CHAMBER

Directly after the court ruling, Parsival was dragged into the military’s underground prison chambers. The place was hollow and dead—just cold stone and emptiness. He stared at the brick wall ahead of him, jaw clenched. Part of him wanted to rip the metal bars apart and run, but he knew the truth: escaping would be a death sentence.
So he stood there and prayed.

But his prayers were futile.

Why? Why, God?

Every plea he sent upward dissolved into the dark. The God he clung to—the God he trusted—had abandoned him. He couldn’t make sense of why the being he loved would put him through this.

A latch clicks open. A long, slow creak follows. Footsteps—purposeful, light—approach his cell. Parsival doesn’t look up. He keeps his eyes glued to the wall, sitting in his misery.

“Comfortable?” Leg asks, stopping just outside the bars.

Parsival doesn’t answer.

“Sorry about the placement. The high-order doesn’t exactly have spare rooms lying around, so… you get the abandoned prison.”

Parsival finally raises his eyes. “Let me out.”

Leg taps his foot. “No can do.”

Parsival grits his teeth. His mouth still aches from chewing through the wooden gag hours ago.

“Relax,” Leg says gently. “This is temporary. The high-order reviewed everything—you’ll be attending the blue suit ranking ceremony.”

Parsival’s confusion eclipses his anger. “What?”

“You’re a soldier now. Attending the ceremony is standard protocol.”

Parsival grabs the bars. “I never agreed—”

“So you’d rather be executed?” Leg cuts in.

Parsival says nothing. He knows Leg is right.

Leg pulls a wooden chair over, sits, and crosses one leg over the other. “I saved your life. And you’re my disciple now. We should at least understand each other. Agreed?”

Parsival doesn’t answer. He just lowers himself to the floor, stubborn.

Leg smiles faintly. “Good enough. What’s your name?”

“Parsival. Parsival Venn.”

“Nice to meet you, Parsival. I’m General Lagaan—Leg. Now…” He leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. “Are you human?”

Parsival blinks. “What?”

“Pig. Or human.”

Parsival swallows. “Human.”

“Thought so. Though it confuses me.” Leg’s eyes narrow, analytical but not unkind. “Back in the Beast's castle, you were basically a corpse. I could see your skull for fucks sake. And yet—here you are. Healing like that is something only the Pigs manage. So how does a human pull it off?”

Parsival glances down at his pitch-black arms. “I wish I had the answer.”

“How long ago were you marked?”

“I don’t know. A year, maybe.”

Leg hums. “A human with a healing factor. Fascinating. Get up.”

Parsival rises slowly, tense.

“Bend the metal. I know you can.”

He hesitates, then grips the bars.

Creak.

They move—just slightly—but not enough. Parsival strains until his breath shudders… but nothing more happens. Panic stirs in his chest.

What? Why isn’t it working?

Leg watches closely. “You shifted them, but only barely. Looks like you can’t fully control your arms. Situational strength, maybe.”

Parsival’s thoughts spiral. H-how? What’s happening to me? His heart hammers in his chest, a cold panic rising.

Leg seems to read it in his expression. “Don’t panic. We’ll figure it out.” He leans back in the chair, arms crossed now, studying Parsival like a difficult equation. “If anything, this just gives us more to work with.”

Parsival stares at his hands—those pitch-black, monstrous hands—as if they might suddenly explain themselves. “Work?” he echoes quietly.

“Work,” Leg repeats. He scratches the back of his neck, hesitating for the first time since he walked in. “Tell me something. Do you even know who you killed?”

Parsival freezes. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. “Not… exactly.”

“Right.” Leg sighs, sitting forward. “Ever heard of…” He pauses, almost reluctant. “Krampus?”

Parsival doesn’t answer—he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to.

“The Beast," Leg clarifies. “He’s what you’d call a Kin, a Kin of Krampus. "Essentially.. You killed Krampus' dog.”

Parsival stares. “Who is Krampus?”

Leg huffs a grim laugh. “A Pig. And not one of the foot soldiers. No—he’s top brass. One of their highest-ranked combatants.” He raises three fingers. “Said to be the third strongest military powerhouse alive. If he wanted to, he could wipe out half our forces by himself.”

The words hit Parsival like a blade to the gut.

All the cruelty.
All the pain.
All the relentless torment in that castle.

It finally makes sense.

Leg watches the realization settle over him. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “You get it now.”

Parsival’s throat goes dry.

“You’re carrying the lives of thousands on your back,” Leg finishes. “Whether you like it or not.”