He could no longer distinguish where the pain ended and memory began. The darkness of the dungeon congealed into a viscous mass, and even the torchlight seemed alien, like the breath of a stranger. Around him—whispers, footsteps, the grating of iron, and the low hum of voices. The demons, who had once seemed so confident and cruel, now moved with growing tension: every gesture was cautious, every word almost a whisper, as if they feared disturbing something invisible.
Vargreil stood in a semicircle, his mask seeming closer than before. But now he wasn't giving orders. He was listening. And the longer he listened, the more noticeable the tension in his shoulders became. The demons around him trembled. Tanyusha, who had so gleefully tormented him before, now kept her distance, her fingers slightly shaking.
"We will enter the memory," Vargreil said finally. His voice was even, but it carried both resolve and fear. "Let us see what this corpse in human skin is hiding."
They did not torture him further—why break what can be read? The demons brought forth devices and runes from the twilight, encircling the limp figure with them. Nox, hidden at Sai's feet, growled, but the chains held him down; the little dragon whined and dug his claws tightly into the stone.
Vargreil lowered his hand: a rune ignited with a cold blue light, and in that moment, something in the air changed—as if a fine web of memories had stretched taut around the prisoner's head.
At first, he saw fragments—wisps of smoke, the screech of metal, a child's cry. But for those who had entered his memory, it was not just a recollection: it was a window into another time, into other worlds. They unfolded one after another, like a thread, and the deeper the demons delved, the faster their expressions changed: from curiosity to anxiety, then to outright fear.
Tanyusha was the first to recoil, as if touched by an icy hand.
"What is this?" she whispered. "There's... something else there."
Vargreil blinked, his lips tightening. He felt not images, but a weight—ancient, cold, and alive.
They "entered" his childhood memory and saw a house filled with the smell of bread and warm milk. Faces appeared: a young woman with warm eyes, a boy, and two tiny hands—twins, laughter, light. Suddenly—an explosion, fire, and the faces turned into silhouettes. A single dark figure, shrouded in burning shadows, moved through the house; and the voice of his grandfather, Aser—hoarse, confident: "Don't be afraid, Sai. Live."
The demons recoiled. What they saw was human to the point of being chilling. But that was only the beginning. They pushed further, deeper, to where the memory ceased to be personal and became strange, like an echo in an old mine.
Then came another vision—a field, white-hot, a sky torn by flashes; shadows that fell not from the sun, but from something within the sky itself. They saw a figure, not entirely human: a girl with black hair and eyes that seemed filled with white light—cold, impenetrable. She stood among ruins and looked at the boy, and in her gaze was something both familiar and unrecognizable. The demons shrank back—this vision was unlike ordinary childhood memories. It held not words, but commands of an unknown kind.
Next—scenes no human should have: he saw himself not as a boy, but as a vessel through which another's history flowed; he heard voices over ancient maps, voices whispering about a crown, about shadow, about rights and wars, about how the darkness had once fought the demons and nearly defeated them. He saw images reminiscent of legends: the Shadow King, whose power gave birth to cold and gloom; he saw the silhouettes of demiurges and ancient beings that had neither flesh nor name, but had a will—a will to destroy and subjugate. And somewhere among the etymological symbols, the same thread flashed repeatedly: a name that varied on the demons' lips—"The Shadow."
The demons recoiled. Their faces contorted: torture had turned to horror. They tried to tear themselves out of the memory, to close the stream—but the rune held them, hooked their thoughts, forced them to look further. They saw not only the past, but a potential future: flashes of events where something would grow from him, something that would resemble the ancient shadow, but would not be its copy—rather, a new clone, forced into the shred of a human.
"He resembles... that thing," whispered one of the lesser officers, his voice like a cry in the void. "I remember the legends... We heard of the Shadow. We feared it. We hacked at it. We thought we had forgotten."
Tanyusha covered her mouth with her palm; she was not stupid—as the memory filled with what they had seen, a sincere, primal suffering appeared in her eyes. She knew the stories whispered around the night campfires: tales of how, long ago, a human/shadow had challenged the demonic legions, how the wars began, how many had been sacrificed. But now, seeing his personal memories—and something else that had attached itself to them—the feeling of that ancient blood had come alive again.
Vargreil was the first to surface. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword—not to cut through flesh, but to hold on tighter to the fact: he was a demon, and he must master fear. But fear had invaded him, dark and embossed.
"Enough!" he roared, and his voice echoed off the stone walls. "Pull out! That's enough!"
They jerked back, as if the chains of memory had snapped, and everything returned to the dark chamber: the creaking, the smell of blood, the shifting figures. But those images had left a mark: cold as iron, and deep as a scar.
The demons exchanged glances. Their steps became small, timid. The same old question hung in the air, one they had avoided asking themselves for years: what had they encountered?
Vargreil leaned down and whispered low, but his words reached everyone with terrible clarity:
"KILL HIM."
The command sounded not like an order for an experiment, not like a step in research—but like the only possible safety valve: to destroy the source of the threat before it could put down roots. The demons, who just minutes ago had indulged in sadism and torture, now stood face to face with their own weakness: they did not know what he was; and the unknown bred a panicked, insane response.
Tanyusha was stunned. "But General," she stammered, "if it is the Shadow... destruction is a risk. We could... use..."
"No!" Vargreil cut her off, his voice no longer shaking. "The risk is too great. Any attempt to bind him to us, to study him—gives the shadow time to awaken. We cannot allow it."
The words were firm, but the fear in the air was palpable: they understood this was no ordinary target. This was the seed of something ancient; it could mean the end of their power in these lands if they delayed.
Sai lay exhausted, blood and sweat mingling on his cheeks. He barely heard the words—his consciousness leaped from fragment to fragment of reality. Somewhere deep inside, the dark impulse—the one that had made the General flinch—had frozen, like a flash on cold glass. His lips moved. He tried to say his grandfather's name, to recall the voice, the house, that smell which meant "home." But memory pulled him to a place where he both was and wasn't—where the shadow frolicked and waited.
The demons were already moving. Their steps became a black murder of crows gathering over their victim. In their eyes—a mix of rage and panic: now they wanted to destroy, burn, erase any possibility of awakening.
Tanyusha, who had stepped back, watched with an expression that held both envy and fear. She remembered how their old legends taught: do not seek what is better forgotten. And now, in this moment, she was terrified that their ancient victory was merely a mirage.
Sai did not know how much strength he had left. He heard the instruments of death being prepared beyond the wall; heard the footsteps ready to deliver the final blow. And in his head, amidst the pain and emptiness, one clear, cold word flashed: "Begin." Begin what was meant to liberate or destroy.
The demons moved closer, their shadows filling the chamber. Vargreil raised his hand. A sound—a signal. A command—short, like the thrust of a knife.
"KILL HIM."
And in that cry lay all the panic of that world: destroy before understanding; strike before the ground trembles beneath their feet.
Sai felt the world narrowing to a point of pain. He listened to the footsteps, heard the cold steel approaching. For a moment, before the blackness consumed everything, he remembered his grandfather's voice: "Don't be afraid. Live. Live for those who are gone." And in that memory—in that tiny spark—something rose within him, warm and strong, challenging the evil and the light simultaneously.
The chamber filled with shouts. The demons froze in anticipation. And on that sound, the moment ended—as the ancient command was given, and Sai's fate hung on the edge of a blade.