The only light in the interrogation room came from a torch fixed to the wall.
Its restless flame threw twisted shadows across the mottled stone, as if something unseen were writhing in the dark.
The air reeked of iron and a cloying rot—old blood soaked into mildewed straw.
Jellal's wrists were bound with coarse hemp and strung up on a rack.
The rope bit deep, leaving purple-red grooves in his skin. Head hanging, sweat-damp blue hair stuck to his brow and trembled with his ragged, uneven breaths.
"…Angry? Resentful? You fought for them, and they abandoned you here…"
A voice oozed straight into the depths of his mind, thick and bewitching. "Look at you—like a dog on a leash… Those lofty ones, the ones who trampled your dignity—they're the root of all suffering…"
Jellal forced his head up. His eyes were exhausted, but still held a shard of clarity.
"No…" His voice was hoarse. "We… we're about to win… Shane and the others…"
Once, when he couldn't see a future, he might have faltered. Now, with freedom within reach, he refused to waver.
A coward too craven to even show a face was no different, in his eyes, from the scum of the Tower of Paradise.
"Win?" The voice in the dark chuckled low, a sound that needled the nerves. "How naïve. Power springs from hatred. Only hatred, deep and true, can give you the strength to destroy all and rebuild order…
Accept me. You needn't offer sacrifices like those fools… You are special. If you but worship me, I will grant you all you desire."
Even so, Jellal did not bend.
The whisper sharpened—like a thousand icy needles stabbing into his mind.
More and more negative feelings were dredged up and magnified.
The humiliation of slavery, the sting of lashes, the numb grind of endless days… a black tide surged up, drowning what reason he had left.
"Uagh—!" Jellal screamed, skull about to burst. His awareness fluttered on the edge of collapse, a candle guttering in the wind.
"Sacrifices…? Who are you?"
His body convulsed. He managed that one question—and sagged, head lolling.
Just before the dark took him, he dimly heard the malice-laden voice murmur:
"My name… is Zeref."
…
…
The instant Jellal blacked out, Shane, sprinting through the corridors, felt a sudden clench of dread.
A chill beyond words seemed to seep from the interrogation room.
"Such strong mana…" Shane's brow furrowed. Even a half-baked novice like him could feel it.
"Shane! You're here at last! Jellal, he—" Wally burst free of a skirmish and ran up, but Shane cut him off with a raised hand.
"Millianna filled me in," Shane said—quick but steady. "Right now, you lead people to Erza and Simon. Stick to the plan—head for the coast and seize the supply ship."
"But—" Wally wanted to go with him to save Jellal, but the words jammed.
"You can't help with that fight," Shane said, slipping past. "That's a battle between mages."
He didn't know what magic waited in that room. If Wally followed, Shane would only have to split his focus guarding him.
Wally ground his teeth, then stamped once and waved Wally and the others toward the exit.
Shane didn't pause. He cut straight to the interrogation wing.
From a distance he saw two guards posted at the iron door, jittery as if expecting a ghost.
Fear still pinched their faces. They'd felt the same ominous aura leaking from inside.
"Stop!" one managed, drawing his weapon with forced bravado.
Shane didn't waste a word. He called the longbow into his hand and loosed.
The man dropped on the spot.
Shane nocked again—then hesitated when he recognized the other guard's face.
"Beanpole?" It was the lanky overseer who'd "looked after" him at the worksite.
On any other day, Shane might have taken time to "catch up." Not now.
He grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him close. The guard recognized him and shuddered so hard the stink of urine spread—clearly, he knew who this was.
"D-don't kill me…"
"I don't have time to settle scores," Shane said, rapid-fire. "If you want to live, run to the shore and find a redheaded girl. With her, load every portable stash—money, food, weapons—onto the supply ship."
He hauled him closer and warned, "Don't think about running. Every boat on this island is under our control."
"I—I get it! I get it! I'm going!" The man bobbed his head and scrambled into the dark.
Watching him flee, Shane rubbed his brow.
It was a snap decision. You couldn't free this many people and then leave them to fend for themselves. Even if he couldn't place everyone, he could at least bankroll their way home.
The man had been at the tower a long time; with him leading, they'd scrounge more.
"Figures—I'm built to be a babysitter," he sighed. It wasn't his style to fuss with this kind of thing—but maybe it would boost his trial rating…
That thought soothed him a little.
He turned back to the iron door bleeding menace. Without hesitation, he hauled it open.
Inside, the scene was not what he'd expected.
No enemy—only Jellal, bound to the rack and slumped unconscious.
But as soon as Shane stepped over the threshold, the chill didn't ebb—it sharpened.
"As I thought…" His eyes swept the empty room. There had definitely been more than one "presence" here.
He deliberately eased his stance, dismissed the bow, and sauntered toward Jellal as if unwary. The moment his hand reached for the rope—
the malice swelled, almost tangible, striking from behind.
"Out." Shane didn't hesitate; he spoke the True Name and let the blaze surge. Spirit-woven garb flowed over him like liquid flame—soft and unyielding.
With his body honed by the Heroic overlay, he moved light and sure—pivoted—and scooped Jellal clear of the strike.
He set Jellal down gently and swept the room with hawk eyes. The world snapped into razor focus in his senses; nothing escaped him.
Then—something. His gaze speared the deepest shadow of the chamber.
At the point his eyes fixed, the air began to warp.
A blurred outline surfaced from the void, like a camera slowly pulling into focus—coalescing, sharpening, becoming clear.