The old man was taken inside. As they moved through the corridors, the guards surrounded him until they reached the inspection room. Though his body appeared weak and fragile, his face remained utterly emotionless. His eyes stared straight ahead, lifeless and unmoving; his expression showed no sign of fear, pain, or resistance.
The guards escorting him could not help but notice this unsettling composure as they led him through the dark passageways.
Finally, they brought him into the inspection room. The man was searched from head to toe to ensure that he was not carrying any harmful objects. After confirming that nothing was concealed on his person, the guards proceeded to inspect the belongings that had been delivered by the soldiers.
The items consisted of a torn robe, several coins, a necklace, a wooden stick, and a small, diary-like book that appeared extremely old.
The guards began examining each item carefully. The coins seemed to belong to different kingdoms, some even originating from neighboring countries. The robe was nothing more than a worn piece of clothing, and the diary-like book turned out to be a collection of old folk tales—stories famous throughout the continent. Upon realizing this, the guards began to giggle and mock the old man.
"Folk tales? Are you serious?" one guard scoffed. "You actually read this? Is this really the right guy?"
"I think the authorities couldn't find the real Nameless Demon," another guard said, laughing. "So they just grabbed some random homeless man and pinned the blame on him."
Despite the ridicule, the man's face remained as pale and emotionless as before, as though he were not even present in the room.
The inspection continued and the guards eventually turned their attention to the wooden stick. At first glance, it looked like nothing more than a broken tree branch. However, when one of the guards examined it more closely, he noticed a small, nearly invisible gap in the wood. When he inserted his finger into the gap, a sudden suction formed, causing one side of the stick to slide open—revealing a blade concealed within, like a sword drawn from its sheath.
"Huh," the guard muttered. "So this is your weapon—a sword disguised as a walking stick."
As he said this, the guard turned to observe the old man's reaction and froze in surprise. The man was staring directly at him, his gaze locked onto the exposed blade. His eyes were deep and raw, filled with a gritty intensity, as though he were peering straight into the guard's soul.
With a dry, cracking voice, the man spoke for the first time.
"Put it down."
The voice was horrifying. It sent a chill straight through the guard's body, shaking him to his core. Without hesitation, he placed the stick on the table and stepped back.
All of the man's belongings were confiscated, and he was then send towards his cell.
Monolith was designed as a towering structure in which the number of cells decreased with each ascending level. While the number of guards stationed on each floor remained the same, the reduced number of prisoners ensured constant surveillance over the most dangerous individuals. Over time, this design fostered an unspoken hierarchy among the inmates: the higher the floor, the more dangerous the criminal confined there.
Some of the lower floors were bustling with activity. Prisoners watched from behind their iron bars as a crooked old man was escorted toward the upper levels of the tower. Their reactions were mixed: some mocked him, others were bewildered as to why someone so old had been brought here and a few were openly resentful, angered by the thought of being overshadowed by this staggering bundle of bone and flesh ascending to the higher floors.
"Hey, old man! What are you here for?!" one inmate shouted from his cell.
"I bet he robbed a bank and couldn't run away with his cane," another inmate jeered, bursting into laughter.
"Both of you, shut the hell up!" a guard barked, slamming his baton against the iron bars of the cell.
But it was not enough to silence the others. The noise continued to rise—insults hurled at the old man, spit flung in his direction, and even water splashed from tin mugs. Amid all the chaos, the man's expression did not change in the slightest. It remained pale and blank, as cold and unmoving as the snow outside, as he continued to march forward.
As they climbed higher, the noise gradually faded. Eventually, the old man was escorted to one of the upper levels of the tower. His cell was small, with two solid stone walls and a narrow viewing slit in the third. Through that opening, only snow-covered mountains were visible and an unceasing, ice-cold breeze seeped into the cell.
A name tag was affixed to the old man's robe. It read: NAMELESS. The orders in the documents were explicit—none of his restraints were to be removed.
"Not even his muzzle?" a young soldier asked, surprised, when his superior repeated the instructions.
"Yes," the senior guard replied firmly. "Not even the muzzle."
The young soldier felt a quiet sense of sympathy for the old man. He could not comprehend what actions might have led this soul into such a pit. As a newly assigned guard at Monolith, he still carried traces of hope and compassion in his eyes—qualities that would inevitably fade as the sands of time wore them away.
"This is a bad idea," one senior guard remarked. "You shouldn't place a new guard on the upper levels."
"He could be traumatized by them," the senior guard added while speaking to Sir Charles Welsh.
At the time, Welsh was holding his morning cup of coffee. He took a sip, savoring both its warmth and bitterness, before replying, "That new guard—Mister Tom—is my nephew."
"He was sent to this prison by his father to become a tougher man. It is my duty to show him the truths of this world as quickly as possible."
"Even if you want him to understand the world," the guard protested, "placing him on the same floor as that demon is—"
"That demon," Welsh interrupted calmly, "is retired."
"Moreover," he continued, "my nephew is a devout man. He won't be haunted by demons."
"Who knows," Welsh added with a chuckle, "perhaps he'll even purify the demon with his holy words. Ha ha ha."