His right hand rested over the dark, bandaged cavity where his left arm used to be.
Gil, now eerily calm and cold, waited as rhythmic footsteps echoed down the stone corridor toward their holding room.
Step, step, step.
Slowly, the heavy sound drew closer until Greg and the tomboy could hear it too.
Greg tensed up instantly, his wide eyes darting frantically between Gil and the reinforced door as if anticipating another sudden disaster.
The girl remained perfectly still on her cot, but her clenched, white-knuckled fists told a completely different story.
Finally, the door creaked open with a harsh metal groan.
The same hooded operative Hector had spoken to moment earlier stepped cautiously Into the ruined room .
A heavy silence fell over the space as the newcomer surveyed the wreckage, visibly stunned by the sheer destruction left in Hector's wake. Cracks spiderwebbed across the walls, and the shattered frame of Gil's medical bed lay splintered across the concrete floor.
What on earth happened here? the figure seemed to wonder. Sir Hector just left... was it him?
The stranger's confusion was almost palpable, though it quickly gave way to a sense of solemn duty.
His eyes shifted toward Greg and the tomboy, silently assessing their physical condition. Seeing that both were miraculously unharmed and stable, the figure let out a faint, almost imperceptible sigh of relief.
Behind the dark mask, no one noticed that subtle release of tension—no one except Gil.
From the second the intruder had stepped through the threshold, Gil's cold gaze hadn't left him for a fraction of a second. But far from feeling pure hostility, Gil was utterly bewildered—not by what he saw, but by what he felt.
Unlike every other person in this godforsaken place, this newcomer harbored no malice.
No cruelty. No hidden ill intent.
It was something Gil hadn't anticipated at all.
During the brutal trials in the arena, he and the others had been continuously pelted with a suffocating cocktail of mockery, sadistic glee, and cold indifference from the handlers.
The absolute absence of malevolence in this stranger simply didn't make sense.
Instinctively, Gil put his guard up higher, mistrusting his own sensory perception.
He didn't have time to overthink it before the masked figure turned and walked directly toward his cot.
Here it comes, Gil thought, gritting his teeth in preparation.
Thanks to the sheer collateral damage of Hector's earlier outburst, the heavy leather straps binding his remaining limbs had snapped off.
No matter how futile a fight might be, Gil was determined not to go down lying on his back.
The stranger clearly registered the atmosphere of intense suspicion and defensive dread radiating from the three captives, but he didn't react with violence.
Reaching Gil's side, his eyes lingered solemnly on the boy's empty left sleeve.
Slowly, deliberately, he dropped to one knee and raised his hands, beginning to channel a faint power.
Gil flinched, pulling back defensively against the metal frame of the cot. Greg and the tomboy tensed up as well, looking ready to spring forward if the need arose.
Then, the stranger spoke for the first time. His voice was surprisingly young perhaps a bit older than Gil, lacking the harsh edge of a hardened killer.
"Don't be afraid," he said softly, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "I won't hurt you. I just want to see if I can help."
As absurd as it sounded coming from a captor, hearing those words—and feeling the raw, unadulterated emotions pouring from the young operative—Gil found himself reluctantly relaxing his guard.
Through his strange, empathetic gift, Gil sensed a complex tangle inside this person: deep exhaustion, a quiet desperation, an obsessive need to help to heal others, and a stubborn refusal to give up.
It felt like watching a man desperately clinging to a fraying rope—knowing the other end was bound to snap at any moment, yet stubbornly refusing to let go.
Dazed by these overwhelming sensations, Gil remained frozen as the young man's hands began to glow with a soft, comforting white light.
The warm energy was gently applied to Gil's severed shoulder, seeping through the heavy bandages.
Instantly, a wave of profound comfort and soothing warmth washed over Gil's entire body.
For a fleeting second, it felt like being wrapped in a thick blanket back home, reading the stories that used to bring him simple joy before his life had been shattered. It dragged his consciousness back to a peaceful past—good, quiet days that now felt a lifetime away.
He lost track of time in that gentle warmth, closing his eyes as the phantom pain subsided.
But a sudden, sharp panic broke the silence.
"Huh...?" the healer gasped.
The soft white light flared violently, glowing brighter and brighter as the young man poured every scrap of energy he possessed into the wound.
But nothing changed.
The lingering ache in Gil's limbs and the minor abrasions Hector had left behind melted away, and his physical fatigue lifted significantly.
For a fraction of a second, Gil actually dared to hope.
Maybe? Maybe this person can actually regenerate my arm too?
But after a few agonizing moments, that budding hope was utterly dashed.
The overall healing was undeniable—his stamina was restored, his scrapes gone—but the arm did not return. The wound remained a flat, cleanly scarred stump beneath the wrappings.
"Why...? Why isn't it working?!"
Gil could feel the sudden spike of sheer surprise, panic, and overwhelming grief radiating from the healer kneeling before him.
Why is he the one breaking down? Gil wondered silently, momentarily distracted from his own disappointment as he watched the trembling figure. I'm the one missing an arm.
Yet, judging purely by these raw, chaotic emotions, this person wasn't evil—at least, not like Hector and the rest of his twisted clique.
"Is there a problem?" Gil asked, forcing his tone to remain deadpan and steady despite the storm inside his chest.
The young healer, visibly shaken, answered instinctively: "I... I can't heal this wound. I don't understand why... My light isn't taking..."
Gil's expression darkened instantly, his gaze fixing on the floor.
Of course it wouldn't be that simple.
Now he fully understood why Hector had been so insufferably confident earlier, so certain that Gil would eventually crawl back to him on his knees.
Whatever dark force had been used to sever his arm... it wasn't an injury that ordinary healing magic or physical aura could ever fix.
Before the healer could spiral completely out of control—because Gil could feel the stranger's emotions growing increasingly volatile and unstable—Gil cut through the mounting panic with a voice that was firm, cold, and steady:
"Drop it. I already had a feeling it wouldn't be that simple. It's fine."
What I lost, I'll get back on my own... with interest, he added silently in his head, his right hand clenching into a tight fist.
His calm, commanding tone had the desired effect, bringing the healer back from the brink and forcing his wild emotions under control.
After one final, desperate attempt that yielded nothing, the young operative reluctantly snuffed out his light, confirming that restoring the limb was indeed far beyond his abilities.
Dropping his head slightly in bitter defeat, he whispered "I'm sorry. This is... beyond my skill..."
Watching him, Gil couldn't help but tilt his head slightly.
There was definitely something fundamentally different about this one.
Piecing together what Hector had boasted about the organization, it was easy to guess that this healer had likely been brought in through the same dark, coercive process as the rest of the captives.
Unless he was completely wrong, the young healer hadn't been here for long, which explained why he hadn't yet been corrupted by the widespread malice and cruelty that seemed to be the baseline standard in this hellhole.
As that realization settled in, Gil's harsh tone and icy expression softened without him even realizing it. After all, chances were this young man hadn't been given a choice either.
"Don't worry about it," Gil said, his voice far gentler now, stripped of its earlier hostility. "You did your best. I saw it."
Beside him, Greg and the tomboy exchanged bewildered glances.
They couldn't fathom why Gil was suddenly acting so understanding—almost friendly—toward one of their captors. But after a quick, silent exchange, both wisely decided to keep their mouths shut and see how things played out.
The healer was equally startled by Gil's sudden shift in attitude, though he quickly assumed the boy was simply touched by his genuine attempt to treat his injuries.
Deciding not to dwell on it, the masked youth cleared his throat and stood up.
"Are you... able to move?" the healer asked, adjusting his cloak. "If you're feeling up to it, I'm supposed to take you to join the others. You must be starving after everything that happened today."
At the mere mention of food, Gil's stomach let out a loud, violent rumble that echoed through the quiet room. Right on cue, Greg's and the girl's stomachs protested in unison. It had been far too long since any of them had consumed a decent meal.
Nodding, Gil gave a small chin-flick to Greg and the tomboy. "Let me try. Let me stand."
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Gil swung his legs over the side of the cot and pushed himself up.
Aside from the sudden gnawing hunger in his gut, his body felt surprisingly restored thanks to the healer's soothing light.
He took one step. Then two.
Then, completely unprepared for his drastically shifted center of gravity, Gil lost his balance, stumbled hard to the left, and slammed face-first into the cold concrete floor.
Greg winced instantly, his face twisting in empathetic agony at the sharp thud echoing through the ruined bay.
Lying flat on his face, his single remaining arm pinned awkwardly beneath his chest, Gil felt his mind go totally blank for a second. His brain was still automatically trying to use a left arm that simply wasn't there to catch his fall.
He just lay there on the cold stone, cursing every single ancestor Hector ever had.
Before the others could rush over to aid him, Gil raised his right hand, waving them off aggressively
.
"No," he muttered into the floor, his voice muffled but sharp. "Don't come over here. I can still handle something as simple as standing up."
Gritting his teeth, he used his sole remaining hand to push his upper body off the ground. With a brief, steadying touch from the nearby healer to anchor his balance, Gil managed to haul himself back onto his feet.
He took a long breath, carefully adjusted his posture, and began walking again—this time with far more measured, deliberate steps.
It was painfully clear that adapting to this sudden, drastic shift in his physical balance was going to take time and practice.
The healer led the three survivors down a dimly lit, narrow corridor made of reinforced stone.
The trek was brief, ending at what appeared to be a blank, dead-end wall. But as the masked youth stepped forward and pressed a hidden mechanism concealed within the masonry, the stone slid aside, revealing a heavy, industrial lift.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The mechanical hum of old iron gears echoed through the metal cage as it slowly descended into the depths.
After a tense minute, the heavy gates groaned open again, revealing a cavernous room they recognized all too well: the main holding area where they had spent the previous night.
A few things had changed, however.
Several cell doors now stood wide open, and the surviving captives were scattered throughout the space—some eating rations, others tending to their lingering wounds, many speaking in hushed, anxious whispers.
Off to one side, two figures sat noticeably isolated from the rest—whether forcibly shunned by the group or having chosen exile on their own, Gil couldn't immediately tell.
The healer signaled for Greg and the tomboy to step out, and the two obliged without hesitation, eager to escape the tight confines of the lift.
Gil lingered at the edge of the threshold for a beat longer, adjusting his vision to the heavy, oppressive atmosphere of the holding bay.
Behind him, the soft voice of the healer spoke up once more.
"Rest while you can," the masked youth murmured, his tone laced with a quiet, sincere concern that felt out of place. "Whatever comes next starts tomorrow morning. I... I'll be in charge of overseeing your group then." He hesitated for a brief second, casting a glance around the hallway before adding in a lower whisper, "I'll do what I can."
Waving him off backward, Gil.
Taking a deep, grounding breath, he finally crossed into the crowded holding bay.
As he walked toward the center of the room, the quiet murmurs of the surviving captives died down instantly. Shocked gasps echoed softly across the stone chamber as dozens of horrified eyes locked onto his left side—taking in the flat, empty fabric and the heavy bandages where his arm used to be.
Ignoring the widening eyes, the murmurs of pity, and the pained expressions of the people around him, Gil kept his chin held high and kept walking forward.
I'm already tired of these looks, he thought, letting his dark gaze sweep over the crowd as his right hand rested over his chest. And the day hasn't even ended yet.