Amon had wanted to run away that night. He truly had. But his body had betrayed him. It didn't go along with his mind.

The moment Zerath left, the pain finally caught up to everything else. His thoughts blurred, his limbs refused to move, and before he could even form a proper plan, darkness swallowed him whole.

He remained unconscious all night.

...

When awareness returned, it came slowly and painfully.

The next day. It was morning.

Amon lay in the cage, barely aware of the passage of time, when the tent flap moved again.

Zerath came.

This time, there was no long interrogation. No twisted conversations.

Only pain. "Ahhh!" Amon's scream followed.

Zerath used a few torture tools. Just enough to remind Amon of his place, just enough to break him down again. He didn't linger. He didn't savor it like before.

His punches bruised Amon's face. Scratches appeared here and there.

After a short while, Zerath stopped.

"Tch. I'm busy today," he muttered. "You'll have to survive without my company. Lucky bastard."

Zerath looked disappointed. He wanted to beat him more. But what could he do? They had to move tomorrow, so he needed to prepare for everything.

So even though he was lazy to do it, he had to. And then he left early. He didn't remain there for hours.

Amon was lucky today. The tent fell silent again, filled only with breathing.

Amon lay there, his body trembling weakly, his breath shallow. Every inch of him hurt, but his mind. His mind refused to rest.

Tonight. His thoughts narrowed to a single point. I will run tonight. With Harvey and Mira.

He turned his head toward the other cage. "Mira…" he whispered hoarsely. "Harvey…"

No response. Harvey lay completely still, his eyes shut, his breathing faint but steady.

Mira's eyes, however, were open. They were unfocused. They were dazed. Like broken.

That sight hit Amon harder than any blow Zerath had ever delivered. His fists clenched weakly against the metal floor.

She was alive. She was not unconscious. Yet she lay there broken. What kind of things had Zerath done to her?

Rage burned in his chest, hot and uncontrollable. He wanted to go and tear apart that bastard.

'I swear… I will get us out.'

Hours passed.

Amon remained still, conserving what little strength he had. Outside the tent, he could hear movement. Demons shouting orders, metal scraping, tents being dismantled.

They were preparing to move. That meant fewer guards. Amon needed distraction. He needed the perfect time.

At some point, Amon realized something strange. He wasn't hungry.

Not truly. His stomach felt empty, but there was no gnawing pain, no weakness from starvation.

'That bastard…'

It clicked.

Zerath must have forced him to swallow fasting pills. Alchemical supplements that allowed the body to survive three to four days without food.

Useful for long marches. Or torture. Because his stomach was still empty. He didn't feel full at all.

Time dragged on.

The sounds outside gradually lessened as evening approached. Lanterns were lit. Shadows stretched longer. Everyone went to their respective tents to rest.

Then night came. Something that Amon had been waiting for.

Amon forced his eyes open fully. His dark eyes darted in the lightless tent.

His body screamed in protest as he slowly pushed himself up onto his knees. His muscles shook violently, sweat forming on his brow as pain threatened to knock him back down.

But he stayed upright. "It's time…" he whispered.

Amon had noticed something. He was not sure before. But after observing for two nights, he got to know that there was no guard for this prisoners' tent.

He couldn't tell if they didn't find them a threat or were just careless.

But again, who would keep a guard for someone like them? One who was not able to move, another who was broken, and a third just a young man. They were beyond battered and wounded, with mana-suppression handcuffs.

His gaze dropped to his wrists.

The metal handcuffs were still there. Cold, heavy, suppressive. But this time, his focus was not on the runes but on something else. Something that he had noticed before. He had thought that there was a chance to unlock them.

The handcuffs were quite sturdy. He was physically stronger than the average unawakened person, yet he was not able to break them.

A keyhole. They weren't completely sealed. The handcuffs were just like normal ones. The thing that made them anti-magic or rather, mana-suppressing, were the runes inscribed on them.

A slow, dangerous idea had formed a day before yesterday.

Amon closed his eyes and focused. Deep beneath him, his shadow stirred. For the first time in days, he gave it a command.

His ability, Death's Shadow, didn't require any kind of mana. It worked purely on his mental strength. So he was really lucky to have this. He didn't need to rely on mana circulation.

The shadow beneath his body peeled away unnaturally, creeping upward like liquid darkness. It slid along his arm, thin and trembling, responding sluggishly to his will.

'Good… it's going well.'

Controlling it like this without mana circulation. It was truly like a blessing for him.

He was used to controlling it. But days of torture and beating had made his mental state very unstable and weak. It was as if his brain was always strained and tired.

His head throbbed violently. His vision swam.

The shadow reached his hands. Then slowly, it pressed into the tiny keyhole.

It wasn't solid. That was the problem. If it were something soft and not heavy, it might have been easy. But the shadow was not something that would get hard and solid like a key and open the cuffs.

Making something without true form interact with a physical mechanism pushed his concentration to the breaking point. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Veins stood out on his neck.

"Move…" he whispered desperately. His brain throbbed painfully. For the first time, using his ability felt truly challenging. So hard that he felt like blood might come out of his eyes and ears from this.

The shadow twisted. Adjusted. Its smoky, liquid, shapeless form inside the keyhole continued to twist. Pressed again.

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