Five days passed in the belly of Nouvelle Prison.
Five days of silent watching, memorizing routines, and blending in among the damned.
Azel and Clad played their parts with precision. Two new guards with deadened eyes and rigid posture, barely noticed among the others. The thirteenth floor was a graveyard of old men pretending to be wolves, and young wolves pretending not to be afraid.
Each cell held monsters, war criminals, cursed beasts and sorcerers whose names had been wiped from history.
On day one, a shapeshifter tried to slip through the bars. He didn't make it past the second step before Tom Vincent cleaved his body in two. No trial. No warning.
Tom didn't speak much. He didn't need to. His presence was enough to drown a man in fear. He patrolled the halls like a shadow made of steel and fire. The moment a prisoner raised his voice too high, Tom appeared. The moment a spell sparked, he crushed the caster's fingers with his boot.
"I'm not sure he sleeps."
Clad whispered one night as they scrubbed blood from a cell wall.
"I've seen him at every hour."
Azel didn't answer. He was watching Cell no 13 again.
Mr. X.
They hadn't learned his real name. No one used it. To the guards, he was a ghost in living flesh—silent, hollow-eyed, uncooperative, and yet oddly untouched by the same madness that plagued others.
Each day at noon, Mr. X emerged for lunch. He never spoke. Never made eye contact. He simply sat under the cracked skylight, picked at his food with slow, practiced hands, and returned to his cell without incident.
But Azel saw something else.
The sharp flick of his eyes when guards argued. The way he timed his footsteps to avoid attention. The subtle tensing of his fingers when Tom passed too close.
This man had been something once. Someone who'd learned to kill, learned to hide, and most importantly learned to survive.
The date had been posted: Mr. X's execution was scheduled for tomorrow.
"It's time."
Clad had said the night before, Azel and Clad made their rounds as usual. They passed the torture block, where the screams had long gone hoarse. They passed the prayer cell—where a blind priest carved words into his own flesh. Then they turned down the left wing, where the air smelled faintly of burnt hair and rust.
It was the execution chamber that drew their attention.
The room was circular, blackened by old fires, and surrounded by iron wards. In its corner stood a forgotten doorway, half-covered by fallen rubble. It led to an old corridor—sealed, cracked, and forgotten.
But Clad had pried it open.
They spent hours mapping the path, crawling through webs and bone piles, finding torches that had long since died. The tunnel snaked downward like a coiled serpent, branching through what looked like collapsed mining shafts and old, prisoner-dug escape routes.
"This isn't on any current blueprint. These passages predate the Divine Order's takeover of Nouvelle. Probably built by the original heretics locked in here."
Azel stared at the walls, where faded symbols and scratched warnings whispered forgotten prayers. Some told of freedom. Others—of massacre.
"There are blood marks going back."
Clad's jaw tightened.
"Tom probably found them before and killed the ones who dared."
Still… the tunnel worked. It led to a drainage spill beneath the eastern wall. A route barely wide enough for one man to crawl through, but unguarded and unlit.
It was a chance.
And tomorrow, they would use it.
By the time they returned, the prison was quiet. Too quiet.
Azel waited until the midnight shift rotated. Then, with calm precision, he stepped outside Cell 13. Mr. X lay on his cot, face turned to the wall, pretending to sleep.
Azel reached through the slot and slid the parchment between the folded blanket and the iron bars.
It was brief. Coded, but clear:
Execution Day. Tomorrow. Distraction during execution.
Tunnel marked behind Execution Room.
Map enclosed.
Be ready.
Mr. X did not move but as Azel turned to walk away, he saw the faintest flicker in the man's eye.
Chains clinked against stone as Mr. X was marched through the silent corridor.
Six guards surrounded him—silent, tense, gripping their weapons tighter than usual. His hands were bound, his feet shackled, and a black iron collar clamped around his neck. None of it mattered. He didn't resist. His head was bowed low, his expression unreadable beneath the overgrown strands of hair.
The thirteenth floor watched with quiet anticipation.
No cheers. No jeers.
Just the silence of men waiting to see another ghost disappear.
The elevator groaned downward. The guards flinched when it stopped. Two more joined them at the chamber doors. Above them, cracked frescoes showed the gods cleansing sinners in flame. Below them was the execution platform—a black stone slab shaped like a stage, stained from years of death.
Executioner Lambert was already waiting.
A hulking man in blood-red robes, his axe glinting with cruel sharpness. He wore a hood but his mouth was wide, cracked lips that smiled too easily.
Tom Vincent stood at the edge of the room, arms folded.
He didn't speak.
The guards pushed Mr. X forward. He offered no resistance. He knelt at the center, right where the blood groove curved into a spiral. His hands remained tied, and the collar was chained to the floor.
Executioner Lambert raised his axe.
"This man, enemy of the Divine Order is hereby sentenced to be cleaved for committing homicide. No matter how he lived, may his soul rest in peace."
The axe lifted high.
And then—
BOOM.
The walls shook.
Another explosion followed. Then another.
The floor trembled with distant thunder. Screams echoed above them. Stone cracked. Lights flickered. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.
Guards froze.
"What—?!"
"They've breached the wall—!"
"Is it an uprising? Who the hell—?!"
Amid the chaos, Tom Vincent remained still, his eyes narrowing.
But Lambert? He hesitated and Mr. X moved having small chance.
With a sudden twist of his torso, he snapped the chain around his collar. His shackled hands slid free. As if someone had tampered with the cuffs long ago. He spun low, knocking Lambert's legs out from under him. The axe clattered against the floor.
Mr. X didn't even look at the others and ran like no tomorrow.
Past the guards. Past the altar. Toward the broken stone wall behind the execution platform. An old tunnel entrance, its rubble cleared, its path wide open.
It seemed prepared for his escape.
Tom's voice rang out like a blade drawn from its sheath.
"Seal the exits. He goes nowhere."
But Mr. X was already gone into the tunnel. Guards tried to follow, but Tom raised a hand.
"No, I'll go."
He stepped forward, eyes gleaming with quiet fury.
And entered the tunnel.