Stunned by the swift judgment, the soldier protested, "But why, my lord? I'm inno—"

"Innocent?" Deming interrupted with a mocking sneer. "Do not insult my intelligence. Your loyalty has been compromised, and you know it full well."

With a nod from Deming, the guards dragged the soldier away. He pleaded, but the heavy thud of the closing chamber doors silenced his cries.

Alone once more, Deming turned to the window, his aloof eyes narrowing as he gazed out over the moonlit landscape. The night whispered its secrets, but darker ambitions consumed his mind. "West Astara shall kneel at my feet," he whispered to the darkness, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "Soon."

With that, he turned away from the window and headed for his chambers, seeking to embrace the night's darkness as he prepared for rest.

As Deming entered his chambers and lay on the bed, he drifted off to sleep. Vivid memories from his past crept into his dreams, finding himself back in the dim dungeon of the Faerie Realm, where he had once endured unimaginable torment day after day. The chilling echoes of his suffering reverberated through his mind, each memory a reminder of the pain.

Young Deming found himself in shackles, his small frame shaking with fear and confusion. An acrid smell hung heavily in the dungeon, and the cold stone walls closed in on him, intensifying his entrapment. "Is someone there? Why am I your prisoner?" he implored, his voice trembling with innocence.

Muchen's response matched the dungeon's cold chill. "You shall not be around for much longer. There is no need to ask such a question." His voice echoed off the stone, bouncing back to Deming.

Deming's breath caught in his throat. "What for? Are you planning to... to kill me?" His eyes widened with terror, and his breathing grew more rapid as he strained to discern Muchen's approaching footsteps.

"Yes," came the cold reply, landing the word like a stone in the silence. Muchen's steps drew closer, slow and ominous, like impending doom.

The young demon's heart pounded as he struggled to grasp his fate. Every echo in the dungeon intensified: the distant drip of water, the static of phantom chains as he tried to break free. "B-but... why?" he choked out, his hands trembling against the unforgiving shackles biting into his skin as his captor's words sank in.

"Because you exist," Muchen's voice carried a malicious tone, his gaze like a blade as he stared down at Deming, revealing himself.

'It's him.' The young demon shuddered under the intensity of the stare, fear gripping him as his eyes locked with Muchen's.

Horror whirled through Deming's mind as Muchen's words echoed in the chamber. In that moment, the harsh reality of his existence crashed over him, drowning him in a sea of darkness and despair. The fact that Muchen regarded his very existence as a crime threatened to suffocate him.

Desperation took hold of him, and Deming pleaded, "But I haven't done anything wrong! I'm inno—"

"Innocent?" Muchen, looming over him, sneered with disdain. "In the eyes of our kind, your innocence is a myth. Your bloodline is tainted, cursed from the moment you drew your first breath."

Tears welled in Deming's eyes as he struggled against his restraints, his young heart heavy with the knowledge of his impending death. "Please... I don't want to die," he whispered.

Muchen's gaze remained cold and unaffected. "Your fate was sealed the moment you were born," he declared, his tone as harsh as the stone walls. "I cannot allow you to live, nor can I release you, knowing the power that you possess."

And so, in that dark and forsaken chamber, Deming's childhood dreams shattered, replaced by a harsh reality that punished him for being born. Muchen tormented Deming without mercy, although he survived each session. Though the strikes and energy blasts left marks that would fade but never be forgotten, Deming refused to break. The fire within him burned brighter with every strike, with every insult, and with every attempt to crush his spirit.

As weeks turned into months and months into years, Muchen grew frustrated. In the final days of Deming's captivity, as he reached adulthood, the air in the chamber grew heavy with the scent of sweat and the dampness of the dungeon walls.

"You thought you could defy us, demon?" Muchen sneered, his voice dripping with malice as he delivered another blow, the impact reverberating off the stone walls.

Deming gritted his teeth and scoffed, refusing to show weakness despite the chains that held him down. "What? Tired already?" he sneered. His golden eyes burned with fierce hatred, and his fingers twitched with the desire to retaliate.

Muchen's cold and hollow words echoed through the chamber. "How amusing," he taunted, surprised by Deming's defiance.

With a flick of his wrist, Muchen tightened another chain around Deming's throat, increasing the pressure over time. As the energy chain tightened, Deming's breaths became shallower, and he struggled for breath. But despite the pressure, his eyes blazed with rage and a thirst for revenge. Muchen observed him fight against the suffocating grip, enjoying his gasps for air.

"Tomorrow, we shall resume this session," Muchen declared, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "After all, you have survived so many times before."

Even as Deming struggled for breath, a sinister smirk crossed his lips. "I shall... reduce this realm... to mere dust... with the first light of dawn," he whispered through his constricted throat.

Muchen's lips curled into a cold smile. "How entertaining," he mused, tightening the chain even further, relishing Deming's gasps for air. "But mark my words, demon, this is merely the beginning."

The dream shifted, jolting Deming awake. He sat upright in bed, his heart pounding as he gasped for breath. He blinked away the remnants of the nightmare, sweat beading on his forehead. He took a deep, steadying breath and whispered, "This dream again."

~*~

Later in the evening, Team Solaris engaged in a heated practice session in the training room. Each champion crashed through enemy defenses, crumbling towers under relentless assaults and securing objectives.

Meilin's swift fingers tapped across her keyboard, her gaze darting between the screen and the mini-map. Her heart raced as her gut warned her of the enemy team's ambush. She slammed her finger on the ping. "Ningshun, help me! I'm going to bait him to your lane. Let's kill him!"

Ningshun's smirk remained in place. He continued to farm in his lane, focused on the minions, and ignored the ping. The enemy Jungler closed in. Despite her efforts, the objective of killing the enemy Jungler ended with her own death.

She fumed, typing in the chat for everyone to read, "PLZ REPORT MID. MY TEAMMATE SUCKS!"

Han's narrowed gaze shifted to Ningshun as Kaili scoffed and shook his head.

As the match ended, the team began packing up. Ningshun stretched, his demeanor relaxed and unconcerned as he folded his black leather jacket.

She stormed over to Ningshun and placed her hands on her hips. "Hey, what was that for!?"

Ningshun stood, his expression unreadable. "We'll do better next match. I'm heading out for a drink."

"What? Haven't you had enough of teasing me in person? Now you're doing it in our matches, too?" Meilin held her hand against her forehead, her eyes narrowing. "Ah, I can't... Could you bring me a can of soda, then? After all, you owe me!"

Minutes later, Ningshun strolled back into the room with only one drink—just for himself. He took a sip before dropping into his chair and stretching out.

Her eyes narrowed, a muscle twitching in her jaw. She stood and strode past him with a tight, controlled pace, her gaze remaining ahead. As she left, her footsteps rustled and mingled with the clink of Ningshun's drink on the table.

Ningshun's eyes tracked her retreat, and his jaw dropped. The drink in his hand hung like dead weight, its chill biting into his grip. Blinking, a flush crept up his neck as his eyes stayed on the door. Shoulders sagging, he ran a hand through his slick hair. 'Did I... mess up?'