The gate slammed shut behind.
Good luck surviving this hell one of the guards said.
Allen with a clang that echoed like a death sentence.
Heat. Blood. Madness.
That was the first thing he felt. The air was thick, tainted by the stench of rot and old death. The screams weren't human they were animal, primal, broken.
A blur of motion.
Then pain.
A fist struck his face. Another crushed into his ribs. Allen staggered back, only to be tackled to the ground. Teeth sank into his shoulder. A blade carved across his chest.
He didn't even get a second to breathe.
This wasn't a prison.
This was carnage.
Dozens of men surrounded him, wild-eyed and foaming at the mouth. Their minds were gone. Some laughed hysterically as they fought. Others muttered to themselves while slicing flesh from bones. Their SERRA flared erratically fire, shadow, sound, metal all twisted, unstable, hungry.
Allen fought blindly.
He ducked a blow, countered with a burst of SERRA-enhanced force, only to be grabbed from behind and slammed face-first into the stone floor. Blood filled his mouth. His ears rang.
There was no rhythm. No strategy. No space.
Only chaos.
He fought and bled and crawled and rose and was struck down again. Again. Again.
And every time he should have died…
The Iron Chain healed him.
He woke up screaming, still surrounded.
They didn't stop.
They never stopped.
They saw him as food a a doll.
Hours? Days? Time blurred.
Allen's body broke over and over his jaw shattered, his spine twisted, ribs caved in. His nose had been broken three different ways.
His body screamed for relief.
His soul begged for peace.
"Use it," the Chain whispered.
"End this," Darkness whispered.
Just a thought. A command. And he could unleash hell.
But Allen clenched his teeth and whispered through the blood, "No."
He would not use the Iron Chain for violence.
He would not call on the Darkness not here.
Even as he fell again, knees buckling, arms numb, vision dimming
He refused.
And then… a hand pulled him from the ground.
A shadow moved through the madness.
He was lifted, dragged, carried.
He passed out.
Allen awoke in silence.
A low fire burned in a small pit. The room was hidden, carved into the stone far below the main cells. The screams had vanished.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity he could breathe.
He sat up, groaning. Pain echoed through every bone.
"You heal fast," said a voice.
A middle-aged man sat in the corner, arms crossed, gaze distant. His voice was cold, dry like someone who hadn't felt hope in years.
"Why did you save me?" Allen asked.
"I got tired of watching you die, get healed, and die again," the man replied. "It was getting repetitive. You looked pathetic."
Allen gave a dry laugh. "I didn't want to use the Chain. Or the Darkness."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Then you're a fool."
"I promised myself," Allen said, "I'd only use them for good. If I can't win with my own strength… then what am I?"
The man didn't respond.
"You don't stand a chance," he finally said. "You should give up."
Allen's eyes hardened. He pushed himself to his feet, blood still dripping from his jaw.
"Thanks for the advice," he said bitterly. "But I'm not done."
He dropped to the ground, shut his eyes, Allen remembered Barron's lessons about the soul training.
"Only the finger. Then the lips. The eyes. Don't move the full body. Don't explode again."
He inhaled, trembling.
Focused his SERRA into a fingertip.
Boom. Blood burst.
He healed.
Again. And again. And again.
His hand. His wrist. His spine. His chest.
Each time, he built control over a tiny part of his body.
Each time, the Iron Chain healed him but just enough to survive.
He exploded three times in the first hour. Screamed through torn lungs.
He kept going.
Twelve hours.
Then twenty.
Then thirty.
His body burned. His mind faded. His soul cried for rest.
But Allen whispered: "My body might heal… but my soul won't."
And still, he fought.
From the shadows, the man watched in silence.
After nearly two days, he finally spoke.
"You're wasting your time," he said.
Allen didn't stop.
"You've grown stronger, yes. But it's not enough. Your SERRA is bigger but you can't control it. Soul training isn't just about power. It's about depth. Technique. Instinct. You're still shallow."
Allen opened his eyes.
"I know," he said, breathless. "But I can't stop. I hate being weak. I hate needing the Chain. If I didn't have it, I'd be dead twenty times over."
His hands shook. "I'm nothing without it."
The man stared at him.
"You remind me of someone," he said at last. He stepped forward.
"I'll teach you a trick. It won't let you win but it might let you stand for a few minutes before you die."
Allen smiled weakly. "Sounds like a good deal."
The man smirked. "It's called SERRA Transfer."
Allen blinked. "That's a terrible name."
"Maybe," the man said, "but it's deadly. The idea is simple: if someone attacks you say Serenya you don't waste energy shielding your whole body. Just the part they aim for. Gut. Head. Chest. Nothing more."
"And for offense?" Allen asked.
"You transfer all your SERRA into the limb right before impact. No delay. No hesitation. If she strikes five places, your SERRA has to split and cover them all instantly."
"That's insane," Allen said.
"It's also your only chance."
Training resumed.
The man struck fast. Allen moved faster.
At first, his timing was off—SERRA came too early, or too late. He took a dozen hits before he even managed to deflect one. His hands were numb. His ribs screamed.
But Allen adapted.
What the man didn't know… was that Allen could read intent. Feel emotions. Read the flicker of thought just before an attack.
It gave him just enough edge.
He blocked. Struck. Transferred SERRA in the instant before contact.
Landed a clean blow.
Doryan though he hadn't given his name grunted. "You're cheating."
Allen smirked. "I'm improvising."
That night, the two sat in silence, side by side near the fire.
"You've done well," the man said. "Rest. If nothing else, you might die with honor tomorrow."
Allen chuckled, tired. "Better than dying like a joke."
Then he asked, "Why are you here? A man like you doesn't belong in this place."
The man's face darkened.
"I was once a noble," he said. "Before Ikki became king. I led one of Xarion's strongest houses. I had power. Wealth. A future."
He stared into the fire.
"I fell in love. Truly. She died giving birth to our daughter. A sickly child no SERRA. My wife made a deal with the Brokers. Gave up her life for our daughter's."
Allen swallowed.
"I hated the child for that," the man continued. "But she grew. Strong. Smart. She found out what the other noble houses were doing trafficking children. Torturing them for SERRA experiments."
"She tried to stop them. I didn't help her."
His fists clenched.
"They came for her. Assaulted her. Burned everything. Left me alive. To rot."
He closed his eyes.
"My name was Doryan Walter. Now I'm no one."
Allen stood.
Walked up to him and punched him.
His fist bounced off the man's chest. Allen winced in pain.
"You coward," he growled. "You got a second chance and you waste it hiding in this hole."
Doryan's eyes snapped open. He grabbed Allen by the neck and slammed him into the wall. "Watch your tongue."
Allen choked, "Lana Walter."
The man froze.
Allen coughed. "She's alive. She's strong even without SERRA. She fed me. Protected me. She never stopped searching for you."
Doryan's grip faltered.
"She's still fighting," Allen said, eyes burning. "And if I survive tomorrow I'll take you to her. But I need you to help me. Not to survive… to win."
Doryan stood frozen, staring at him.
Then
He let go.
Stepped back.
A single tear rolled down his cheek.
"…Alright," he whispered.
And for the first time in years, the fire in Doryan's heart began to burn again.