Lennon grabbed the sword and shield, the cold metal trembling in his hands. Ahead, the other prisoners – all dressed in the same robes as Lennon – fought with all they could against the two-headed wolf.
One of them was caught off guard: a precise bite from one of the heads tore the body in half.
The scream was not human; it was a wail ripped from both pain and soul.
Blood spurted onto the face of the woman next to him, thin and pale, who fell to her knees, sobbing, hands shaking as she murmured, as if begging the heavens or hell itself:
"This wasn't in the deal… it wasn't! I only wanted to save my son… it wasn't supposed to be like this! They promised it would be quick, that it would be… fair! Why did they lie? Why did they deceive me?!"
Her pleas were broken, desperate, like knives slicing through the air. Lennon felt his spine freeze. This wasn't just fear – it was the pure despair of someone who realized too late the cost of the bargain.
Beside her, a man armed with sword and shield also trembled, but he clenched his fists and tried to step forward. His eyes burned with terror, but also with defiance. He knew: dying here wasn't relief. Resurrection came at a steep price – each time they returned, they lost something inside, memories, identity, until only hollow shells remained.
He spotted Lennon and shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos:
"Hey! You! The guide! Help here or we're all dead!"
Lennon froze. He had never held a sword. His legs refused to obey; his arm felt like lead.
The man noticed the hesitation and yelled:
"Your guide! Ask him for the basic sword skills! Quick, before it tears us apart!"
The wolf was already turning, licking blood, heading straight for the kneeling woman.
"DO IT NOW! FOR THE LOVE OF HELL, DO IT!!!" – the scream was a collective desperation, everyone's throats raw.
With no time to think, Lennon mentally pulled up the book.
"Basic sword skills!" – he said, almost inaudibly.
The pages glowed. Words appeared before his eyes. He read quickly, each line like hot iron searing directly into his brain.
Movements, stances, reflexes, counterattacks.
In seconds, it was as if he had trained for years.
He stored the guide back in his mind and lunged.
The wolf charged at the woman, jaws wide, ready to tear her head off.
The man tried to intercept, but one of the mouths bit his arm, ripping flesh and bone with a grotesque snap. He screamed.
That's when Lennon appeared, shield thrust forward with brutal force, striking the monster's snout. The impact echoed. His other hand, swift, slashed with the sword, steel scraping against thick flesh.
The wolf recoiled, furious. The man, still bleeding, widened his eyes: Lennon didn't fight like a novice, but like a veteran. Fast, precise.
— "Impossible…" — he murmured.
The fight intensified. The monster lunged with both heads, one biting, the other clawing. Lennon blocked with the shield, countering with rapid strikes. The man, wounded but determined, joined the assault. Together they struck, dodging the insane attacks.
Finally, when one head lunged at him, Lennon spun, driving the sword straight through the neck, piercing veins and bone. The man took the chance and buried his blade in the other head.
The two-headed wolf let out a deafening roar before collapsing, writhing in blood until it went still.
Silence fell.
The air was thick with the scent of iron and blood.
Lennon's chest heaved, covered in sweat and scarlet splatters.
Then, above the wolf's body, two essence fruits appeared out of nowhere, floating.
Both red. But one shone brightly, a vivid, pulsing color like liquid fire.
The other was duller, simple.
The man looked, incredulous.
"No… it can't be…" – he murmured, extending a trembling hand.
"Did you… did you see what it left? That fruit is… of a level I've never seen. It can only belong to someone of magnificent utility!"
Lennon, still panting, widened his eyes.
"Magnificent? What does that matter?!"
The man swallowed hard, as if afraid even to speak:
"Utility is everything here. It defines your strength, your rewards, your routine. Every rank changes your survival. Weak, average, high, magnificent… and the last, which they say is almost impossible… legendary."
Lennon squeezed the fruit in his hands. Cold eyes, cutting voice:
"I don't know about the others. But mine… is legendary."
The man froze.
The woman, still in shock, lifted her gaze for the first time, thinking inwardly:
"If he's legendary… and I'm just weak… I don't stand a chance here!"
Tears streamed down, unbidden.
The man breathed hard, his bitten arm still throbbing, but his mind was elsewhere, confused, crushed by what he had just witnessed.
"I'm just a prisoner of average utility…" – he thought, eyes fixed on Lennon.
"Even though he's stronger, his routine will surely be even more hellish than ours…"
Lennon, ignoring the weight of that gaze, turned inward.
"Guide… how do I collect the fruit?"
The instructions appeared clear, instant. He reached out, touched the pulsing fruit. Its essence glowed and was drawn into his mind, stored as if part of him. Yet the temptation remained.
That glow, that invisible aroma… an absurd hunger began to rise inside Lennon, an almost animal need.
The fruit didn't seem like mere power – it seemed like food.
He held it in his hand again, lifting it to his lips.
"Don't eat it!" – the man shouted, voice full of urgency and fear.
Lennon froze, eyes locked on him.
"Why?"
The man stepped closer, trembling but firm:
"You can't disobey the orders here. We're all prisoners. The fruits… always given to the guardians. They decide what to do. If you dare to eat…" – he swallowed hard, voice faltering – "…you'll collapse. You'll die again."
The memory hit like a blade.
Lennon's body crushed on the fall, ribs breaking, bones exploding inside. Endless pain, darkness swallowing everything until nothing remained.
The man continued, now almost whispering, like revealing a sentence already written:
"We can only consume if they allow it. And believe me… that will never happen."
Silence fell.
The words felt like invisible chains, cold and heavy, tightening around Lennon's neck.
He clenched his fingers, storing the fruit back in his mind, but the hunger, the anger, and the memory of his death fused, burning like fire.