A long time passed in the cell—for how long, Joseph could not say. The conversations that drifted through the stale air revealed little of true importance, yet every scrap of information was like gold.
Rayah had claimed a corner after their earlier confrontation, legs tucked to her chest, staring at nothing with those ice-chip eyes. Not once has she spoken, though the occasional glare she shot in Joseph's direction was not missed by him.
Near the center of the cell, a boy with wild brown curls that seemed to defy gravity gestured wildly despite their circumstances. His orange eyes sparkled with mischief, and that roguish grin seemed permanently etched on his face.
"—and that's when my father bound the gears to launch me clear over the marketplace!" The curly-haired boy threw his arms wide. "You should've seen the merchants' faces!"
"That's the fourth time you've told that story, Gwynn," came a gruff voice from the shadows. The speaker was tall and muscular—clearly the eldest among them at what looked like fifteen on earth. Short brown hair framed angular features marked by perpetual furrowed brows, and he had an almost military air,"And it gets more ridiculous each time."
"But Flynn, you don't understand the intricacies of—"
"We understand perfectly well what gearbinding is," Flynn cut him off. "We're not peasants."
Arthur, seated between them, let out a quiet sigh. Now that Joseph could see him clearly in the torchlight, the boy's features were almost startlingly delicate—blonde hair that caught what little light filtered through the bars, hazel eyes that seemed older than his years, and bone structure so refined it bordered on feminine. Yet when he spoke, there was unmistakable command in his voice.
"Gwynn, perhaps you could tell us something we haven't heard yet?" Arthur's tone was diplomatic, but Joseph caught the underlying irritation.
"Oh! Well..." Gwynn's grin faltered for just a moment before returning full force. "Did I mention the wind whispering expedition I went on last month!? Father says I've got the strongest affinity he's ever—"
"You mentioned that yesterday," Flynn interrupted again, this time with visible exasperation. "And the day before. And every day since we've been here."
Arthur examined his fingernails with studied disinterest. "Gwynn's optimism is... refreshing, even if misplaced."
"See? Arthur gets it!" Gwynn turned to the red-haired girl who sat quietly nearby. "What about you, Sky? Don't you think—"
"I think," Skylar said softly, her green eyes darting nervously between the speakers, "we should be quieter. The guards might—"
"Hey! I moved a whole leaf last week without hand signs!!" Gwynn interrupted, apparently unable to contain his enthusiasm.
"A dead leaf," Flynn replied flatly. "That was already falling."
"Well, technically—"
"Into a puddle," Arthur added with the faintest smirk.
"Ahh—"
"That you were secretly blowing with your mouth," Joseph suddenly added.
"HEY YOU WEREN'T EVEN THERE!!" Gywnn started crying, as the cell burst into hushed laughter. Skylar laughed especially hard despite saying to stay quiet mere moments ago.
"I love it when the quiet doesn't speak at all, and only interjects to embarrass your ass," Flynn chortled.
Joseph suppressed his own smile. Gwynn's desperate attempts at impressing the others were painful to witness, but they revealed useful information. The boy clearly came from a family of wind-whisperers—some form of magical practitioners—and his father was apparently skilled in gearbinding.
Flynn, meanwhile, was obviously from military nobility if his bearing was any indication. He briefly heard a mention of his father being a knight captain of sorts. Arthur and Rayah were clear nobility, and Skylar's background was still an enigma. Other than the fact that she was seemingly nice, oddly clumsy and uncoordinated, and may have known him in the past he knew nothing.
Yet, there was still another person in the cell even more mysterious. A sixth person sitting in a far corner away from it all… No one even made an attempt to communicate, or even acknowledge their existence.
Joseph found himself unconsciously peaking in their direction.
"Besides," Gwynn continued, apparently unable to stay quiet for long, "I've been working on an escape plan. See, if I can get close enough to the lock mechanism, with a good hard tooth pic I might be able to—"
"Shut up," Flynn growled. "You think they can't hear you?"
"The guards change shifts at—"
"I said shut up… Just be patient… there's no escaping…" Flynn's voice carried enough menace that even Gwynn's enthusiasm finally dimmed.
The conversation died awkwardly. Gwynn deflated slightly, finally seeming to realize he'd pushed too far. Skylar fidgeted with a torn piece of her sleeve, while Arthur continued his examination of his hands with studied disinterest.
"But did I mention the part where I made a tornado in a teacup? No hand signs!" Gwynn tried again after a few moments of silence.
"A tornado," Flynn repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. "In a teacup."
"Well, more like a really aggressive swirl, but—"
"You're an idiot," Flynn cut him off.
The conversations meandered like this for what felt like hours. Gwynn would launch into some new boastful tale about his magical heritage or mechanical prowess, only to be shot down or ignored by the others.
Arthur occasionally offered dry commentary. Flynn mostly responded with grunts or cutting remarks. Skylar remained quiet, occasionally glancing toward Joseph.
And in the farthest corner, barely visible in the shadows, they still sat motionless. Joseph had tried several times to make out details, but they seemed to blend into the darkness itself. Still, no one addressed them, no one even acknowledged their presence.
It was as if they were a ghost among the living. Yet he seemed certain she was real.
Eventually, the lights in the prison halls dimmed further, and his cellmates grabbed their thin blankets and settled on the stone floor. All except Joseph, who claimed his own corner and simply pretended to sleep.
'They spoke of stories in rivers, forests, and deserts… Perhaps this world was not so alien after all… But what are the chances creation would recreate itself?'
'The answer is 0…'
His mind wondered as he waited, counting heartbeats as he lay on his back.
Eventually, the lights in the prison halls dimmed further, and no movement could be felt other than the odd turn on cold stone.
This should be long enough... Joseph rose silently from the ground into a cross-legged stance, taking in a deep breath as he confirmed all were asleep.
The day had ended for them, but it had only just begun for him. The information he'd gathered was substantial—but he still didn't even know why children were imprisoned here, a clear path to escape, or most importantly how the world even functioned.
Yet, it made one thing abundantly clear. He was pathetically weak, the very bottom of whatever hierarchy existed among them.
In this world, he was prey.
He looked down at his puny, stick-like body, completely devoid of muscle or definition. The rope belt of his prison garb slipped constantly from his sheer skinniness—a pathetic sight that even he in his previous life had never stooped to.
But it didn't matter, for he had his previous life's knowledge.
Closing his eyes, he reached inward, touching the well of primal energy that flowed beneath his skin like liquid starlight.
Ki…
The energy responded to his call, trickling through meridians carved by forgotten memories. Weak now, barely a whisper compared to what he'd commanded before, but undeniably there, a flickering flame.
'I can work with this…'
He guided the flow with precision, directing Ki through specific pathways, nourishing muscle and bone. The process was agonizingly slow given his weakened state, each circulation requiring intense concentration. His consciousness drifted into familiar depths, where physical pain dissolved into pure potential.
"It's truly been activated... the first gate..." he whispered.
In his previous life, Ki had been the primal energy found within every living being. His mentor, Owl, had been the only person he knew who could use it, and it had made him seem like a god among men. Ki was a well-kept secret known only to the elites, hidden from the general public.
Though not fully adapted to this new body, his fighting knowledge, training methods, techniques, and instincts remained intact. And with that knowledge, he had already broken through to the first Ki gate—something that had taken months of dedicated training in his previous life.
The first gate allowed for incredible possibilities. With enough mastery, one could muffle their steps, harden their skin like rock, or even temporarily rearrange their organs.
It seems I released my first gate when I was fighting that guard. He couldn't help but smile inwardly, Maybe that fight was a blessing in disguise? He mused before shaking his head, No it wasn't, he dismissed the very notion.
Ki and the magic used in this world were clearly different entities. Whether they were compatible or could be used by the same individual remained an open question, along with whether Ki was even known in this world.
He hadn't planned to reveal his Ki so early, but it had happened without his consent during the fight. Fortunately, no one seemed to have noticed—which made sense, since only a high-level Ki master could detect its use by others, at least according to his current knowledge.
For now, it was best to train in secret, during the night while everyone slept.
As he meditated, he attempted to reach for any hint of magical energy, using his entire mental capacity to search for something beyond Ki.
Nothing.
Perhaps his aptitude for magic was poor, or maybe he was one of those unable to use it. That was entirely possible, considering how everyone treated him as worthless.
Or perhaps unlocking his Ki meridians had somehow blocked his access to magic?
He didn't dwell on the thought. Though it was not by choice, what was done was done. His current goal was to gather strength and information as quickly as possible, and if that meant forgoing magic, it was a sacrifice he'd willingly make for survival.
Fatigue finally crept in, and he stopped his search for magical power.
"Good enough," he whispered.
There would always be tomorrow to continue. If necessary, he might even ask Skylar for help. She seemed kind enough, and if she rejected him, he could play it off as failed flirtation or a joke.
'If I gain the trust of one of them, it would make my life so much easier...'
But it was far too early for such moves. He hadn't yet explored his relationships with anyone, determined how he should act according to what the old Zephyr did, nor what boundaries he could push without raising suspicion. It was already a miracle he hadn't accidentally committed some cultural blasphemy.
Though mostly beyond his control, he had already done far too much talking and acting for one day. For now, it was best he kept the truth of his reincarnation a secret for as long as he coul—
"Who are you? You're not really Zephyr, are you?"