Awakened Behind Bars: The Golden Finger

Chapter 9: I see potential in you

“Come on, get out!” an officer barked as the heavy cell door swung open.

Desmond’s wrists ached as they grabbed him roughly, dragging him to his feet. He stumbled slightly, his back still sore from the old injuries, but the officers didn’t care. They dragged him down the stone corridor with other prisoners. Two weeks in prison had made every day a repeat of hell.

Every few days, they were forced to do tedious, exhausting work like; lifting heavy blocks and buckets of water, bathing cows, weeding endless fields, running until their lungs burned, and often going without food. Those who stopped halfway were whipped.

They pushed him into a wide, open yard where dozens of other prisoners were already at work. Blood streamed down some men’s arms, their lips swollen from previous beatings. Others collapsed in the middle of a task, barely conscious. Their groans mixed with the barked orders of the officers, who moved among them like predators.

Desmond’s eyes fell on a frail figure being pushed forward. It was an old man trembling under the weight of heavy blocks. His knees buckled, and his back arched in pain.

“Sir… my knees… my back… I cannot…” the old man croaked, pleading.

“Keep going! Or you’ll wish you were never born,” one officer sneered, stomping on the man's foot with his boot.

Desmond’s chest ached at the sight. Despite his sore wounds, he stepped forward. “Wait! I’ll do it. I'll do his punishment for him,” he shouted.

The officer scoffed. “Listen, young man, you doing this old man’s job doesn’t remove your punishment. You still do your punishment… plus his.”

Desmond didn’t flinch. “I understand. I’ll do it.”

The old man’s eyes widened in shock. “This is too much… Sir, you don’t have to—”

“I cannot just sit here and watch someone old enough to be my father forced to do this,” Desmond said, lifting the first heavy block. His muscles screamed in protest, his back screaming with every movement.

“No, son. I'll…I'll manage, please. Your back is sore.”

Desmond gave him a reassuring smile, even though he was clearly in serious pain.

The old man swallowed hard, tears stinging his eyes. He looked around. “Can’t someone else please help him? Anyone in good shape?” But all the other fit, agile prisoners looked away, their gazes fixed on the ground.

Desmond bent his back, hoisting block after block, placing them carefully as sweat dripped from his brow. He was given an extra ten blocks to carry, for his own punishment. Finally, when the last block was in place, he dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. The officers gave him ten minutes to rest before locking him up again.

His legs trembled as he lay on the floor, every muscle protesting. The old man approached him slowly, carrying some bread and water. “Here…You should eat,”

“No…Sir, this is your food,” Desmond protested, shaking his head.

“You already helped me back there. Please, have something to eat,” the old man urged.

Desmond hesitated. “How can I eat food meant for you?”

“They still haven’t served you food. It’s fine,” the old man said gently.

“It’s okay. They’ll give me food eventually. I’ve gone three days without food before. I’ll be fine,” Desmond replied.

The old man sighed. “You’re such a good young man… How did someone like you even end up here?”

Desmond’s gaze lowered as he remembered the injustice, the framing and how helpless he was. “I was framed two weeks ago… The people who did this are extremely rich, and the police just took me, since I was a nobody.”

“A nobody?” the old man asked, confused.

“Yes,” Desmond said quietly. “I have nothing. My parents are gone. And I couldn’t even protect my little sister.”

The old man studied him, a mixture of pity and admiration in his eyes.

***

When night fell, the cell fell into a damp, suffocating silence. Desmond lay on the cold floor, his body stretched stiffly against the hard concrete. Even in sleep, he was alert because no one ever truly slept in a place like this. The cold bit into his bones, his back throbbed relentlessly, and every shallow breath reminded him he was still here.

He suddenly began to hear harsh, broken coughs. In the dim light seeping through the cracked window, he saw the old man hunched over, coughing violently, his frail body shaking with each rasping sound.

Desmond pushed himself up, ignoring the sharp pain in his back. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly, moving closer.

The old man clutched his chest, his fingers trembling. “Ah… my chest…” he choked.

Desmond’s heart skipped. “What? Are you not feeling well?” He glanced toward the cell door, panic filling his chest.

“Somebody help!” he shouted. “Please, help!”

He turned back quickly. The old man was drenched in sweat now, his face pale, his lips trembling. He pressed a hand to his head. “Everything… everything is spinning…”

Fear slammed into Desmond’s chest.

He rushed to the iron bars, grabbing them and shaking them hard. “Somebody help! Please! It’s an emergency!” His voice echoed down the corridor. But he was met with silence.

Desmond’s jaw clenched. People screamed like this every night. Some cried they were sick, injured or dying. But the officers never came until morning. And by then, sometimes it was too late. Desmond turned back to the old man, fury and helplessness burning in his eyes. The man’s condition was worsening by the second.

“How are you feeling?” Desmond asked urgently. “Do you need water?”

The old man gave a faint nod. Desmond scrambled to the corner of the cell and grabbed the half-empty bottle of water lying there. He rushed back, lifting the man’s head gently and pressing the bottle to his lips. The old man drank weakly, coughing again as the water went down.

“Sir, please,” Desmond said, his voice breaking. “Stay with me. Please.”

He looked back at the corridor once more and shouted until his throat burned. “Somebody help!”

Slowly, the old man shook his head. He leaned against Desmond, resting his weight on his shoulder as though he no longer had the strength to sit up on his own. “No need for all that, my son,” the old man murmured.

Desmond’s brows knitted tightly. “Don’t say that. Help is coming…”

The old man smiled faintly. “My time has come.”

“What?” Desmond whispered, his chest tightening. “No… don’t say that.”

“I’m not unhappy,” the old man continued softly. “You see… I’ve lived long enough.”

Desmond swallowed hard, his eyes burning. “

The old man’s breathing grew shallow. He looked at Desmond like he was seeing straight through him. “You are different,” the old man said quietly. “Even in hell, you chose kindness.”

Desmond shook his head. “I just did what anyone should.”

The old man let out a weak chuckle. “No… not anyone. That is why fate brought us into the same cell.”

His hand trembled as he slowly reached for Desmond’s fingers, gripping them tightly despite his weakness. His touch was strangely warm. “Listen to me carefully,” the old man whispered. “What I am about to give you is precious. Do not waste it.”

Desmond froze. “What are you talking about?”

The old man tightened his grip, pressing his fingers firmly against Desmond’s hand. A sudden surge of heat shot through Desmond’s body, rushing up his arm like electricity. His breath hitched.

“Live,” the old man said, his voice barely audible now. “Live… and destroy the enemy.”

“Remember this,” The old man whispered softly. “The Golden Empire. Code: 71512451469147518”

Desmond's brows furrowed in confusion but he nodded regardless. As the old man coughed, he looked at Desmond. “This is all because… because of Blackwood. You have to hunt him down.”

“Blackwood?” Desmond’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Who is Blackwood? What are you—”

The old man looked at him, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and purpose. “I see potential in you. And that’s why…”

Before Desmond could ask anything more, the old man leaned forward, pressing his frail body against Desmond in a sudden hug. Desmond froze, confused and unsure of what was happening.

Then, the next thing, a golden light began to flow from the old man’s body, cascading over Desmond. It wrapped around him like liquid fire, shining on his arms, chest, and back.

“I’m entrusting you with this… use it properly,” the old man whispered.

And just like that, his body went limp.

Desmond stared in horror, his hands instinctively reaching for the man, but he was already dead.

Before he could process it, a sharp, burning pain ripped through his back. He gasped, clutching himself, twisting violently, hitting the cold prison walls as his bones seemed to twist and bend in agony.

A high-pitched ringing filled his ears. His breath came in panicked gasps. And then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

Desmond froze, his chest heaving, his hands trembling.

He reached for his back, and the sensation was smooth. Every trace of pain had vanished completely.

He ran his hands over his arms and chest. The scars, the bruises, even the injuries that were inflicted on him just hours ago, were gone.