Darkness.

The sound of water dripping somewhere in the distance, each drop echoing off wet stone. The air was cold and damp, carrying the smell of mildew and decay.

Nero lay flat on his back on the straw-covered ground, staring up at nothing. The ceiling of the cell was invisible in the dark, swallowed by shadows that pressed down on him like a physical weight.

His mind was empty.

Or so he told himself.

He could not close his eyes.

Every time he tried, visions came.

A field of corpses stretching endlessly toward the walls of Liedenstorm, the bodies piled on top of one another, limbs twisted and broken.

The crimson glint of Templars on their black steeds, their blades falling in steady rhythm.

And if course, Obed's head rolling across the blood-soaked earth, that sad smile still on his face even as his eyes closed for the last time.

Geor. Lucy and Aisha...

He did not know if they were dead. He suspected they were. The purge had been complete, after all. That was what Captain Orpheus had said.

Nero kept his eyes open and stared into the darkness.

A day passed.

Then two.

Then three.

He did not move.

Not even an inch.

The cell was perhaps eight feet square, the walls rough stone with countless marks and scratches left behind by its previous occupants.

There were no windows or lights. Just the piercing cold.

On the third day, he felt something nibble at his toe.

Nero's eyes shifted downward.

In the faint glow that leaked under the cell door, barely enough to see by, he could make out the shape of a rat. It was large, perhaps the size of a small cat, with matted fur and yellowed teeth. It had mistaken him for a corpse and was testing whether his flesh was soft enough to chew.

Nero's leg snapped forward.

The rat flew across the cell and slammed into the wall with a wet crunch. Its body hit the stone and exploded. It's bones shattered on impact and its organs ruptured, blood spraying across the rough surface in a dark starburst pattern. The corpse slid down and landed in a heap on the ground.

Nero crawled toward it, moving slowly, his remaining hand pulling him forward across the straw.

He reached the rat and tore its head off with his teeth. Blood filled his mouth, warm and bitter. He spat the head aside and ripped open the body, pulling out the organs and throwing them to the side. Then he bit down.

The meat was tough and gamey, corrupted by the ambient Ein Sof that saturated everything in this cursed world. The corruption in city rats was considered negligible, which made their existence acceptable as there was not enough to cause transformation in those who came in contact with them, although perhaps that was going to change soon.

Nero did not care though. He thought nothing of that as all he wanted to do in this moment, was feed.

His reserves of Ein Sof were running low. He could feel it.

If they were completely depleted, his body would shift into the Yang form.

If anyone saw him like that, he was finished.

He finished the rat and fell back onto the straw, panting. Blood covered his chin and neck, sticky and warm. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, smearing it across his face.

For the first time since he had been thrown in here, Nero looked around the cell.

It was small and destitute.

The walls were rough stone, carved directly from bedrock, the floor covered in damp straw that stank of rot. There was a bucket in one corner for waste, already half full.

Other than that, there was nothing but the straw and the walls and the darkness.

"This is a cell, after all," Nero muttered to himself.

Of course it was.

His voice sounded strange in the silence, hollow and raspy. Like it didn't belong to him anymore.

He thought of his room back in Gor. It had been small, cramped, barely large enough for a bed and a table. But at least it had a window. The golden sunlight came through in the mornings sometimes. And if it didn't, then at least there was light.

This cell had no windows because it was underground, buried beneath... a place he had no idea where or what it was.

No sunlight could ever reach here.

"Daylight is a privilege," Nero said quietly.

The weight of his situation settled over him like a shroud. He was alone, imprisoned, missing an arm, and running out of energy.

Panic flickered in his chest.

Then it vanished.

Nero pursed his lips and forced himself to think.

Commander Strut had saved his life. That much was clear at least. He had protected him even when that Templar had nearly killed him. If the Commander wanted him dead, he would have let him die in the field.

No. Strut wanted him alive. For what purpose, Nero did not know, but the fact remained.

"He doesn't intend to let me die here," Nero said to the darkness.

He looked down at the stump of his left arm. The bandages were filthy, stained brown with old blood and yellow with pus. The wound had been treated, but barely. Enough to stop the bleeding and ensure there was no corruption spread, but nothing more.

His arm had been cut off by the Templar with the golden hair. Nero remembered his face clearly...

It had been handsome and cruel, with deep blue eyes that held nothing but contempt for the he rabble beneath him.

It was the same man who had killed Obed. The same man who had cut down the other refugees like cattle.

A deep rage settled over Nero.

He said nothing and his mind turned blank in the moment of searing hot rage. He simply sat there in the darkness, letting the hatred burn in his chest.

Then he let out a breath and forced it down with a deep exhale.

There was no point in lamenting. Rage would not bring Obed back and hatred would not restore his arm. Right now, he needed to think about the way forward.

If he was brought before an Inquisitor, he would not survive it. That much was certain. The Inquisition had methods for extracting truth, methods that left nothing hidden. They would peel back his mind layer by layer until they found what he was, and then they would burn him alive.

He needed a plan.

Nero thought back to what Commander Strut had done to him. The man had placed a hand on his back, and the transformation had stopped. The Yang form had been suppressed, forced back down, and Nero had been unable to shift into it.

How?

Nero frowned, thinking. The Commander did not know his secrets. He could not know about the his Seal or the Divine Oracle. But he knew Nero could control Ein Sof.

Yes. Whatever the Commander had done, it had disturbed the flow of Ein Sof within him.

It has disrupted it somehow, preventing the transformation.

That meant the Commander understood Ein Sof manipulation. More than that, he could use it to suppress others.

Nero filed that information away. It might be useful later.

Then he remembered something else.

He focused on the back of his hand, where the Mark of Mephistopheles had burned itself into his flesh. The inverted crimson cross glowed faintly in the darkness, pulsing with a rhythm that matched his heartbeat.

Nero closed his fist and concentrated.

Slowly, something manifested in his grip.

Cold metal...

It was Gungnir.

The spear materialized fully, its silver shaft gleaming faintly in the dark, the crimson and gold accents catching what little light existed. Or perhaps glowing with their own light.

Nero held it in his remaining hand, feeling its presence and the faint thrum of power that ran through it.

The Soul Bond was still intact. Even here, buried beneath the Red House, surrounded by stone and darkness, the connection remained.

Nero allowed himself a small smile.

He was not alone after all.

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