The cell they moved him to was different.
Smaller. Hotter. Closer to the Arena's underbelly, judging by the tang of iron and old ash in the air. This one didn't have floating windows or godlight—just a single flickering strip of divine filament running along the ceiling. It buzzed like it hated him.
Kael sat on the floor, his gear pouch emptied in front of him. Junk. Old relics. Scraps of things with too much past and no future.
But something had changed.
He could feel it. Not the Core—it was still quiet inside him, sleeping—or maybe just watching.
No, this was something smaller. Sharper.
Kael reached into the pile and picked up a battered knife—a simple thing, black handle, edge dulled by time.
He'd picked it up back on Dravien from a dead merc who hadn't needed it anymore. It had never whispered before.
Now it did.
"Room is narrow. Stone's reinforced. You'll want two exits prepped if they send in crawlers."
Kael stilled. The voice was calm, clipped, deliberate. Male. Old soldier.
He narrowed his eyes. "Say that again."
"Two exits. This door's got a weak hinge, top left. Could jam it with a heated coil. You've got one in the bag."
Kael looked at the door.
Then the coil.
Then the knife.
"…You're not just remembering."
"Negative."
"What are you doing?"
"Advising. Tactical response programming. Core activated dormant imprint last cycle. Memory recompiled. Role updated."
Kael slowly grinned. "You're not just a relic anymore."
"Correct, General."
That made him freeze.
"Don't call me that."
"Acknowledged." A pause. "Would you prefer Commander?"
Kael stared at the knife for a long moment, then set it down gently.
He looked around the cell. The walls. The layout. He began to see it not as a prison—
—but as a battlefield.
And something in him clicked.
Not power. Not strength.
But control.