The gray weather seemed to follow the entire procession to its destination. Lennon walked in line, not knowing exactly what to expect, until the enormous iron doors swung open before them.
What he found on the other side left him stunned. A gigantic cafeteria, rows of tables stretching as far as the eye could see. It looked eerily similar to human cafeterias, but there was something deeply wrong about it.
Demonic guards marched in formation, serving the prisoners with military precision. Trays were set down in front of each one without choice, everything organized as if even mealtime was part of the prison.
Lennon was handed a container with some kind of murky soup, a strange liquid giving off a revolting stench. Out of reflex, he lifted the spoon to his mouth, but the taste made him almost vomit instantly.
He forced himself to hold it down, lowered his head, and walked to the seat assigned to him – there wasn't even freedom to choose where to sit.
The entire cafeteria was crowded with prisoners, each one before their portion, chewing in silence. Some swallowed in a rush as if it were their last meal, others stared at the soup as if it were poison.
Lennon didn't know what frightened him more: the food itself, or the organized, mechanical way everyone obeyed without the courage to protest.
Someone beside him caught his attention with a small movement at the edge of his vision. Lennon recognized the man who had been with him in the previous trials. He looked more worn down, but alive – the same empty stare.
The man lifted his chained arm and showed the plaque fastened to his garments:
" I am the Forgotten 232 of the Pride Domain. I've been in this prison for what feels like an eternity!"
His voice was hoarse, weary, like someone who had already given up on his own humanity. Lennon only stared back at him, expressionless.
The man leaned closer, forcing a lifeless smile:
"You're already quite famous around here, Forgotten 666 of the Pride Domain, and—"
A scream echoed from the far side of the hall. Everyone turned. A prisoner had shoved his tray away, refusing to eat the fetid soup.
In the blink of an eye, a guard appeared before him. There were no words – only the blade materializing and piercing his chest. The prisoner's body collapsed onto the table, blood spilling into the spilled soup.
A heavy silence swept over the cafeteria. No one dared lift their eyes; everyone bowed their heads as if that was the natural reaction.
The guard yanked the blade free, shook off the blood, and vanished like smoke. The tray was placed back in the same spot, as if nothing had happened.
Lennon watched from the corner of his eye, his heart pounding, swallowing hard. He didn't know what terrified him more: the brutal act or the fact that everyone accepted it as part of the routine.
He was still staring at the fresh blood dripping across the table when the voice of the Forgotten 232 cut through the silence.
"Must've been a rookie… he muttered, almost a whisper, but with a cold, resigned tone."
"Every day a new prisoner arrives. Only the newcomers dare to try that. The old ones… they've already learned never to repeat it."
Lennon glanced back at him, more attentive now. The man seemed broken, but there was something in his eyes: information, maybe survival. Lennon felt he could be useful.
The Forgotten 232 raised his own bowl of soup, the foul steam rising.
"I know what you're thinking. This stuff looks like shit. He smirked faintly, a sad, almost ironic smile."
"But eat it. Hard to believe, but it makes you stronger. Gives you resistance, abilities no ordinary human would ever have."
Lennon pressed his lips, hesitant.
"And why? he asked, his voice low, almost trembling. Why would they give this to us?"
The 232 leaned forward, bringing his face close.
"Because they want a show. The words spat out like venom. Here, everything is entertainment for the demons. They feed us, force us to endure, only to throw us later into arenas, hunts, tortures… The longer we last, the more they enjoy it."
A shiver ran down Lennon's spine. The look in 232's eyes was that of someone who had seen the cycle repeat hundreds of times.
"And what else do we do? Lennon dared to ask."
The man let out a bitter chuckle.
" Work… yes, like cattle. Most of the time, we're thrown into the mines. Digging, hauling, breaking rocks until our bones crack. Doesn't matter what we find… essence stones, crystals, cursed dust, whatever. They use it all. Us? We're just tools."
Lennon clenched his fists, his mind boiling.
232 went on, his voice darker now:
"That execution, the guard's blade, the scream that echoed in the hall… that wasn't punishment. It was theater. Part of the show. They remind us, every single day, that we're here to obey… and entertain."
He drank the soup as if it were water, indifferent to the taste. Then he fixed his gaze on Lennon, serious:
"If you want to survive, Forgotten 666, swallow it. Swallow everything. The food, the pain, the hatred. It's the only way not to be the next one lying on the floor."
Lennon stared at the soup in front of him. The steam rose like a funeral breath. He knew it wasn't just a meal. It was a choice: live one more day or refuse and become spectacle.
He began to eat, eyes locked on the steaming broth. His mind was a whirlpool. The words of the Forgotten 232 echoed like blades: show, theater, mines, survival.
But something didn't add up.
If they feed us, if they force us to endure… then it's more than just amusement.
He thought of the skeletal prisoners, the unblinking guards, the daily screams.
If there are mines… if they make us dig… it's because they need something. They harvest from us, not just blood or pain. There's a hidden purpose. Gears turning behind what they call entertainment.
The thought unsettled him even more. It felt like he was in the middle of a game, but couldn't see the whole board. Just pieces being moved.
And he… was the piece everyone was watching.
The Forgotten 232 took his last spoonful and stared at him.
"If you want to survive, 666… learn to swallow. Everything". he said, low, almost like a final warning.
Lennon barely had time to react. His guard appeared suddenly at his side, chains clattering, demonic eyes locked on him. The monstrous arm gripped his shoulder and yanked him up without a word.
The tables went silent. Heads turned. Even the soup grew cold under the tension.
The Forgotten 232's eyes widened, unable to hide his unease.
He didn't even do anything wrong! he thought, watching 666 being dragged away brutally.
Poor soul… to end up with such a Legendary use so soon!
The metallic rattle of chains echoed through the hall. The line of prisoners stared in disbelief, as if Lennon had just been marked with a fate that few – or none – would ever wish for.