The memory crashed over Hillel like a wave—the suffocating darkness of the coffin, the crushing weight of earth pressing down, silencing everything but his own frantic heartbeat. He recalled the desperate push against the wooden lid, followed by that violent explosion that had torn apart both coffin and soil, launching him back into the world of the living.
Why did that happen? The question had haunted him, but now, chained in this cell, the answer seemed crucial. The phantom hand—that ghostly appendage he'd somehow learned to summon—was definitely an important key to his escape. But understanding its mechanics might mean the difference between freedom and death.
Though his right arm hung limp and unresponsive, Hillel now suspected that the physical condition of his arm wasn't the limiting factor. When that familiar heat surged through him, it always originated in his chest, radiating outward like molten metal flowing through veins. Still, he hesitated. Each use of the phantom hand had exacted a toll—excruciating cramps that twisted through his muscles like barbed wire. Perhaps that explained his current numbness.
No matter, he thought fiercely. I'll use it until my arm falls off if that's what it takes. This cell won't be my tomb.
He needed to understand the theory behind his power. What differentiated the coffin incident from other manifestations? The confined space, obviously—unlike most instances where he'd summoned the phantom hand in open areas. Except once... when the cyclops had seized him in its massive grip. Then too, the phantom hand had appeared in a confined space, somehow severing the giant's finger while freeing him.
His eyes widened as realization struck. Space! That's the key!
When he summoned the hand within the cyclops's grip, it had materialized in the space already occupied by the creature's flesh. In the coffin, with barely room to move, where could the phantom hand have formed? There was only one explanation that made sense.
The phantom hand forced itself into existence by displacing whatever matter already occupied that space—violently. The resulting explosion wasn't a side effect; it was the direct consequence of two objects attempting to occupy the same point in space.
Time to test his hypothesis. He surveyed the cell, gaze settling on the corner to his left. If he wedged himself there, back pressed firmly against the wall, chains pinned between stone and flesh, and activated his ability... the phantom hand would have no room to manifest except by displacing the very wall itself.
Hillel shuffled awkwardly to the corner, ignoring the protest of his battered body. He braced himself, using his legs and back to press as hard as possible against the unyielding stone. The metal shackles bit painfully into his wrists, but he welcomed the discomfort—it meant there was no space between him and the wall.
He closed his eyes and reached inward, searching for that familiar heat. His heart thundered against his ribs as warmth bloomed within his chest, coursing down his arm like liquid fire, pooling in his numb hand. The sensation was bizarre—feeling intense heat where otherwise he felt nothing at all, a paradoxical tingling in limbs he couldn't control.
As the heat settled, Hillel drew a ragged breath and focused every ounce of his concentration on forcing the phantom hand into existence. The air around him seemed to thicken, growing dense and heavy as if resisting his will. Sweat streamed down his face, stinging his eyes and tracing paths through the grime on his skin. A guttural groan tore from his throat as he pushed harder, reaching deeper, until—
CRACK!
The sound split the air like lightning striking stone.
BOOOM!!!
The explosion was deafening in the confined space, a thunderclap that seemed to rupture his eardrums. A devastating force catapulted his body forward, sending him hurtling across the cell. His already damaged chest slammed against the iron bars with bone-jarring impact, wrenching a raw scream from his throat. Pain bloomed, bright and vicious.
Pulverized stone billowed upward in choking clouds, scouring his lungs and coating his tongue with gritty dust. The impact had disturbed ancient filth in the cell, releasing a noxious stench that made his stomach heave. Fighting waves of nausea and pain, Hillel pushed himself to his knees, blinking through tears and dust.
His vision cleared, revealing his own hands pressed against the filthy floor—bloodied, scraped raw, but gloriously free. The shackles were gone, reduced to twisted fragments of metal scattered across the stone.
A wild, triumphant grin split his face, immediately followed by a pained grimace. He turned, surveying the damage behind him. Where the corner had been now gaped a ragged hole three feet across, edges crumbling, stone reduced to rubble. The sight amplified his awareness of pain—he hadn't fully appreciated the force that had just exploded against his back.
Freedom, even partial, demanded its price in blood and agony. But it was a beginning. His gaze dropped to the chains still binding his ankles, then lifted to the cell door.
One step at a time, he thought, determination hardening within him like steel being forged. First the ankles. Then the cell door.
----
The cold storage room reeked of fresh blood mingling with harsh preserving salts that burned the nostrils. Vorkas, the Beast Tamer, released a strained grunt as he and Gnash heaved another iron-banded crate onto the stone shelf. The creature beside him—more partner than pet—rumbled deep in its massive chest, the armored plates along its spine shifting like ancient tectonic layers. Even with Gnash's powerful, talon-tipped limbs doing most of the work, organizing the day's harvest left Vorkas's muscles burning with fatigue.
He'd spent the last hour voicing his skepticism to Gnash about Inspector Holden's bizarre claim. Some half-starved kid supposedly breaching their facility through the farm portal? Preposterous. Vorkas had manned the transfer point since dawn—nothing had passed through except Gnash, who shuttled back and forth collecting organ buckets from the cyclopean harvesters. Holden himself had stalked toward the portal minutes ago, likely to investigate his own theory. But the premise was absurd. How could any human materialize there? The organ farm dimension was sterile by design—populated only by designated sentinel monsters and the precious flowers they tended. Still, Holden had seemed certain enough to imprison the boy in the holding cell near Vorkas's office—Gnash's cell, technically, where the beast preferred to rest its massive form against cool stone.
BANG!
The sound crashed through the facility like a physical blow—a thunderclap that vibrated through the concrete and set the shelved crates rattling against each other. Gnash froze mid-movement, its small, obsidian eyes swiveling toward the corridor as primitive instincts engaged. Vorkas straightened, dragging a gloved hand across his apron, leaving a streak of something viscous and glistening.
"What in the nine hells was that?" he muttered, cocking his head. The explosion had come from down the hall—near his office. Near the cell.
Holden's prisoner.
A surge of irritation flooded through Vorkas. Only three beings were authorized on this level: himself, Gnash, and the inspector. If that brat was already creating chaos... Without hesitation, he swung his weathered frame onto Gnash's broad, scaly back, settling into the smooth depression worn into the creature's hide from years of carrying him.
"Let's see what foolishness this is," Vorkas commanded, rapping his knuckles against a particularly dense plate on Gnash's shoulder. The beast responded instantly, heavy claws striking sparks from the stone floor as it lumbered from the cold room and wheeled into the main corridor. Sputtering torches cast writhing shadows across the walls, their light barely penetrating the perpetual gloom of the underground facility.
They moved with surprising speed for such a massive creature, the eerie silence only heightening Vorkas's unease. What could have caused that noise? Structural failure in the ancient stonework? Or had the boy somehow...
BOOM!
Another explosion ripped through the corridor—louder, closer—followed immediately by the tormented screech of metal under extreme stress. Dust billowed toward them, carrying the bitter tang of pulverized stone and the acrid scent of superheated metal. Gnash released a warning growl from deep in its throat, accelerating without prompting, its powerful legs driving forward with locomotive force. Vorkas hunched low over the armored neck, squinting through the thickening cloud, his mind racing with increasingly disturbing possibilities.
Gnash skidded to an abrupt halt before the entrance to Vorkas's office, talons gouging furrows in the stone floor. The Beast Tamer's eyes widened at the scene of devastation before him.
Choking dust swirled in eddies, illuminated by the dancing torchlight. The cell's iron bars—forged to withstand the strength of creatures like Gnash—had been wrenched outward like molten wax, partially torn from their moorings in the stone wall. A jagged hole gaped in the corner of the cell itself, revealing darkness beyond shattered rock.
And standing amid the wreckage, framed by the twisted remnants of the doorway, was the boy.
He looked like a revenant risen from some forgotten battlefield. Raven hair hung in matted clumps, plastered to his skull with sweat and congealing blood. Crimson rivulets traced paths down his arms, dripped from his fingertips, pooled at his feet. Dark stains bloomed across his simple tunic, front and back, spreading like ink on parchment. He stood slightly hunched, each breath drawn in painful, ragged gasps, yet his posture radiated defiance.
But it was his eyes that froze the blood in Vorkas's veins—eyes that burned with an unholy crimson radiance, cutting through the dust-laden air like twin beacons from the deepest pit. As Vorkas watched transfixed, a slow unnerving smile stretched across the boy's bloodied face—an expression of manic triumph that sent primitive warning signals crawling up the Beast Tamer's spine.
Those burning eyes locked onto Vorkas, recognition and challenge reflected in their impossible depths. The boy made no sound, no further movement—just stood there amid the destruction he'd wrought, dripping blood onto the stone floor, grinning like a demon who'd found its way into the world of the living.