"Enter!"

BAM!

The guard hurled a prisoner through the tiny hole in the thick wall— a male whose clothes hung in tatters, body painted in bruises, cuts, and dried blood. He crashed onto the filthy floor, gasping, trembling, his skin slick with sweat and grime. The guard followed him inside, the faint glow from the corridor dying as the door shut, leaving them in oppressive darkness.

"Mmff! Aaammm!!!" the prisoner screamed through his gag, his voice cracking with terror and disbelief.

The air in that chamber was thick, choking, as if alive with decay. Heat radiated from unseen vents, wrapping around him like the breath of some buried beast. The stench—of rotting flesh, blood, and sweat—was unbearable. It clawed at the back of his throat until he gagged. In that darkness, stripped of sound and hope, he felt he had fallen into the deepest layer of hell itself.

Yet even that was mercy compared to the psychological torment that festered here. Every prisoner had seen the true faces of the Crimson Soldiers—merciless, ravenous things draped in armor and sin. They had watched their companions dragged away, heard the screams echo, smelled the blood... until they learned the truth: those taken were eaten alive.

Every soul here knew why they still breathed. Two reasons kept them barely alive—the first: their blood was valuable, harvested drop by drop every few weeks. The second: they were living reserves of fresh flesh for the upper ranks of the Red Plague, delicacies to be consumed whenever hunger called.

The prisoner had tried to escape this fate. He had tried to stand, to fight, to crawl his way to freedom—but the iron spike embedded in his chest pulsed with suppressive energy, sealing his power, stealing every ounce of strength.

"My Lord," the guard said at last, forcing the man onto his knees. He grabbed a fistful of the prisoner's hair, jerking his head up until his neck was fully exposed to the flickering torchlight. "This one's a fine catch—Peak Martial Emperor Realm. Used to be an aide to a general in the Alliance Army. Shall I start the carving? Or would you prefer a clean cut? Though I should warn you... when we fed the cub fresh meat before, it refused to swallow."

"Stop!" Sakaar's voice cut through the air like thunder.

He moved forward in two long strides, seizing the prisoner before the guard could strike. His claws curled around the man's face with frightening ease. Then, without a word, Sakaar turned, his massive frame casting a long shadow as he walked toward the shivering figure in the corner—the white cub.

"Gghhh! Aaaghhh!!" the prisoner thrashed helplessly in Sakaar's grip, his nails scraping against the beast's armored arm. The claws digging into his cheeks drew thin lines of blood that ran down to his jaw, but it was futile—Sakaar's strength was that of a mountain. A moment later, the man was lifted like a broken doll and thrown onto the pale, trembling body of the cub.

Sakaar's voice came again, deep and commanding. "Don't move."

"....!!" the prisoner gasped, trembling so hard his knees rattled. He froze instantly, not daring to breathe too loudly.

Sakaar stood beside them, motionless, his sharp senses fully awakened. His soul perception expanded through the room like invisible tendrils, feeling every shift, every heartbeat.

The demons had reported something strange before: that the white mutant had once tried to do something to them—an attempt to affect their minds, perhaps—but had failed and been restrained ever since. So Sakaar had decided to test it, to bring the creature a living sacrifice... and see what would happen this time.

And indeed, after a full minute of silence, something began to stir. "…?!"

Sakaar narrowed his eyes. The cub's small nose twitched faintly, like a newborn rabbit catching the scent of fresh grass. Then came a flicker—a weak, trembling pulse of soul force rippled from its head, faint yet undeniable, aimed directly at the prisoner.

"Ughhh!" The man shuddered violently, a wave of agony striking through his skull. He shook his head once, grimacing as if pierced by an invisible blade, but the memory of Sakaar's command chained him still. He didn't move, didn't dare even blink.

The cub's attack waves were feeble, scattered easily like smoke in the wind—but they didn't stop. Slowly, stubbornly, the little creature gathered itself again, drawing in the thin currents of spiritual force within the air. Its trembling frame shone faintly for a moment... as it tried, once more, to release another wave.

"…?!"

Before the second wave of the cub's attack could even form, Sakaar's instincts acted faster than thought. His massive, clawed hand lashed out, striking the prisoner at the base of the skull. Crack! The sound echoed through the narrow chamber like a whip, and in that single motion, the man's body went limp. The faint light of life drained from his wide, terror-filled eyes, leaving them glassy and vacant.

Almost simultaneously, ksshh! — the cub's soul attack was released. This time, it wasn't deflected or dissipated. It struck the corpse head-on, surrounding it in a thin, ghostlike shimmer before piercing straight through its skull. The wave sank into the prisoner's collapsing soul domain, which had already been teetering on the edge of disintegration.

Sakaar could sense it clearly through his spiritual perception: the cub's consciousness—faint, chaotic, yet hungering—extended itself toward the broken fragments of the man's soul. Piece by piece, the little creature devoured the remnants, dragging them inward as though feeding on something far deeper than flesh or blood.

The process lasted nearly ten long minutes. During that time, the prisoner's spiritual domain shattered completely, dissolving into a fog of formless essence. His initial soul fled into oblivion. And still, the cub worked in eerie silence, gathering the invisible dust of what had once been consciousness.

Then came the most disturbing sight yet—those unseen fragments began to drift toward the cub's mouth. His tiny lips parted, revealing a row of pearl-white teeth that gleamed faintly in the dimness, and the creature began to chew as though savoring a meal.

"….?!"

Sakaar's eyes widened slightly, a low growl forming in his throat, but he remained still. He needed to understand this thing before him.

After a pause, he reached down, grabbed the corpse by the neck, and flung it toward the guard. "Consider this your reward," he said coldly. "For keeping the cub alive all this time. Take it—and enjoy it."

"Ah! Th-thank you, my King!!" the guard stammered, dropping to his knees so fast his armor scraped against the bone-littered floor. Someone of his rank would never receive such a fresh, high-quality meal. Overwhelmed by joy and terror, he clutched the body tightly and stumbled out of the chamber, his trembling voice echoing down the dark tunnel.

Then, silence.

Ten minutes later—

A change began. Sakaar stood motionless, his towering figure casting a massive shadow over the clay floor, while the cub's frail, skeletal form began to shift. At first, the change was subtle—a faint twitch in its limbs, a ripple under the skin. Then suddenly, flesh began to return. Muscle and tissue knitted together beneath its pale skin as though an unseen hand were inflating it with life.

But it wasn't only the body that transformed. The air around the cub trembled faintly. Its lone heartbeat, once slow and weak, now thundered with sudden strength. Its aura—once faint, sickly, and alien—expanded in intensity, pure and untainted by the Red Plague.

And then came the light.

It started as a soft, almost invisible radiance seeping from the creature's skin, spreading across its limbs until the entire chamber was faintly illuminated. The walls, once drowned in pitch darkness, now shimmered with a ghostly silver hue.

"Hmm…" Sakaar murmured under his breath.

The cub lifted one small hand, its bald head tilting curiously from side to side. With the other, it pushed itself upright and sat there, breathing slowly, as if it had just awoken from a deep dream.

The room was silent save for the sound of that renewed heartbeat. Sakaar stood beside him, massive and motionless, his crimson armor glinting faintly under the dim new light.

The cub then opened its single, large eye—an eye with a shimmering silver pupil that swirled softly like molten metal, a color both pure and unsettling. It studied Sakaar for several long, tense seconds, its gaze sharp yet oddly calm, before parting its lips to speak.

"…Are you my father?"

"…..?!"

Sakaar's expression hardened instantly. Shock coursed through him. This cub had supposedly been dying mere days after birth, its mother long dead. Who had taught it to form words? Who had given it the concept of what a father even was?

"I don't know," Sakaar said finally, voice deep and cold. "Mating happens randomly among our kind. I could be your father… or not."

It was the truth. Sakaar had never been one to limit his bloodline; before meeting Lord Robin, half his den had been filled with his own spawn.

"You fed me," the cub said softly, his tone quiet but unwavering. "That means you're my father."

There was no warmth in his voice—just certainty.

Sakaar exhaled slowly, studying the creature more closely. Its logic was primitive, yet strangely absolute.

"What is my name?" the cub asked next.

"…Liusar," Sakaar replied after a brief pause, his tone heavy with something between curiosity and foreboding. "That's your name." He extended a massive, clawed hand. "As for whether I'm truly your father… come. We'll find out together."

"Alright." Liusar jumped lightly down from the rough clay table, his movements fluid despite the recent transformation. He landed beside Sakaar and grasped one of his enormous fingers with his small, pale hand. Then he tilted his head upward, his lone silver eye gleaming faintly.

"Can you feed me again?" he asked, voice calm and disturbingly innocent. "This time… Can you feed me one of the crimson ones."

"…..?"

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