He felt teeth come loose.
Or maybe that was just his tongue swelling too fast to make room.
Time slid sideways. Sound dulled.
The last thing he saw before blacking out was the gold chain on the interrogator's neck catching a glint of torchlight.
Not angry. Not excited.
"Leave him. He'll talk later. They always do."
And for a while, there was nothing.
Just pain stacked in layers he couldn't lift.
And the blood in his mouth didn't taste like his.
They stopped beating him as often. Not because it hurt less, but because they didn't need to try anymore.
Rathan, Merlin, couldn't remember how long it had been. Not exactly.
A few years, maybe more. His body still healed, slower than before, but enough to tell him time hadn't completely stopped. And that was the worst part. It meant he had to keep living through it.
Sometimes the pain blurred, sometimes it didn't. Sometimes it came like an avalanche, crushing his ribs before his breath could even catch.
Other times it came slow, pressure under a fingernail, a blade tracing lines just deep enough to scar. His skin remembered everything, even when his mind tried to forget.
The cell was different now. Bigger. Cleaner. Which meant someone thought he was worth preserving. Not freeing. Not fixing. Just keeping.
There were no windows. The walls were smooth. Stone, still, but covered in some slick gloss that made it hard to tell if it was wet or just cold. A table had been dragged into one corner. Tools. Most of them weren't meant for war.
He sat with his back against the furthest wall, knees pulled to his chest, chain loose around one ankle. It was long enough to reach the table, but just short enough to keep him from the door. A quiet little joke from whoever designed it.
'Still Rathan,' he reminded himself, voice too hoarse to use aloud. 'This isn't me. It's just borrowed.'
But it didn't feel borrowed anymore. Not with the way the pain nested in his ribs, the way his muscles clenched on instinct every time a boot echoed in the corridor.
And the thoughts weren't borrowed either.
'I'm going to kill them all.'
Not out of revenge. Not out of righteousness. Just out of the simple, stubborn fact that no one should be allowed to do this and walk away untouched.
The door creaked open.
He didn't lift his head. Not right away.
A new pair of boots. Light. Precise. Not guards. Not the usual clumsy brutality of enforcers. This one walked like they expected a conversation.
The voice was dry. Familiar.
He opened his eyes. A man stood just inside the doorway, face half in shadow. Older. Not old. Trim uniform. Clean gloves. He didn't look like a soldier. He looked like someone who made decisions behind doors.
"You're alive," the man said.
The man stepped closer. Didn't bother looking around the room. Didn't bother with pity. That would've made it worse.
"We've kept you alive for a reason."
"You're not just another captured soldier."
"You're something different."
Still, Rathan didn't move.
The man tilted his head. "You've survived things our people can't replicate. Mana exposure. Pressure environments. Torture spells that kill within days."
Rathan's voice cracked when it came. "Great résumé."
The man didn't smile. "You're not from our world."
"You're something older," the man said. "Or newer. Doesn't matter. Point is—you're not like the others. And the King wants to know why."
Merlin's chest tightened.
He hadn't heard that name in the memory before. Not in this context. Not spoken like that.
The man turned to leave. "You'll be moved tomorrow. Be ready."
And Rathan… Merlin… sat back against the wall, heart pounding in someone else's chest.
'What the hell are you?'
He looked down at his hands.
Thin. Scarred. Old injuries layered under newer ones. Burned fingers. Callused palms. This body had killed before. Fought. Bled. It had loved, probably. Lost things. Lost people. But most of all, it had endured.
'You're not me,' Merlin thought. 'But I know you now.'
And knowing came with a price.
And waited for morning.
Morning didn't look different.
There wasn't sunlight. No sound of wind or birds or footsteps that didn't want to be heard. Just a mechanical buzz, faint and steady, that rolled through the ceiling like a bad dream that wouldn't stop.
Rathan sat still on the floor. Same place. Same position. Arms wrapped around his knees, back against the wall.
He didn't sleep anymore. Not really. Just blinked slower.
Not kicked in. Not slammed. Just unlatched, smooth.
Two men stepped in. Guards. Full gear. Helmets, batons, arc rods slung across their backs. They didn't speak. Didn't look at him. Just stepped to either side and waited.
'It's happening,' Merlin thought. The pressure in his chest told him that much.
The third man entered. Same man from before. Clean uniform. Polished gloves. Calm like a manager at a job interview.
The man motioned to the guards. "On your feet."
Rathan stood. Not quickly. Not slowly. Just like someone who'd done it a thousand times.
The chain at his ankle clinked lightly. The guards didn't move.
The man pointed down. "Remove it."
One of the guards stepped forward. Knees stiff, boots creaking. Reached into a pouch. Pulled a key.
'That's new,' Merlin thought. 'They never unlock him here.'
The key slid into the shackle. Turned once. A click. The chain fell.
Merlin knew he should've flinched. Should've gasped, or at least tried to pretend like he was grateful.
He just breathed. Once.
Then everything snapped.
Rathan didn't hesitate.
His right hand shot forward, grabbed the unlocking guard by the wrist and yanked down hard, too fast for armor to brace. The man hit the ground with a crack, head bouncing once before going still.
Before the other could shout, Rathan kicked off the wall and slammed his elbow into the second guard's neck, just below the helmet rim.
The man choked. Rathan took his baton mid-fall and drove it straight into the soft part under the chin.
No spells. No stalling. Just pure, brutal speed.
The officer hadn't moved.
Like he was still waiting for Rathan to follow instructions.
He blinked once. "So that's how you want to do this."
Rathan stepped over the bodies.
"I told you," the man said. "You're different."
"Yeah," Rathan said, voice quiet, even. "I am."
The baton cracked across the man's ribs first, then again, higher. He went down. Not out. Rathan didn't care. He dropped the weapon, grabbed the man's wrist, twisted hard until the shoulder gave way. The scream echoed.
'This is real,' Merlin thought, stomach twisting. 'He's not angry. He's not panicked. He's just done.'
Rathan grabbed the arc rod off the first guard's back. Flipped the charge switch. It whined to life, glowing faint blue.
The officer tried to crawl.
Rathan stepped on his hand.
Then looked up at the ceiling.
At the silent camera embedded in the corner of the room.
He didn't say anything.
He just let them watch.
The weight of each breath. The speed of his pulse. The flick of movement behind his eyes that scanned for exits.
'He's not trying to escape,' Merlin realized. 'He's hunting.'
The hallway outside was quiet. But only for a second.
Then, voices. Shouts. Boots.
He yanked open the door. Rolled out into the hallway just as the first soldier rounded the bend. A gun came up. Rathan twisted the arc rod and hurled it. The impact caught the man in the chest. Armor cracked. He dropped.
The second didn't even fire. He turned to run.
Rathan caught him anyway.
Merlin felt the shift in his knees, the way his back foot dragged slightly before his body pivoted. The tackle was clean. Sharp. Brutal.
He didn't kill the man immediately.
He let him panic. Then crushed his windpipe and moved on.
More footsteps. Closer now. Too many.
Rathan ducked into the side room. Storage. Mostly empty. One crate. A terminal.
Merlin blinked through his hands. 'How does he know the code?'
The screen flashed green.
He was letting everyone out.
The screams started two minutes later.
Other prisoners. Most disoriented. Some ran. Others didn't make it far.
He cut through another corridor. Three guards. No words. Just kill. Kill. Move. Kill.
Merlin couldn't keep track of how many.
He just knew none of them stood a chance.
The base wasn't huge. Underground. Isolated.
It took thirty-one minutes.
By the time the smoke started to curl up through the vents, Rathan had blood in his eyes and a blade in each hand. One stolen. One made from a snapped-off pipe.
And Merlin stared back.
Scarred. Barefoot. Skin mottled purple and red. Blood not all his.
'You're a monster,' Merlin thought.
And Rathan's mouth twitched.
But also didn't care.
And walked toward the next scream.