(Planet Wamir, Subterranean Detention Facility, Veyr’s POV)
The darkness inside the cell was absolute.
It pressed down upon Veyr’s mind like a living thing, heavy and suffocating, swallowing all sense of time until hours and days blurred into one continuous void, indistinguishable from sleep. The only proof that he was still alive came from the faint ache in his chest and the rhythmic sting of the sedative needles whenever the guards returned to ensure he stayed quiet.
He had tried counting the intervals once, but even that had dissolved into meaninglessness. There was no sun, no moon, no passing footsteps to mark the hours—only silence, the sound of his shallow breath, and the faint trickle of water running down the stone wall behind him.
’How long has it been?’ he wondered faintly, the thought barely forming before it began to crumble under the weight of exhaustion. ’Hours? Days? Weeks? It all feels the same...’
His limbs felt distant, his head heavy, as if his consciousness floated somewhere above his body. Every time he tried to move, the chains tugged at his wrists and ankles with an unyielding resistance that made his joints burn.
Then, just as his senses began to drift again, the silence broke.
*CLANK*
The iron door jolted open, flooding the cell with pale blue light that sliced through the darkness like a blade.
Veyr squinted, flinching instinctively as two Transcendent-tier soldiers stepped in, their armor gleaming faintly under the glow of mana lanterns. One of them held a pair of syringes filled with opaque liquid, while the other carried a small metal tray lined with surgical tools.
"Seriously?" the taller one said, his tone mocking as he eyed Veyr with idle disgust. "They want us to strip this guy naked and write ’coward’ on his chest? What’s the point of that?"
The shorter one—stockier, with a scar running down his cheek, laughed lightly. "Beats me. Why bother understanding orders when we can just follow them? Less thinking, more doing."
Veyr’s pulse spiked as he watched the two approach, his breath shallow, his instincts screaming at him to move though his body refused to obey.
"W–wait..." he rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse, the words scraping out of his throat like dry leaves. "You... you want to strip me naked? But why?"
He asked, as the taller soldier, Elmuth, turned to him with a grin that never reached his eyes.
"Why?"
He repeated as he crouched down, pulling a dagger from his belt, before pressing its cold tip gently against Veyr’s forehead.
"Shut your mouth, Evil Cult scum," he said softly, his voice carrying the casual cruelty of someone who had said such words too many times before. "Be glad we’re letting you live. Asking questions will only make me... less gentle."
He replied, as then, with deliberate slowness, he slid the blade down, catching the fabric of Veyr’s tattered robe.
*Riiip*
The first tear sounded almost surgical in the silence.
Then came another, and another.
*Tear*
*Slice*
Elmuth’s grin widened as he continued, peeling small sections of cloth from Veyr’s body, each stroke alternating between cloth and skin.
Sometimes he grazed flesh just enough to draw blood, other times he lingered near the wounds, dragging the edge lightly across them to watch the shiver run through his captive.
"You spineless motherfucker—"
Veyr muttered as he clenched his teeth, his jaw trembling with a mixture of anger and disbelief, as pain pulsed down his side.
"Do you derive some sick satisfaction in stripping another man naked?" he asked in anger, his voice trembling but his tone sharp enough to slice through the air.
Elmuth chuckled, standing upright as the dagger rested lazily against his thigh. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "I do. And it feels good. You have no idea what it means to have you— the so-called Dragon, the symbol of all evil, trapped right here before us. This is the story I’ll tell my children and my grandchildren, the tale of how I, Elmuth, humiliated the Evil Cult’s precious messiah."
He spoke the words with such vile pride that it almost made Veyr sick to his stomach.
Meanwhile, the other soldier, Jamal, uncapped the syringe and rolled it between his fingers, studying the liquid inside as though admiring a work of art.
"You talk too much," Jamal muttered, stepping closer. "Let’s put him to sleep. We’ve still got to make him presentable before tomorrow’s... show."
Veyr’s eyes widened, his pulse quickening as the word "show" lingered ominously in his mind.
"What do you mean... show?" he croaked, struggling against his restraints. "What are you planning to do with me?"
But Jamal only smiled faintly, gripping Veyr’s shoulder as he pressed the syringe into the side of his neck.
"Sleep, you filthy evildoer," he whispered, his tone dripping with satisfaction. "Sleep well. For when you wake, you’ll find yourself free from these chains... but thrown into something far more humiliating."
Veyr’s breath hitched as the sedative spread through his bloodstream like fire turning to ice. His thoughts scattered, his vision warped, and the faint outlines of the soldiers began to blur into streaks of color.
He tried to form words, but his tongue no longer obeyed. His body felt weightless, drifting, sinking, dissolving into the darkness once again.
And just before the last sliver of consciousness slipped away, he heard Jamal’s voice one final time, echoing faintly through the haze.
"Hahaha, I still can’t believe this is the Cult’s fearsome Dragon.
When he captured Nemo, rumors started to circulate that he’s untouchable.
But look at him now.... So harmless, so tame.
Soon, the whole universe will see what this harmless evildoer’s body looks like."
Jamal said, as the laughter that followed lingered long after the light in the cell had dimmed, its cruel rhythm echoing in his mind as everything around him faded into nothingness.
’I wish to die rather than suffer humiliation.... Just what are these people going to do to me?’
He wondered before falling asleep, as the last bit of cloth covering his skin slipped off his body.