Soon, the sun set and the full moon rose from its grave. The shallow breezes hardened into heavy slaps of freezing air that seeped through the narrow viewing slit. The stone floor was icy beneath their boots. The guards settled into a corner of the level, wrapping themselves in thick fur blankets, and by the dim glow of a burning lamp, they passed the time playing cards.
The floor grew quiet. The only sounds were the wind howling through the slit and the faint shivering of the old man, who trembled under the cold as he tried to sleep, wrapped in nothing more than his thin, robe-like blanket.
The young soldier could hear those sounds and found himself unable to focus on the card game. One of the guards noticed his distraction and said, "You don't need to feel bad for him. He's here for reasons you wouldn't want to know."
Another guard added, "Yes, I've heard from others that he's an eldritch."
A third guard chimed in, "These creatures sell their humanity to fulfill their desires. You can tell from his pale face—merciless and silent, like a ghost. These types are the worst to deal with."
The young guard hesitated, then asked, "If he's that sinister, why didn't they just execute him?"
One of the soldiers replied, "Everyone has a reason for their actions. Sparing him wasn't our decision—it came from the higher-ups. That means they likely see him as a potential weapon… or something even worse."
With such thoughts lingering, nights passed, followed by days—each marked by the same silence in the corridors, the same cold breezes, and the same quiet sympathy weighing on the young soldier's mind.
One day, during his patrol, he noticed an unusual stillness coming from the old man's cell. As he leaned closer to peer inside, he saw the old man lying on the floor, his body nearly motionless. Panic surged through the soldier. In that moment, all the sympathy he had harbored for the prisoner rushed to the surface.
Instead of calling for backup, the soldier hurried to retrieve the cell keys. He unlocked the door and rushed inside to help the old man.
What could it be? Hypothermia? Is he dead?, The thoughts spiraled wildly in his mind.
He knelt beside the old man, reaching to check for a heartbeat. As he leaned down and pressed his ear to the man's chest, the old man suddenly sprang into motion, locking the soldier's arm in a brutal elbow hold.
A surge of panic flooded the soldier's body. He tried to push the old man away, but to his shock, the grip was unnaturally strong. Struggling, he reached blindly toward his belt and fumbled for his taser.
He fired.
The electric shock forced the old man's grip to loosen, and the soldier tore himself free, stumbling backward to create distance. In that instant, all sympathy vanished from his eyes. What remained was rage—rage at himself for pitying a demon.
Snarling, he raised the taser again and struck the old man three, then four more times in blind fury. When the shocks ceased, he lunged forward and kicked the man brutally in the stomach.
After several moments of savage violence, the soldier's fury finally ebbed. He spat to the side and left the old man's battered body behind.
Hearing the commotion, other guards rushed toward the cell just as the young soldier exited and slammed the door shut.
"What happened?" one of them asked.
"Nothing much," the young soldier replied coldly. "That fucker tried to ambush me."
"We told you not to trust these demons, you dumbass," another guard scolded.
As they walked away, the cell was left in silence once more.
Inside, the old man lay curled on the floor, clutching his abdomen in pain. Through his muzzle, he muttered faintly to himself, " Uhh… ahh… I really have lost my touch… ahh…"
With great effort, he pushed himself upright, using the wall for support. Once standing, his gaze drifted toward the corner of the cell. There, glinting faintly in the dim light, lay a small metallic object.
At closer inspection, it was the young soldier's identification tag—dropped during the struggle.
The old man stared at it, and a slow, devious smile crept beneath the cage of his muzzle.
"Hmmm…" he murmured softly to himself. "Lets begin then."
That night, as the guards settled into their usual routine—wrapped in blankets, idly playing cards—the only notable change was the mockery directed at the young soldier. Such ridicule was expected; doing something so foolish naturally invited both lectures and scorn. Yet while the guards occupied themselves with trivial chatter, something far more significant was unfolding inside the old man's cell.
Within the cell, the old man sat in absolute stillness. Slowly, he used his toes to draw the metallic identification tag closer, then turned it so that its sharpened edge faced upward. With deliberate precision, he pressed the pointed side into the flesh of his other foot.
The metal pierced his skin.
A thin stream of red blood spilled onto the cold stone floor, and as it did, the old man began to chant.
The words flowed in an unheard, ancient language—one that initially sounded like meaningless gibberish. Yet each syllable carried intent and meaning, knowledge known only to him.
As the chanting continued, something unnatural began to occur. The droplets of blood striking the floor did not pool or spread. Instead, each one evaporated the moment it made contact with the stone. From the vanishing blood rose thin wisps of smoke—thick, black smoke, reminiscent of that produced by burning tires.
The smoke mingled with the icy breeze seeping in from outside. Slowly, deliberately, it began to spread through the cell, creeping outward into the surrounding air.
After a few minutes—
"Look at this fragile boy," one soldier scoffed, pointing at the young guard. "Got beaten up by a fossil. What a shame."
"Once again, I'm telling you—it was an ambush," the young soldier defended himself. "I wasn't beaten by him."
"And if you did beat him," another guard snapped aggressively, "your ass was only saved by that bloody taser. If it weren't for that, he would've choked your fucking ass to death."
_*Cough._*
"You're all lecturing me for no reason," the young soldier replied. "There's no way he could've done anything to me."
"Kid, you're naïve," the guard said between coughs. "He would've killed you if he was serious. You—cough*—need to—cough*—be more careful around these monsters."
"You're coughing more than usual today," the young soldier said, standing up. and moved towards corner where the can of water was present "Here, have some warm water."
He picked up the can and poured lukewarm water into a mug.
"I get what you're saying, but you need to—"
As he turned to offer the mug, his words died in his throat.
The other guards were sprawled across the floor. Their bodies convulsed violently, shaking at an unnatural pace, as if all of them were suffering seizures at the same time. Blood slowly streamed from their eyes and mouths, and the moment it struck the ground, it evaporated—releasing thick, black smoke.