The night fell over Kama-shima like a heavy curtain.
The silence inside the prison cells was thick, broken only by the occasional cough, groan, or rustle of chains against stone. The long day of labor had drained everyone, and most were too exhausted to do anything but collapse into sleep.
Daemon wasn't most people.
He laid on his back, staring at the low ceiling, his breath steady, ears open.
Tap...Tap...Tap
Then—footsteps.
Light at first. Then more. A cluster of them.
At first, he assumed it was just the guards doing a midnight round. But the sound didn't match the usual military rhythm. These steps were out of sync—sloppy, staggered, eager.
Then came a scuffle. A clink of metal. Whispered voices.
He opened one eye.
William had already bolted upright on his bedding, eyes wide. "Wh-what's that?"
"Relax," Daemon said quietly. He sat up slowly. "Something's about to happen."
There was a sharp scrape of metal against metal.
And then the door to their cell slid open with a low, rusty creeeeeak.
Daemon's red eyes caught the glint of knives in the dark. Seven—no, ten—figures stood in the corridor outside. Shadows with jagged teeth and crooked grins.
"Well, well," one of them grinned. "The white-haired bastard's awake."
Daemon sat up slowly. "You came all this way just for me?" His voice was calm. Cold.
"You pissed off someone important. You're a threat, and threats don't last long in this place."
"Funny. I don't see 435 here," Daemon said, scanning their faces. "Let me guess... he sent his rats instead?"
"Smart guy. Yeah. He's got pull. Bought us some favors. Unlocked our cell for a little late-night cleanup."
Daemon stood up slowly, eyes scanning their weapons, postures, breathing. "Interesting," he muttered. "How'd you get the cell open? Guards wouldn't just hand over keys."
"He's got connections," another one said, voice low and proud. "This whole block is his playground. If he wants you dead, you're dead."
Daemon gave a slow, humorless smile. "Sending rats to do the lion's work, huh?"
"Keep talking, pretty boy," one of them growled, "we'll see if you still got that tongue in five minutes."
William scrambled back against the wall, trembling. "Wh-what do we do?!"
Daemon cracked his neck. "Stay out of the way. I'll make this quick."
The first man lunged.
He stepped in, catching the attacker's wrist mid-swing, twisting sharply until bone cracked, and then drove his elbow straight into the man's throat. The attacker dropped instantly.
That was the spark.
The rest charged.
Knives flashed in the dark. Daemon moved like a phantom, weaving through them, eyes glowing red in the moonlight leaking through the barred window. He grabbed a second man by the collar and slammed him face-first into the wall.
Another tried to stab him from behind, but Daemon spun, kicking out the man's knee, then punching him across the jaw hard enough to rattle teeth.
Three down.
One of the larger prisoners tried to tackle him from behind. Daemon allowed the hit to connect, let the momentum push him back—and then countered by flipping the man over his shoulder and slamming him onto the stone floor.
A fourth rushed in, more cautious, keeping his blade low.
Daemon side-stepped, let the swing pass, and then drove his palm upward into the attacker's chin—crack. He collapsed.
By now, only a few remained, their confidence shattered.
But one still tried.
He stabbed forward wildly.
Daemon grabbed his arm, twisted it sideways, and with a clean motion, used the man's own momentum to drive the blade back into his thigh.
The prisoner screamed and fell.
The last two dropped their knives.
"I'm not getting paid enough for this!" one muttered, already backing away.
"Wise," Daemon said coldly. "Now get out before I change my mind."
The two turned and ran.
Silence returned, broken only by groans and labored breathing. William was crouched in the corner, looking like he'd just witnessed a demon.
Daemon stood in the middle of it all, breathing lightly, like he'd just gone for a walk.
"D-did you just take down ten people?" William whispered.
"Eight," Daemon corrected. "Two had enough sense to leave."
"You're strong," the boy muttered.
He turned toward the hallway, wiping blood off his hand with part of a ripped shirt. The guards hadn't shown up once.
Either they didn't care... or 435 really did own this place.
He'd just made himself a target but that was fine,he'd never liked waiting anyway.
...
The next morning.
The sharp clang of boots striking stone echoed through the underground cells, jerking awake the few prisoners who had managed to sleep through the night. Daemon was already sitting upright on his bed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes half-lidded in feigned drowsiness.
The cell door clanged open, and two junior soldiers stepped in, recoiling slightly at the groans and curses echoing from the corridor.
"What the hell—?" one of them muttered.
The hallway outside was littered with bruised and battered bodies—eight prisoners, all unconscious or barely squirming. Blood smeared the stone floor in streaks, and a couple of knives had been kicked aside near the wall.
"What happened here?" the taller soldier barked, instinctively drawing his blade.
The prisoners in the other cells pressed against the bars, mumbling in confusion.
"I—I don't know," one muttered, eyes wide. "There was some noise. Thought it was a dream."
"Yeah," another prisoner added. "Woke up to groaning and footsteps. Nobody left their cell though."
William, half-asleep, blinked and rubbed his eyes dramatically. "Huh? What's going on?" he asked, playing up the innocent act. Daemon smirked slightly.
The soldiers looked between each other. One of them clicked his tongue. "They broke out of their cells. That's all Captain Timothy needs to hear."
"But how?" the other whispered. "The locks weren't even broken."
"That's for the punishment room to figure out."
A squad of more experienced guards arrived, wheeling in a cart with manacles and iron rods. Without much ceremony, the battered eight were shackled and tossed like sacks of grain onto the cart, groaning and wheezing.
"Escaping your cells is an offense," one of the senior guards declared. "Regardless of who did what, you break the rules, you get broken."
Nyxtriel, standing in her patrol uniform by the entrance to the cells, watched with calm detachment. Her red eyes scanned the corridor and briefly locked with Daemon's as the prisoners were being gathered. Her gaze softened for the faintest second, as if to say: I know it was you.
Daemon didn't react outwardly, but a knowing gleam flickered in his eye.
One of the recruits, the girl who had been suspicious of Nyxtriel earlier, leaned closer to her. "You think that guy really beat them down?" she whispered.
Nyxtriel kept her voice steady. "Not possible. He looks like a twig."
The girl narrowed her eyes. "Still weird, though."
Nyxtriel didn't respond. She stepped forward with the rest of the guards as they escorted the prisoners out of the cellblock and back into the open air. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, casting a dull golden sheen across the island.
The prisoners marched in silence, the only sound being the clink of chains and the shuffle of heavy boots on stone paths.
As they neared the mining zone, the harsh landscape of Kama-shima stretched before them — jagged cliffs, broken rock fields, and massive trenches where dozens of criminals hacked at the earth with rusted tools.
"Move it, 234," a soldier snapped, giving Daemon a hard shove between the shoulders.
Daemon stumbled forward but didn't protest. He made his way to the tool rack and grabbed a worn pickaxe, the handle rough and splintered from years of use. Around him, the clang of metal against stone echoed like war drums. The air was thick with dust and sweat, every breath tasting of iron and effort.
William trudged behind him, dragging his feet. "You okay?" he asked, squinting at Daemon's unusually quiet expression.
"Yeah," Daemon muttered without looking at him. "Just... remembering something."
Daemon still didn't know much about the layout of this place, but one thing was clear—the security was tight. Too tight. He could already tell the mages were working the prisoners to exhaustion, forcing them to dig not just for labor's sake, but for something more. The fragments. That had to be the real reason behind all this.
But along with the fragments, they were also gathering raw mana stones—bright, humming crystals pulsing with magical energy. Mages used them to fuel spells, artifacts, and other arcane tools. To anyone else, they were useless rocks. But Daemon wasn't just anyone.
He had tried once—just once—to sneak a small mana stone back to his cell. But after every shift, the guards lined them up and searched their bodies. Every pocket, every fold of cloth. It was hopeless. He needed a better plan—some way to hide it, smuggle it, test if he could form a magic circle like King Velrick once told him. If his dragon heart really gave him access to magic... he had to find out.
"Hey! 234! Quit spacing out!"
"I heard you," Daemon muttered, snapping out of his thoughts and digging again.
He glanced to his right where William was struggling with his own pickaxe, drenched in sweat, face red.
"Hey... do me a favor."
William wiped his forehead with his sleeve, panting. "Did you say something, Dan?"
"Yeah. I need your help. I want you to steal one of those mana stones."
William's eyes widened. "What?! Are you serious? If they catch me—"
"I'll protect you," Daemon cut in, calm and serious. "You've seen what I can do. If it goes bad, I'll take the blame. I'll turn myself in if I have to."
William hesitated. He looked down at the cracked earth beneath them, hands tightening around his pickaxe. His last attempt at trust got him locked in a prison mine. He'd been betrayed once—by people who smiled to his face and left him behind when things got tough. That fear was still fresh.
Daemon noticed his hesitation and backed off.
"It's fine if you don't want to. I'm not forcing you," he said simply, turning back to his work.
The clink of pickaxes echoed through the mine. William stayed quiet, thinking.