Ian stepped into the palace, his eyes widening in horror. The once-majestic halls now lay in ruins, the floors slick with blood and littered with the corpses of soldiers, men, women, and children. The air reeked of death, the stench so overwhelming that Ian's stomach churned.
citizens of the empire, it seemed, had been dragged into the palace and slaughtered. Ian's mind recoiled at the thought, his heart heavy with grief. What had they done to deserve this? He thought to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.
As he ventured deeper into the palace, Ian's footsteps echoed off the walls. He passed through the entrance, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of life. But there was nothing. Only silence, and the oppressive weight of death.
Suddenly, Ian heard the sound of footsteps, heavy and deliberate. Soldiers, clad in armor, emerged from the shadows. Ian's heart skipped a beat as he realized he was not alone.
He quickly hid behind a nearby pillar, holding his breath as the soldiers approached. Their eyes scanned the area, but they didn't seem to have noticed him.
One of the soldiers, a bulky man with a cruel grin, spoke up. "I thought we cleared this area already," he said, his voice dripping with malice.
Another soldier, a lean man with a scar above his eyebrow, shook his head. "We did, but we need to make sure. The Emperor wants no survivors."
Ian's eyes widened as he listened to the conversation. He knew that he had to be careful, that one misstep could mean capture or death.
The soldiers moved on, their footsteps echoing through the hallway. Ian let out a sigh of relief as they disappeared from view.
He knew that he couldn't stay hidden forever. He had to keep moving, to find a way out of the palace and into the safety of the unknown.
With a deep breath, Ian stepped out from behind the pillar, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of danger. The coast was clear, for now.
He moved on, his footsteps quiet on the bloody floor. He had to be careful, had to stay one step ahead of the soldiers.
But as he turned a corner, Ian caught sight of something that made his blood run cold. A group of soldiers, armed to the teeth, stood guarding a door.
And on the door, in bold letters, was written a single word: "Prisoners".
Ian's eyes were fixed on the word "Prisoners" scrawled on the door. His mind racing with thoughts of what could be happening inside, he carefully made his way to the small hole in the door.
He peered through the hole, his eyes adjusting to the dim light within. The room was small, with stone walls and a cold, damp floor. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and despair.
Men and women, their faces gaunt and their eyes sunken, huddled together in the center of the room. They were surrounded by three soldiers, their faces twisted with cruelty.
The first soldier, a bulky man with trimmed hair, spoke up. His voice was like a slap in the face, cold and unforgiving. "Huh, they thought they could defeat us? What fools! Now, go and be good little slaves."
He addressed an old man, who looked up at him with a mixture of fear and defiance. The old man's eyes flashed with a spark of resistance, but it was quickly extinguished by the soldier's cruel gaze.
The second soldier, a man in his mid-40s with long hair, spoke up. His voice was laced with a hint of curiosity, but it was quickly overridden by his cruel nature. "What are we going to do about the old people? They're not exactly... useful."
The room fell silent, the only sound the heavy breathing of the soldiers. The prisoners exchanged nervous glances, their eyes filled with fear.
The third soldier, a boy no more than 20 years old, replied with a sneer. His voice was cold, calculating, and devoid of any empathy. "What else?" he said, his eyes scanning the room with a mixture of disdain and boredom. "They will die."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence, and Ian felt a chill run down his spine. He knew that he had to get out of there, to escape the horror that was unfolding before his eyes. But as he turned to leave, he heard the sound of footsteps, heavy and deliberate, coming from the other side of the door.
Ian held his breath as he hid behind the pillar, watching as the soldiers opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Their voices were loud and boisterous, a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere of the palace.
"It's time to change shifts," one of the soldiers announced, his voice dripping with excitement. "Dinner is ready."
The boy in his 20s, Ron, replied with a grin. "Alright, it's finally time to eat. I'm starving."
The soldiers chuckled and joked as they made their way down the hallway. Ian's eyes narrowed as he listened to their conversation.
"So, what's on the menu?" Ron asked, his voice full of anticipation.
The tall man, whose name Ian hadn't caught, replied with a smirk. "Go find out for yourself, Ron."
Ron chuckled and playfully punched the tall man's arm. "Okay, let's go, boys."
The bulky man, who seemed to be the leader of the group, nodded. "Alright, let's move. Ron, hurry up."
Ron grinned and fell into step beside the bulky man. "Let's go, I'm starving."
As the soldiers disappeared around the corner, Ian let out a sigh of relief. He knew that he had to keep moving, to find a way out of the palace and into the safety of the unknown.
But for now, he took a moment to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. He knew that he couldn't stay hidden forever, but for now, it was the best option he had.
As he waited for the right opportunity, he suddenly heard loud noises coming from inside the room. His heart pounded as he pressed himself against the wall, trying to make sense of the commotion. The muffled voices grew louder, footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
Leaning against the wall, he strained his ears and focused on the conversation the soldiers were having.
"I swear I will get married this time," a soldier declared, his deep voice slurred. Ian could guess from his tone that he was drunk.
The others laughed. "You said that last year," one of them teased.
"And the year before that," another added.
"This time, I mean it!" the drunken soldier insisted. "I'm tired of sleeping alone."
Ian remained still, barely breathing. The conversation was nothing more than drunken rambling, but it meant the soldiers were distracted—for now.
"Hey Jack, don't you have cigars?" the drunken man asked, his words slightly slurred.
Jack scoffed. "You always ask, but never bring your own."
"Come on, just one," the drunken soldier insisted. "My throat's dry as hell."
Jack sighed, rummaging through his pouch. "Fine, but this is the last time."
"But I don't have a lighter. Do you have one, Ken?" Jack asked, his words slurred. Ian could tell by his speech that he was drunk too.
Ken groaned. "Damn it, Jack. You always forget." He fumbled around in his pockets before sighing. "I think I left it in the barracks."
The drunken soldier let out a loud laugh. "So much for your last cigar, huh?"
Jack grumbled. "Whatever. Let's go get it. No point standing here if we can't smoke."
Ian's heart pounded as he listened. If they left, this could be his chance.
"Okay, boys, I'll go and get the lighter," Jack said, swaying slightly.
"No way," Ken shot back. "If you go alone, you'll finish the cigar yourself."
Jack scoffed. "Hey, don't be an ass, Ken. I'm just getting the lighter."
"I don't trust you," Ken grumbled. "I'll go with you."
Their argument turned into a drunken squabble, each trying to convince the other. After a moment, they came to a decision.
"Fine! We'll all go," Jack declared.
"Yeah, yeah, let's just hurry up," Ken added.
"But what about guarding this room?" Jack asked, his drunken slur making his words drag.
"Huh? Gon will take care of it," Ken replied with a lazy wave of his hand.
"But guys... he's unconscious," the deep-voiced man pointed out, sounding slightly more aware than the others.
"Doesn't matter," Ken scoffed. "Who would dare come in here anyway?"
The men burst into laughter, their confidence fueled by intoxication. Ian remained motionless, listening carefully as their footsteps faded. The opportunity he had been waiting for was finally here.
As Ian listened to their conversation, he heard their footsteps approaching the door. His breath hitched, and he pressed himself against the cold stone wall, trying to stay out of sight. The drunken men were still bickering, their words slurred and careless.
"I'm telling you, Ken, I'll get the damn lighter myself!" Jack grumbled.
Ken let out a loud chuckle. "Yeah, right. Last time you went, you nearly tripped over your own feet."
Their footsteps stopped just outside the door. Ian's heart pounded in his chest. If they decided to check inside before leaving, everything would fall apart.
Jack's voice was sluggish, thick with alcohol. "What happened, Ken?" he asked, a hint of irritation in his tone.
Ken hesitated for a moment, his breath uneven. "Oh… nothing," he finally said, shaking his head. "Thought I heard something."
Jack let out a dismissive grunt. "You're hearing things again. Let's go already."
Ian stayed perfectly still, his body tense as he listened to their footsteps fade down the corridor. Only when the silence stretched did he finally let out a slow breath. The opportunity he had been waiting for had arrived.
As Ian watched the soldiers disappear down the corridor, he knew this was his chance. He took a deep breath, steadying his nerves, and slipped into the room without making a sound. His movements were precise, his footsteps barely a whisper against the cold stone floor. The dim torchlight flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls, but he paid them no mind.
The prisoners, huddled together in the corner, stirred at his presence. A young woman, her face pale and exhausted, gasped softly. "Prince Ian?" she whispered in disbelief.
Ian quickly raised a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. "I'm here to get you out," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
"Maya, what are you doing?" the woman in her late 40s demanded, her voice quivering with a mix of worry and urgency.
The young girl's eyes shone with hope as she replied, "Mother, look—His Highness is safe!"
At the sight of Ian, the woman's face softened into a mixture of astonishment and relief. Her voice broke as she whispered, "His Highness... you're alive. Thank goodness."
Ian's eyes darted around the dark corridor as he watched, his voice low and urgent. "Shoo—keep quiet, or they'll come in here!" he hissed, the tension in his tone unmistakable.
"I'm here to rescue you," Ian declared urgently. Before he could continue, Maya interrupted, her voice trembling yet determined, "You don't have to rescue us—please, just run and save your own life." Her mother, her eyes heavy with sorrow and reluctant acceptance, nodded in agreement. "Maya's right," she murmured softly.
"You don't have to worry about me," Ian said to Maya. "I'll escape with you."
Now, let me find the key, Ian thought. After searching the walls, he found the keys hanging on an iron bar. Recovering the key, he then opened all the doors of the prison.
Knowing this place like the back of his hand, Ian recalled his father's words—a secret emergency passage lay hidden somewhere, a lifeline for moments like this.
After searching the floor for a few minutes, Ian's keen eyes caught a slight irregularity in the wall. It was exactly as his father had once described—a hidden emergency passage, cleverly concealed behind a weathered stone slab. Without a moment's hesitation, he pressed aside the stone, revealing the narrow, shadowy corridor that would be his escape .
He then began evacuating the prisoners through the back door of the palace, ushering them one by one into the hidden emergency passage. Although many had already been led to safety, at least twenty more survivors still waited inside the room. After about an hour of tense, careful work, as Ian paused to ensure their safety, he suddenly heard steady footsteps approaching outside the room—a grim reminder that time was running out.
The approaching footsteps suddenly halted as a voice boomed down the corridor, "Hey, David, open the door! It's time to change shifts!"
After hearing this, ian started to evacuate the prisoners as fast as he could.
****
Receiving no reply, the man began pounding on the door with mounting urgency, his fists slamming against the wood as he demanded attention.
He shouted, "David, open the damn door, you idiot!"
As he shouted continuously, "David, open the damn door, you idiot!" his ears caught something unexpected. Amid the chaos, the sound of footsteps from inside grew louder—far louder than the few voices he had anticipated. It sounded as if 15 to 20 people were moving, not just David and the three others he had been told were inside. This discrepancy sent a jolt through him, confirming that something was very wrong.
The men then began kicking at the door relentlessly, each heavy blow echoing down the corridor as if they were determined to obliterate it entirely.
The door began to bend under the relentless kicks, and with a resounding crash, it burst open. He stepped into the room, his eyes darting around as he searched for the source behind those approaching footsteps.
The door began to bend under the relentless kicks, and with a resounding crash, it burst open. He stepped into the room, his eyes darting around as he searched for the source behind those approaching footsteps.
The man's face twisted into a cold sneer as he fixed his gaze on the boy, a terrifying smile curling at the corners of his lips.
Holding the sword in his scabbard, he sneered, "Well, well, what do we have here?"