The heavy iron door creaked open again, echoing slightly in the quiet space. Two figures stepped inside.
Azael's eyes instantly caught them.
He'd seen these two before. Earlier that day, during the tunnel walk.
One was a young boy who couldn't be more than twelve. The other was an adult with a blank, almost lifeless expression.
Both had stood out, even among the mass of broken souls.
Now, under the dim lighting of the slave cell, their features were easier to see.
The boy had messy black hair and eyes just as dark. There was nothing particularly notable about his face—no scars, no expression. Just an empty stare that looked right past everything. He wore a torn shirt with uneven sleeves and a pair of short pants, full of holes and loose threads. His small frame looked fragile, like he hadn't eaten properly in weeks.
The man beside him was taller, broader, but his presence didn't carry any strength. His hair was a dull shade of blue, just long enough to fall slightly over his face, covering one eye. The visible eye was also blue, but dull and tired. His clothes were somewhat cleaner—a black robe over a plain shirt and pants—but still worn down by time and neglect.
Neither of them spoke.
They didn't even look around to check who else was there. The boy simply walked to a corner and sat down cross-legged. The man followed, sitting beside him without a word.
They kept a fair distance from everyone else, not trying to interact or make space.
Azael watched them for a few moments longer.
There was something odd about the two.
Not just how quiet they were, but the kind of quiet that felt intentional.
Like they had no interest in anyone here.
Or maybe... they'd already given up.
Azael didn't say anything. Not yet.
He filed their faces away in his mind. He didn't know if they'd matter later, but in a place like this, every detail could be important.
Time flowed fast in the mine, and before Azael knew it, an hour passed.
The cell was dim, shadows flickering under the weak light of the wall-mounted lanterns. Most of the prisoners had already settled in for the night, lying on the cold ground, worn out from a day of endless labor. In one corner of the cell, Azael sat cross-legged, his eyes drifting toward the two new arrivals—the young boy and the man with blue hair.
He decided to try again.
"So... either of you been here long?" he asked quietly, voice low enough not to draw attention.
No answer.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them looked at him. It was like his words disappeared into the air before even reaching them.
Azael waited, but there was no change in their expressions or body language. They seemed lost in their worlds, completely detached. Not even a twitch from the boy.
He leaned back slightly, eyeing them from the corner of his vision.
It was clear now—they weren't new. The deadness in their eyes and the silence in their posture said more than words could. They'd been here longer than anyone else in this cell. Unlike the others, who still looked shaken or curious in subtle ways, these two... had passed that stage long ago.
Looking at their sleeping faces, Azael exhaled through his nose and whispered to himself, ".. no help for now, huh."
He couldn't rely on them.
At least not yet.
He didn't have the time to wait either. Every moment in this place was a gamble, and he'd already witnessed how brutal the consequences could be. He needed to act—soon.
But to act, he needed a plan.
And a plan requires information. Observations, layouts, routines—all of it. He couldn't charge in blind.
But even with information, execution demanded strength.
And strength… was something he sorely lacked.
As his thoughts circled, something clicked in his memory. That strange message he saw the day he awakened the system—the one that said an act had been completed.
Azael's eyes narrowed.
Without hesitation, he called out in his mind, "System."
=======SYSTEM WINDOW========
∆ STATUS ∆
∆ INVENTORY ∆
∆ STORE ∆
∆ ACTS ∆
∆ STORY PROGRESSION ∆
∆ X Dimension ∆
=====================
A familiar chime echoed in his head, and a translucent window appeared before him, glowing faintly.
He immediately tapped on the Acts tab.
====================
∆ ACTS→
—Minor Act: Accept the name and body.
Status: Completed
Rewards received: 5 system points.
—Major act: Escape the prison
Status: Ongoing
Time remaining: 5 Days
—Minor Act: Swing hammer 1000 times.
status: 517/1000
=======================
A list appeared.
There it was again—Minor Act, marked as completed.
He studied the entry.
"Hm… So it completed when I accepted this body," he muttered, thinking aloud.
The description was gone, but the reward was already credited. He'd noticed it earlier but hadn't given it too much attention until now.
"Five system points, huh?"
He quickly flipped over to the Status tab.
And there they were—five points displayed clearly under the available stat points section.
=========================
[ Stats]
— Strength: Lv. 1 > 7
—Agility: Lv. 1 > 11
—Reflex: Lv.1 > 9
—Perception: Lv.1 > 3
—Stamina: Lv.1 > 7
—Durability: Lv.2 > 5
—Dexterity: Lv.1 > 78
—Willpower: Lv.2 > 15
System points: 5
=========================
He examined his current stats. His Strength was the lowest among them. Both Dexterity and agility were exceptionally higher between them, so they can't be the main focus for now.
He looked at his agility stat... 11, low but still higher than his strength stat.
So he decided to increase his strength for now.
He tapped on the Strength stat.
A prompt blinked, confirming he could allocate points here.
He didn't hesitate.
All five points—dumped into Strength.
==================
—Strength: Lv.1 > 12(+5)
==================
***********
Inside a dimly lit room, the quiet scratching of a quill echoed as a man moved his hand across a piece of parchment.
He was tall, his posture straight and controlled. Brown hair framed his face, short and neat, while sharp yellow eyes flicked between the lines he was writing. A short beard lined his jaw, trimmed but rugged. His black robe, the same kind worn by Bennifer, matched the dark pants beneath. The only color came from the metallic badge pinned to his chest—etched on it, the simple word: No. 4.
His expression gave away nothing. Neither focused nor distracted, just blank, as though his mind ran on a separate track from his actions. He continued to write, smooth and steady.
Then, the communication globe beside him flared to life. A faint blue light pulsed from within, casting a soft glow across his face.
He paused.
For the first time, his fingers stiffened slightly. A flash of tension passed through his hand before he reached out and touched the globe.
The light stabilized.
He opened his mouth to speak, his voice calm, low, and composed. There was roughness in it, like gravel under the surface—but it carried a certain politeness too, the kind that felt trained.
"Understood."
A pause.
"Everything is prepared. There won't be any inconveniences."
Another pause, longer this time.
"Yes... The extraction is being monitored. Nothing will go unnoticed."
"Okay, please worry not, I will take care of it as well." And then silence.
He tapped the globe gently. The glow dimmed, fading until it returned to a dead, neutral grey.
He sat still for a moment.
Then a soft murmur escaped his lips, directed to no one but himself. "It seems like they're getting desperate."
He leaned back in the chair, shoulders relaxing as a different kind of energy began to fill the room.
"Anyways..." he said with a slow exhale, "after this much exhaustion..."
He licked his lips. A glint flashed in his yellow eyes.
"...let's have some fun with her."
His fingers drummed on the table as malicious thoughts swirled, dark and unspoken.