They arrived at a place thick with dust and a stench so foul it clawed at the nose. The air was heavy and stale — as if fresh wind had long forgotten this place.
Averroes's vision blurred. Only a faint beam of light seeped through a narrow crack in the stone wall, enough to reveal the floating specks of dust.
Their footsteps echoed through the damp, narrow corridor of stone. The clinking of chains and the metallic rattle of keys blended with the slow drip of water from above — creating a hollow rhythm that pierced the ears.
Averroes didn't need anyone to tell him.
He knew — this wasn't just a holding area. It was a prison… a place where humans were no longer treated as humans.
Screams, cries, and dignity — all left behind these stone walls.
And worse, this prison was under the control of the Five Divine Emperors — the supreme authority whose punishments knew no mercy.
The two soldiers flanking him hadn't spoken since they entered. Their iron grips on his arms were the only signals telling him to keep walking. Each step felt heavier than the last, and each breath carried a dread he couldn't put into words.
Tang!
The clang of an iron door thundered through the narrow hall.
Dush!
Averroes was shoved violently inside. He fell face-first onto the damp, dusty floor.
"Here. Your food!"
One of the soldiers threw two chunks of bread onto the ground — hard and stale, barely worthy to be called food.
Without another word, they locked the door, leaving only the echo of their fading footsteps.
Silence.
Averroes stayed crouched, his hands trembling. Slowly, he crawled toward the bread, gripping it as if it were life itself.
He ate greedily — every bite dry and rough, but enough to remind him he was still alive.
His chest ached.
How many days had it been since his last meal? How many times had his stomach howled, twisting in pain? Yet no matter the hunger or suffering, not a single tear had fallen.
That was his curse. Why — he didn't know.
But ever since the day everyone he loved was killed before his eyes, his tears had forgotten how to fall.
Then suddenly, his breath caught.
A choking sound tore from his throat — short, harsh, suffocating. His hands clutched his neck, his face turning red. He tried to breathe but couldn't.
His chest felt as if an invisible hand were crushing it from within, and the bread he had just swallowed became a stone lodged in his throat.
Footsteps echoed outside. A soldier appeared behind the iron bars, his face expressionless. He carried a flask of water but made no effort to hurry.
"What's this? Choking already?" he said mockingly, one eyebrow raised.
Averroes flailed, coughing weakly, his eyes wide and watery. His body trembled, collapsing forward. The soldier simply folded his arms and watched — like a man observing an animal struggle for its last breath.
"Hmph… greedy fool," the soldier scoffed.
"Is this how people from Mount Tes eat?"
He chuckled coldly, then added, "Filthy rebel."
Averroes bent forward, forcing his throat to move. His muscles convulsed painfully.
A harsh noise escaped his throat, followed by a fit of coughing.
Finally — the lump of bread shot out, landing on the floor with a wet splat.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. The air that entered his lungs burned like fire, sharp and hot, but amid that pain came a brief wave of relief.
The soldier laughed, a sound colder than the dungeon air.
"Almost died there, huh? Hahahah!" he said, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye.
He set the water flask on the ground and nudged it toward Averroes with the tip of his boot.
"Drink. And next time, chew properly."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away.
Silence returned.
Averroes tilted his head back and exhaled, the breath leaving him like a weight uncoiled.
He stared up at the stone ceiling, his eyes empty. The exhaustion of the long journey to Njmol had nearly extinguished the small flame of vengeance inside him — like embers smothered by cold wind.
"Can I really… take revenge?" he muttered after a long pause.
His voice was hoarse, barely audible in the stillness.
He knew the truth — he was alone.
To stand against the Justice Army, the World Alliance, and the Five Divine Emperors… it wasn't just impossible. It was madness.
And maybe… foolish.
"What can I even do…"
His voice cracked at the end.
"...Father…"
His head bowed, messy hair falling over half his face. Beneath that shadow was still a child — a boy who had lost everything.
He clenched the remaining bread in his hand until it crumbled.
Though he looked like a young man, the truth was cruel — he was still a ten-year-old boy forced to carry the weight of an adult's world.
He closed his eyes tightly.
The image of Alistair appeared — the gentle smile, the hand that used to ruffle his hair, and the voice that always said during their training:
"You have to be strong, Averroes. The world is cruel — but true strength isn't when you're angry… it's when you can still believe in hope."
"Hope?" Averroes repeated softly.
He let out a hollow chuckle.
"This world killed my hope long ago, Father…"
He opened his eyes again — this time, dim, but deep within that dimness was a faint spark, fragile yet unbroken.
"But if hope's really dead… then I'd have no reason to live," he whispered.
He reached for the flask, took a small sip, then leaned back against the cold stone wall.
In the heavy silence, he made a vow — not with words, but with the breath that still lingered in his chest:
"I'll keep living, Father. Until I find out why that dream exists… and why I'm the one still alive."
His right hand slowly rose to his chest — pressing over his heart.
Tightness. Pain. Something struggling to surface but stuck — and he knew it wasn't from the bread.
The ache spread up his neck, making his breathing short and shallow.
He had never felt pain like this before.
Averroes sat still, staring blankly beneath the faint beam of light from the cracks in the wall.
And when his thoughts finally settled, he realized something —
That feeling… was the same as when he wanted to cry.
His heart trembled faintly.
"In that case…" he whispered, voice barely audible,
"…I'll find out why I can't cry. And maybe… maybe at the end of it, I'll find the cure."
He lowered his head, his hand loosening over his chest.
But for the first time since the tragedy, his lips moved — forming something almost like a smile.
Not a happy one, nor peaceful. It was uncertain… a small, bitter smile.
Because only through pain like this did he realize — he was still human.
He could still feel, even if he could no longer weep.
His breathing slowed, still heavy but steadying.
His half-closed eyes lingered on the cracked, dusty wall.
A faint ray of light brushed his face, scattering dust into golden motes.
"If I can still feel pain…" he murmured,
"…then maybe I can still hope."
His voice faded into the still air.
He rested his head against the cold stone. The footsteps outside grew distant, replaced by the night's lull — the whisper of wind and the soft clinking of chains.
His eyes finally closed completely.
In the silence and darkness, he drifted into sleep — half his body trembling from cold, half surrendered to exhaustion.
But before sleep fully claimed him, Alistair's face appeared once more in his memory — that gentle smile, the hand ruffling his hair, and the quiet but firm voice:
"If the world won't give you a place to cry… then create one yourself, Averroes."
His final exhale that night was long and quiet, and his body grew still.
For that night, the world could forget Averroes — for in his sleep, he still held on to something the world could never steal: a small, fragile hope.