Location: The Monolith Maritime Penitentiary – General Population Sector
Time: 05:45 Nocturnus Standard Time
The air in Mess Hall Sector B smelled of fermented despair, blended with the scent of rust, the sweat of a thousand monsters, and something vaguely resembling chemical disinfectant that had failed miserably to mask the stench. The ceiling was high, plated in steel blackened by cooking steam (or perhaps sewage vapor), with giant ventilation fans spinning lazily, slicing through the light of flickering, gloomy fluorescent lamps.
At one of the long, scarred metal tables, Devon sat. Or rather, slumped.
His condition was… less than prime.
His face, usually handsome with pale aristocratic features, now resembled an abstract painting created with fists. His left eye was swollen shut, his lip was split with blood drying at the corner, and a widening purplish-blue bruise adorned his cheekbone.
The red Valkyrie wings on the sides of his head—usually upright or twitching alertly—now drooped limply downwards, the tips of the feathers brushing his shoulders, radiating an aura of profound depression.
"Arghh..." Devon groaned softly as he tried to move his jaw.
BZZZZZT!
A spark of blue electricity arc from the metal collar around his neck, stabbing directly into his neural stem. Devon's body jerked rigid, the spoon in his hand trembling before hitting the metal tray with a loud CLANG!
"Eat properly, 7734. No noise," a cold robotic voice sounded from his right.
A Sentinel-Type Cyborg Officer loomed there. Its face was nothing but a flat metal plate with a single glowing red sensor strip. Its hand gripped a low-humming stun baton, ready to punish even the slightest infraction.
"Even though… it wasn't my fault..." Devon mumbled softly, his eyes staring bleakly at his food tray. "That creature cut the line..."
"Silence," the Cyborg commanded flatly. "Eat. Time remaining: 12 minutes."
To Devon's left sat Zerath.
Unlike Devon, who looked like the victim of a traffic accident, the Asset Hemo-Wolf X9 looked fresh and fit. He sat with a relaxed posture, long legs crossed under the table. His clawed hands propped up the chin of his bone mask, while his shoulders shook gently.
A suppressed pfft... khhh... sound escaped through the gaps in his mask's teeth. He was holding back laughter. Desperately.
"What's so funny, huh?" hissed Devon without turning, too in pain to rotate his neck.
"Your face," Zerath replied honestly, his voice trembling with amusement. "You look like dough that failed to rise and was then dropped on the floor. Your artistic symmetry is totally gone, Devon."
"Thanks for the compliment. You really are a supportive cellmate," Devon retorted sarcastically.
Devon stared across the room at the food distribution line that was still snaking along. Standing there was a mutant Bulldog figure, two and a half meters tall. Muscles bulged from beneath an orange prison uniform that was two sizes too small.
And Devon wasn't the only one battered. The Bulldog's face was a mess—swollen here and there, his right eye bruised purple and nearly shut, with traces of dried blood on his pug nose. Clearly, the earlier commotion hadn't ended well for him either; the Cyborg officers must have "disciplined" him thoroughly with electric batons before dragging him back to the line.
That was the culprit. The bastard who smashed Devon's face with an iron tray just because Devon was standing "too aesthetically" in front of him during the lineup.
The Bulldog turned, noticing Devon's stare. Though his own face was wrecked, he grinned, showing large yellow teeth full of plaque, then deliberately raised a thick middle finger in Devon's direction.
"Drop dead, Pansy," his lips moved silently, full of malice.
Devon just sighed heavily. He didn't have the energy to entertain such cliché provocations. His priority now was surviving the substance on his tray.
He looked down, staring at this morning's breakfast menu.
Synthetic Protein Porridge.
Its color was a dull grey, exactly the shade of the prison walls. The texture was thick, clumpy, and when Devon stuck his spoon into the center of the porridge, the spoon stood straight up. It didn't move. It didn't fall. As if planted in wet concrete.
"Is this food or building material?" Devon muttered, sniffing it. It smelled like wet cardboard mixed with expired vitamins.
Reluctantly, driven by his regenerative hunger, he scooped up a grey lump and forced it into his mouth.
Gulp.
It tasted bland. Empty. But there was a gritty texture left on the tongue, as if the prison chef had intentionally added sawdust for extra fiber.
"Ugh... I miss Stella's cooking..." (which he had actually never tasted), Devon's inner voice cried.
He turned to the second item on the menu: Solid Nutrition Bread.
It was square, dark brown, and the surface looked incredibly dense. Devon picked it up. Heavy. Too heavy for bread.
He tried to take a bite.
CRACK.
It wasn't the bread that made the sound. It was his teeth.
"Dammit!" Devon spat the bread out, clutching his nearly fractured jaw. "It's a brick! This is literally a brick painted brown!"
Frustrated, Devon took the bread and slammed it against the edge of the iron table.
THUD! THUD!
It sounded like a hammer striking an anvil. The table vibrated, but the bread? Intact. Not a single crumb. Not even a dent.
"A blunt weapon..." Devon whispered in horror. "They gave us a blunt weapon labeled as carbohydrates."
Zerath, who had been watching Devon's struggle with unconcealed amusement, held out his hand.
"You don't want it?" he asked.
"Take it," said Devon, shoving the 'brick' toward Zerath. "If you can eat that without losing your teeth, you have my respect."
Zerath picked up the hard bread with two fingers. Without hesitation, he tossed it into his mouth full of predatory teeth.
CRUNCH! CRACK! KRUNCH!
Horrifying crunching sounds followed. To Zerath, the diamond-hard bread was no different from a crispy prawn cracker. In seconds, he swallowed it.
"Not bad," commented Zerath, licking crumbs from his lips. "Tastes like Goblin shinbones. Crunchy."
Devon gave him a deadpan look. "Is your stomach another dimension?"
Zerath chuckled, then looked at Devon's severely swollen face. Suddenly, he raised his own left arm in front of Devon's face. His right hand came up, sharp claws pressing against the furry skin of his left arm, ready to tear into his own flesh.
"Hey, Devon," Zerath offered, eyes glowing red behind the mask, his tone sounding far too enthusiastic. "Your face is a wreck. Want me to rip a little of my skin? There's some good black fluid inside. I can smear it on your face like jam on toast. Tastes a bit bitter and sticky, but it's effective, you know."
He pressed his nail slightly; the skin began to stretch, ready to spray its contents.
Devon recoiled slightly, his face pale with disgust. "Ugh... stop it. Don't compare my face to white bread. That's revolting, Zerath. Keep your body 'jam' to yourself."
"Tch. Arrogant human. And here I was, having good intentions," Zerath pulled his hand back, canceling his plan to self-mutilate.
Slowly, the cells in Devon's face began to work.
There was no magical steam, no holy light. Just the slow, pulsating, and visibly painful movement of flesh. The purple bruising on his cheek slowly faded, cell by cell being rebuilt at a snail's pace. His split lip knit together inch by inch.
This wasn't because he lacked nutrition or because his energy was suppressed by the collar. This was purely because he was starting everything from zero. He had to train every cell in his body to remember how to heal itself. It was an itch and a sting of excruciating proportions.
"TIME IS UP!"
Deafening sirens echoed throughout the hall.
"ALL PRISONERS BLOCKS 11 TO 14! PROCEED TO THE MINING SECTOR LIFTS! NOW! LATECOMERS WILL BE USED AS KRAKEN BAIT!"
06:15 Nocturnus Standard Time
Location: Deep Sea Mineral Mine – Depth: -850 Meters
The world beneath the Monolith was a nightmare for claustrophobes.
The air here was heavy, damp, and salty. The walls of natural caves, reinforced with steel pillars, dripped with seeping seawater. Illumination came only from the yellow spotlights mounted on prisoners' helmets and the natural glow of bioluminescent fungi growing in rock crevices.
The dominant sound was CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! from thousands of pickaxes striking stone walls, mixed with the hiss of steam engines and the shouting of foremen.
Devon stood in Sector D-4. He wore a mining helmet that was slightly too big, covering part of his red wings which were forced to fold tightly under the hard plastic—it felt terribly uncomfortable, like wearing shoes two sizes too small on his head.
His hands, which (should have been) holding a weapon of mass destruction or a legendary sword, now gripped a rusty pickaxe.
"Sigh... the fate of an Emperor, ending up as a forced laborer," Devon complained internally, swinging his pickaxe at the blue crystal wall in front of him.
TING!
Shards of Azure-Quartz mineral flaked off.
Beside him, Zerath worked with the efficiency of a monster. He didn't need a pickaxe. He used his own clawed hands to dredge the solid rock like digging through wet sand. He tossed large boulders behind him casually.
"Hey, Devon! Look at this! I found a rock worm!" Zerath exclaimed cheerfully, holding a slimy creature the size of an arm that wriggled about.
"Don't eat it," Devon warned without turning.
"Aw..." Zerath threw the worm away in disappointment.
Suddenly, Devon's instincts screamed.
He stopped swinging, straightened up, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Why do I have a bad feeli—"
He turned to the side. And his eyes went wide.
About ten meters away, the Mutant Bulldog stood there. His battered face grinned broadly, full of madness and vindictive grudge.
With a roar of pure rage, the muscles in the Bulldog's arms swelled until veins popped out. He bent down and physically lifted a mine cart overflowing with mineral rocks—an object weighing nearly two tons—straight off its tracks.
"EAT THIS, PANSY!" he bellowed.
With pure monstrous strength, he hurled the iron cart. It sailed through the air. Straight at Devon.
It was a two-ton projectile.
"Shi—"
CRASH!!!
The impact was brutal and lethal.
The side of the cart slammed into Devon's body with full momentum. His ribs cracked instantly. Devon's body was launched like a ragdoll kicked by a giant, flying far backward, spinning twice in the air before finally...
THUD!
His back slammed into something hard yet fleshy. Someone.
"Oi! Who threw paper at me?!"
The figure Devon crashed into turned slowly. He was tall, thin but wiry, with grey skin that seemed to be rotting and peeling in places. His face was a nightmare—an elongated skull with horns curling sideways, resembling an arthropod but with a disgusting mystical aura. A thin green mist—a visible aura of disease—emanated from his body, causing the moss on the cave wall to wither instantly.
Satan.
He looked down, staring at Devon who was sprawled in the mud at his feet in a strange, unnatural position.
"Aaa..." Devon let out a long groan, his face kissing the dirt. His eyes were spinning. "Looks like... my spine just decided to take early retirement... Everything shifted..."
"Huh?" Satan tilted his head.
Where he stood, the Mutant Bulldog laughed uproariously, panting after throwing the cart.
"BWAHAHAHA! Take that! Strike!" yelled the Bulldog, pointing at Devon with a fat finger. "Die! Weakling! You fly with just a little toss!"
He spat on the ground. "That's payback for looking at me cynically this morning!"
ZAAAAAP!
Karma worked instantly at The Monolith.
The collar on the Bulldog's neck glowed bright red, far brighter than before.
"ARGHHHH!" The Bulldog screamed as thousands of volts of electricity fried his nerves. He convulsed, foam spilling from his mouth, and he fell to the ground with a heavy thud.
Two Enforcer-Type Guardian Cyborgs appeared instantly from the shadows. Without a word, they lifted the smoking Bulldog's body and began beating him mercilessly with iron batons.
THWACK! BASH! THWACK!
"Heavy Labor Protocol Violation. Punishment: Maximum Level Physical Discipline."
Devon, still kissing the ground with a broken spine, could only listen to the sounds of the beating with faint satisfaction. "Hee... the justice system here is... quite efficient..."
A sharp finger poked Devon's cheek.
Poke. Poke.
"Hey. Human. You still alive?" Zerath's voice sounded above him. There was no tone of worry, only pure curiosity, as if he were checking if his toy was totally broken.
"Not yet... give me a minute... which side are my legs on right now?" Devon mumbled.
"Here, let me help," said Zerath.
Without warning, Zerath grabbed the back of Devon's collar and hoisted him up like a wet kitten, not caring that Devon's bones were still broken.
"Ow, ow, ow! Easy! My bones are still a jigsaw puzzle!" Devon protested as his limp legs touched the ground. He swayed, nearly falling again if Zerath hadn't held him up.
Satan, the skull-faced demon figure Devon had crashed into, stepped closer. His green disease aura made the air feel stuffy and smell like an abandoned hospital.
He looked at Devon, then at Zerath, then back at Devon. His hollow eyes narrowed.
"Oh..." Satan's voice sounded raspy and wet, like churning mud. "You must be that 'New Prisoner', right? The one in a cell with him?" He pointed at Zerath with a bony thumb.
Devon tried to stand straight, clutching his weirdly bent waist. "News travels fast, huh?"
"Pretty impressive," Satan praised, his tone genuinely admiring. "I'm Satan. Your cell neighbor, 12-10. You're amazing for still breathing this morning. Usually, this Crazy Wolf's cellmates don't last an hour. The last one was just a leftover femur by morning."
Zerath just grinned widely behind his mask, not denying the accusation of cannibalism.
"Yeah... I happen to be a bit tough," Devon replied. "Name's Devon."
As he introduced himself, Devon decided to fix his posture. He took a deep breath. Focused. Accessed the cellular memory buried deep within.
SNAP. CLICK. POP.
Sickening sounds came from Devon's back. The shifted vertebrae forced themselves back into position with rough, painful jerks. Dislocated shoulders rotated back. No instant magic, just biology forced into overtime.
Satan took a step back, eyes widening at the instant body horror show.
"Damn..." Satan muttered. "That sounded extra crispy."
Devon rolled his neck left and right. Crack.
"Ah, much better," Devon sighed in relief. He dusted off his shirt. "Like I said, I'm hard to kill."
He turned to Zerath, smiling faintly. "And about surviving last night... well, we went through a pretty 'warm' introduction session, right Zerath?"
Zerath chuckled, that characteristic khh-khh sound. He brought his face close to Devon's, and with his long, rough tongue, he licked the fresh blood still flowing from Devon's nose due to the collision.
Slurp.
"Yeah," Zerath answered, eyes glowing with delight. "He tastes good."
Satan fell silent for a moment, processing the absurd interaction in front of him. A human whose bones could shift on their own, a chimera monster licking his face, and the fact that they seemed to be getting along.
Then, laughter exploded from Satan's skeletal chest.
"BWAHAHAHA! You guys are crazy! A perfect match! I like you guys!" Satan slapped Devon's shoulder hard (making Devon wince again because his shoulder bone had literally just healed). "Welcome to Underwater Hell, Devon! You'll fit right in!"
"WORK! NO CHATTING, SCUM!"
The cyborg foreman's shout thundered from the catwalk above, followed by a warning laser shot that scorched the ground near their feet.
"Oops. Boss is mad," said Satan casually, picking up his pickaxe. "Let's get back to work. Today's quota won't fill itself."
Devon sighed, picking up his bent pickaxe.
"Long day..." he murmured, staring into the endless darkness of the mine.
Beside him, Zerath hummed cheerfully while tearing apart bedrock, and Satan began telling a story about the types of skin diseases he could create with a touch.
This was his new life. And for some reason, amidst this madness, Devon felt a faint smile carve itself onto his lips.