ELARION : The Echo Breaker

CHAPTER 1: Remnant Breath

In the bowels of the Aurellian Fortress, time was measured in pain.

Drip... Drip... Drip...

Murky water dripped from the cracked ceiling, falling into a pool of waste in the corner of the cell. To normal human ears, it was just water. To this cell’s occupant, every drop sounded like a sledgehammer striking his skull.

He sat leaning against the damp wall. His body was nothing but a skeleton wrapped in pale skin and wire-taut muscles permanently tensed.

Three days of total isolation. No light. No food. And worse: no silence.

Total darkness made his ears too sharp. He could hear the scratching of rat feet behind the thick walls. He could hear the buzz of flies landing on filth. The world was too loud.

The prisoner tried to lift his right hand. His ring and pinky fingers trembled wildly. The tendons in his elbow were severely damaged a gift from the interrogator’s chains yesterday. The pain wasn’t a dull ache anymore, but electric shocks shooting from his elbow to his fingertips.

"Quiet..." he whispered hoarsely. "Be quiet."

The hand didn't obey. It kept shaking, mocking its owner. Without control, his sword hand was just dead meat.

Suddenly, the world’s rhythm changed.

Scrape... Clang...

Heavy metal dragged in the outer corridor. His back muscles seized up. It was a painful sound. Iron grinding against stone that set his teeth on edge. His ears caught the rough vibrations traveling through the floor. A sound that promised torture.

The cell door rattled. The iron lock turned roughly.

Crack.

The door opened. Torchlight flooded in, burning his eyes.

Two figures stepped in. Aurellian Wardens.

They wore the standard Aurellian Prison Legion uniform. Industrial steel chest plates polished carelessly, open helmets revealing greasy faces, and iron-soled boots that made noise. Their smell entered first cheap tobacco, stale sweat, and dried blood.

"Still alive," muttered the torch-bearing warden. He spat into the corner. "Thought this carcass was already cold."

The second warden laughed wetly. "Border folk are tough. Like roaches. Step on them and their legs still move."

The prisoner didn't answer. Behind his dirty hair, his eyes scanned. He didn't see faces. He saw Openings.

Torch Warden: Weight on the right leg. Left knee stiff.

Chain Warden: Shoulder tilted. Neck exposed.

Thump-thump... thump-thump. His heart beat irregularly. Nervous.

"Get up, Number Seven," ordered the chain warden. "The Commander is bored. He wants to see how long you last in the 'Hot Seat' this time."

The prisoner remained silent. His left hand moved slowly, feeling under the filthy cloth wrapped around his wrist. His fingers touched the cold surface of a small, cracked bell.

A mute bell from a dead valley. The only proof he had a name before becoming Number Seven.

Silence. Find the silent point.

"Deaf, huh?" The warden was offended. His large hand grabbed the prisoner's jaw, forcing him to look up. The smell of rotten breath hit his face. "Need me to pull out your tongue so you can scream again?"

The prisoner looked straight into the warden's eyes. At this close range, the warden's breathing sounded incredibly loud. There was a faint wheeze in the man's right lung. A crack there.

"You..." The prisoner opened his dry mouth. "Your breathing... is broken."

The warden frowned. "Huh? What did you—"

That was the opening.

The prisoner's body exploded from his seated position. He launched his forehead forward, smashing the warden's nose.

Crack!

The sound of shattering nasal bone was clear. Satisfying. The warden staggered back, roaring as he clutched his blood-spurting face.

"Bastard!" The second warden panicked, fumbling for the hilt of his gladius.

Too late. The prisoner lunged low, almost crawling, biting the first warden's groin. Teeth sank in, tearing cloth, ripping flesh. He bit to lock.

The warden screamed. The prisoner ignored the pain in his ears. His left hand snatched the fallen chain, wrapping it around the bitten warden's neck.

"Let him go!" The second warden finally drew his sword. The swing was brutal, driven by fear.

Slash!

The sword tip sliced the prisoner’s right shoulder. Warm blood flowed. The pain should have been paralyzing. But to him, pain was fuel.

He pulled the chain with all his might, using the first warden's body as a meat shield, shoving him toward his friend.

Thud!

Two armored bodies collided. The second warden wavered, slipping on the blood-slicked floor.

The prisoner saw it. The second warden's breath hitched. Heart chaotic. The opening widened.

He released the first warden's corpse, dragged himself across the floor, and snatched a small dagger from the dead man's belt. His hand shook. But survival instinct was faster. He stabbed the dagger into the gap in the second warden's leg armor right into the femoral artery.

Spurt!

Blood sprayed violently. The second warden fell to his knees, eyes wide. His hands clawed at his own neck, trying to hold back the life spilling from his leg.

One second. Two seconds. Collapse.

Silence. Finally, silence.

The prisoner slumped back against the wall. His breath rasped like grinding iron. He tilted his head, vomiting black bile onto the floor. His right hand, useless all this time, now shook even harder.

Tap-tap-tap. Hitting the stone floor.

He stared at the hand with pure hatred. Quiet. Please, be quiet.

Then, another sound emerged.

Click... Click... Click...

Wooden footsteps tapping on stone. Light. Rhythmic. No rough edges. The scent of sandalwood drifted in, chasing away the metallic stink of blood.

In the doorway, soldiers in dark blue armor entered soundlessly. Katanas drawn steady. From the center of the formation, a man stepped forward.

He wore no helmet. His graying hair was tied neatly behind his head. His face was handsome but eaten away by deep exhaustion, permanent dark circles under his eyes, and forehead wrinkles marking thousands of difficult decisions.

The man examined the dead wardens with an analytical gaze.

"Efficient," he murmured. His accent was smooth. "Dirty, but efficient."

"Lord Arok, this block is clear," whispered a soldier behind him. "Only... this thing is left."

Arok. The Kaijin General.

Arok crouched in front of the prisoner, keeping a safe distance of two steps. His silk robes swept the dirty floor.

"You killed two fully armed guards," Arok said calmly. "With one crippled hand and shattered ribs."

The prisoner tried to focus. "Who..."

"Someone looking for an investment," Arok answered, staring at the trembling right hand. "The nerve cluster in your elbow. Severely damaged. You are in pain, Son."

The prisoner looked down. Shame and anger mixed together.

"Medicine..." he whispered.

Arok raised an eyebrow. "You don't ask for water? You don't ask for freedom?"

"Hand..." The prisoner gripped his right arm. "Needs... quiet. Too... loud."

A thin smile appeared on Arok's lips. A merchant's smile finding damaged but valuable goods.

Arok reached into his robe pocket, pulling out a small green ceramic bottle. He shook it gently. The sound of liquid inside was thick.

"Swamp Snake Oil mixed with pure opium," Arok said. "One drop, and your hand will be silent for twenty-four hours. You can hold a sword again. You can sleep without screaming."

The prisoner's eyes were fixed on the bottle.

"But in Kaijin," Arok continued, slipping the bottle back into his pocket, "nothing is free. We live by exchange. A life for a life. A service for a service."

He stood, towering over the prisoner who was starting to lose consciousness.

"Do you understand the concept of 'debt', Outsider?"

The prisoner's consciousness began to fade. His body gave up. He slumped. Yet, before total darkness took him, his left hand moved on reflex. Not to protect his head. The hand gripped his own wrist. Protecting the cracked bell like a second heart.

Arok paused, watching the movement. "My Lord?" his soldier asked.

"Wrap him up," Arok ordered. "Take him to my private physician. Do not let him die."

He turned to leave.

"If he dies, we lose the only dirty key that can break Aurellian's iron lock."

On the stone floor, the prisoner closed his eyes. His left hand held tight to a mute past. And for the first time in three days, the world was finally... silent.