He could still recall her laughter, the feel of her hands in the twilight of the night. But the machine, ruthless in its purpose, continued erasing those memories too. Velia's laughter vanished, transforming into an indecipherable melody that receded, and her hands became unreal, as though he'd never touched her.
("No, no, this can't be happening!")
His body, still strapped to the table, convulsed slightly in response to the intense inner struggle. His intercostal and lower back muscles contracted in spasms as confusion and panic seized him.
Secundus began to beg. "Emroy, help me!" His words dragged from his dry lips. "Please! Please, help me, guide me in this war... Don't let me fall into the hands of these beings." Each word was loaded with a desperate plea, a call to the deity he'd served his entire life, hoping, praying, that the god of war would answer his call.
"Emroy... save me. Please, I beg you, don't let them tear me from myself... god of war, protect me!" The invocation of one of Falmart's most powerful deities resounded with greater fervor, but the words were ineffective. Despite the intensity of his call, the god did not appear. Secundus received no response, neither in his mind nor in the void.
Emroy held no authority in this world, and he never would, even if he wished it. Slowly, Secundus' identity—the man, the father, the general—crumbled.
His achievements, his victories, his mistakes, his loves, his hates. Everything dissolved in the black void enveloping him, swept away by an implacable storm of oblivion. Tears began to fall from his eyes, but in that absolute darkness, he couldn't even remember why he cried. Soon, the tears stopped making sense, and the reasons behind them evaporated.
And finally, his own name disappeared.
Secundus... Secundus?
("Who am I?") Secundus was no longer. He didn't know who he was, or what he was doing there. There was a void within him, a thick fog erasing all memory, every trace of humanity. He had died in spirit, while his body remained trapped, at the mercy of his captors.
But while his old memories extinguished, new memories began to implant themselves into his mind. In that utter darkness, images surfaced that he didn't recognize, yet somehow knew were true.
The "magic" of the demons he had feared was nothing more than advanced technology. The magic wands that had caused him so much pain were firearms and dark energy weapons. Now, he understood all their components, how to disassemble them, how to fire them, how to inflict maximum pain. He could now visualize, with crystal clarity, the rifles and pistols he once confused with sorcery. Now he understood how they worked.
The creatures he had thought were demons were merely soldiers, men and women enhanced with metallic components that made them stronger, faster, deadlier, more capable.
He, too, would become one of them...
The procedures that had caused him so much suffering were nothing more than necessary steps to improve him, to strip away his human weakness and transform him into something far more powerful, something more effective for his new masters. Now, he understood his place. Now, he understood who he had to obey.
The face of the "goddess" he once feared, the feminine voice that made him tremble, was no deity. She was a higher intelligence controlling this place. Overwatch, as that voice was called, would guide him, would lead him toward his new objectives.
His mind was now a blank slate, ready to be molded. Secundus, the man, was gone. What remained was a new entity, a perfect unit to serve the soul tormentors. His body still resisted the transformation, but his mind was already enslaved, obedient, ready to receive any command.
As the demonic echoes of Nova Prospekt filled the room, the wardens advanced mercilessly once more toward the former general. Their "eyes" lacked compassion, radiating darkness and damnation as they held torture instruments in their hands.
It wasn't just the steel they intended to insert into his skull; no, their goal was far more sinister. Secundus' soul itself would be fragmented, molded into a hollow shadow of what was once human. Now, stripped of memories, the lobotomy would leave him utterly soulless. The cold metal would sever his thoughts, annihilating his emotions, the so-called "human ballast."
Secundus' dead eyes no longer reflected fear or hatred. His identity no longer existed. He was, to all intents and purposes, just another tool at the service of his captors. The shackles around his wrists were mere decorations on an empty vessel. The metallic creak signaled the start of the process. No return.
But it wasn't fast. With scalpel in hand, they began, cutting the skin around the scalp. No humanity remained as they dismantled him, piece by piece. His body trembled, spasms having nothing to do with the man he once was. The instruments inserted and the veins removed only deepened the desolation of what was happening. He no longer belonged to the world of the living, those who could love and feel, and he would no longer enjoy such a luxury.
The shackles around his wrists tightened once more, ensuring no resistance. Soon, Secundus would be something else, something new, without his sentimental and emotional weaknesses…
