"Group two!"
The moment had finally arrived. We didn't know what awaited us beyond those bars—whether life imprisonment, a death sentence, or nothing more than continued servitude for those not yet condemned.
Those questions would be answered as soon as we left this place. A guard arrived, unlocked the steel door that held us inside, and ordered us out.
"Move it, now!" His partner struck a slave who lagged behind the rest of us with a baton.
I hated drawing attention. It made stealth meaningless. So I stayed in the middle of the group, trying to blend in, even though the effort was pointless. My white hair stood out more than it should have.
I had no desire to be easily noticed by the guards here. If I tried to escape, my appearance alone would give me away.
Anyway, it's irrelevant now.
We were shoved into a narrow corridor, far too long to feel improvised. The walls had no bars, only smooth, dark stone, cold to the touch. The floor sloped almost imperceptibly, forcing us forward as if the place itself rejected hesitation.
There were no windows or side exits. Every few meters, torches fixed to metal brackets cast a pale, steady light. There was no wind, yet the air felt heavy, moving slowly, like a breath drawn and held.
Everyone remained silent, not because we were ordered to be, but because no one wanted to be the first to speak.
Footsteps echoed unevenly. Some dragged, others hurried too much. A man ahead of me kept his fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. Another muttered something under his breath, again and again, as if trying to recall a prayer he had never learned.
Something metallic shifted in the distance. Then the corridor ended.
The space before us opened into a wide, circular hall, so tall the ceiling vanished into shadow. Elevated platforms surrounded the chamber in layered tiers. Masked figures watched in silence, separated from the floor by ornate iron railings.
They wore long, immaculate white garments. Some carried slender staffs. Others held thick books chained to their bodies with gold links.
"One, two…"
A voice resonated through the darkness. Footsteps followed, and five figures wearing white masks, similar to those above, emerged from the shadows. The one in front, wearing an owl mask, counted us as if tallying livestock.
"…Eight, nine, and…" He pointed at me. "Ten. Fufu... Half of them are sentenced, with rather unique records. This season will be interesting."
Behind him, another figure of equal height approached, wearing a wolf mask that ended just above the mouth.
"Honestly, you didn't need to count. You know that." He said.
"Uto… don't speak to them so… casually."
The third figure to appear was wearing a deer mask. He stumbled over the words, not from fear or shame, but disdain.
The owl mask tilted sharply, spine bending with it, and his hand traced a strange gesture, as if observing something too fascinating to ignore.
"Casual?" His voice was far too gentle for the place. "They'renumbers, Lupus. Counting is basic education."
The wolf clicked his tongue, the sound echoing loudly through the hall.
"Education assumes equality." His gaze swept across the group, lingering on each face. "And this is anything but that."
The others remained silent.
"Hm. Very well. We'll begin the rite."
The chains were released. Five slaves were pulled forward. The guards' hands weren't violent, only mechanical, trained to show nothing beyond efficiency.
"Group one. Step forward."
Uto moved with them, stopping at the center of the hall.
The owl mask reflected the faint glow of the symbols carved into the floor, its hollow eyes seeming too deep for something made by human hands. When he spread his arms, the entire chamber felt as if it tilted with him.
"Listen."
His voice didn't echo. It sank.
"You are not here to be punished. You are here to be revealed."
No one dared respond.
"The pain to come is not punishment. It is language. The world has spoken through pain since before kingdoms, before names, before laws. You simply forgot how to listen." He lowered his head slightly, almost in reverence. "We did not."
The symbol on the floor reacted. It didn't glow. It pulsed. Five points around the circle opened like wounds in the stone. There was no explosion, no sound, only the floor giving way like exhausted flesh.
From them emerged the shamans. They did not rise together, each appearing at a different pace, as if obeying something that felt no urgency. They wore dark robes, tight against their bodies, and their masks were simple, smooth, featureless. What they lacked in form, they made up for in presence.
They positioned themselves around the five slaves of group one.
"You carry sins," Uto said, raising a finger, "not because you are evil, but because you are human. Humanity without a mark is chaos."
One of the slaves tried to stand. A shaman's hand touched his shoulder.
"Ah… Aaah...!"
Shadows wrapped around his body like open wounds. It would have been impossible for an ordinary human to see, but I could. The man dropped to his knees as if something had pierced straight through his chest.
"The Mark," Uto continued, "does not enter through the skin. It enters through what you hide."
The chant began, each voice in a different tone and rhythm, too dissonant to be called a song, too ordered to be noise.
The second scream came when nothing visible happened. His eyes widened. His mouth opened, but the sound struggled to emerge, as if forced through something tight. He writhed, nails digging into his own throat, trying to tear something out from within. There was no blood, no wound, yet his body reacted as if it were being torn apart from the inside.
The third collapsed forward, violent spasms driving his forehead into the stone floor until the sound turned hollow. Even then, the symbol beneath him ignited, tracing lines that followed no known pattern.
"Accept it," Uto said calmly. "Resistance only prolongs the suffering."
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Applause echoed from the stands. To them, it was nothing more than entertainment.
The fate of the remaining slaves was no different. One tried to pray in a language I didn't recognize. The other attempted to flee, without success. And so it went.
Until it was my turn.
My body moved with the others. From here, the hall felt larger, the elevated platforms amplifying the sense of exposure. There was nowhere to look without meeting someone's gaze.
Uto walked slowly among us, inspecting what he already owned.
"Five." A pause. "Perfect."
He opened his arms again, as if welcoming an entire congregation. The owl mask tilted upward, fixed on something above us, or below.
"Before iron, before pain, comes the word."
The hall fell silent. Even the stands stopped laughing. Uto raised his head, addressing not us, but something unseen.
"Grief is not sadness. It is the weight of what can never be returned. You lost names, homes, choices, and now you will lose the illusion that this was unjust."
The shamans moved at once. No footsteps could be heard. What were these things?
"Guilt is comfort. Believing suffering is punishment makes the world feel moral." A slight tilt of the head. "But what governs this place does not judge. It responds."
Hands touched all five of us at once.
"The Mark creates nothing. It reveals. What sinks, what resists, what breaks, and what insists on living when it shouldn't." His voice remained calm. "It is grief that refuses to pass. The chain that binds the soul to what it is."
Something in the air closed, like an invisible gate.
"Here, your weight is measured. Here, function surpasses repentance. Here, even pain has purpose."
Uto lowered his hand.
"Then let it be so. Let the Mark reveal your true form."
All I remember is a sharp pain flooding my body. It felt like a chain. No, it was alive. Something long, crawling, venomous, reaching into the deepest part of me, tightening, coiling, demanding space where none existed.
My legs gave out.
"Take this with you into what awaits, you'll need it. Ah… I do love poetry."
And once more, I sank into that sea of darkness.