DISCLAIMER: THIS TAKES PLACE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STORY. THOUGH IT SHOULD STILL MAKE SENSE.

DEATH SENTENCE

Parsival Venn

The sound of bones breaking carried through the white void of his dreams. Flesh pressed through his fingers, blood filled the air. Even in sleep, Parsival remembered the violence.

“Parsival,” the beast called. “Wake up.”

The command dragged him back to the world. His eyes opened to a blinding haze. White became shadow; silence became sound.

“Looks like he’s gained consciousness. Good morning,” said a voice, calm but sharp.

The darkness around him formed into a room—a hall, stone and iron, dimly lit by lanterns that flickered like dying stars. A long table stretched through its center, surrounded by seated soldiers in black suits. But Parsival did not sit among them. He hung within a metal cage of spikes and springs, arms bound above him by chains that threaded into the ceiling and floor. A perfect trap: any struggle, and the steel would pierce him through.

From across the chamber, atop a tall pillar, a man watched. His name was Commander Farg—an old tactician, precise and detached. The shadows concealed his form, but his eyes, bright and cold, cut through the gloom like twin lighthouses sweeping a black sea.

“It took us quite a while to understand your abilities,” Farg said, voice echoing through the room. “I wouldn’t move, if I were you.”

Around the table, the soldiers sat motionless, their faces carved from stone. Their silence was not ignorance—it was fear disguised as discipline. Chains rattled faintly as Parsival tested his bonds, and the sound rang like a warning bell in the stillness.

He tried to speak, but a wooden gag silenced him. Blood and saliva mixed in his mouth, the taste bitter and raw.

“General Lagaan, you may stand,” Farg commanded.

The scrape of a chair broke the quiet. Boots struck the floor.

“Thank you, Commander Farg,” said Leg—General Lagaan—his voice smooth, confident. He was the one who had helped capture the beast. Pale skin, slicked white hair, and eyes that gleamed with restrained excitement.

“Evaluate the boy.”

Leg obeyed. “Thirteen hours ago, this boy killed the beast.”

The room erupted. Chairs scraped, voices collided.

“He killed a kin of Krampus?!”
“Our only option is to offer his life!”
“Our entire military will be wiped clean—”

The black suits shouted over one another, panic clawing its way into the open. None dared look directly at the chained boy—only at the implications of his existence.

Farg stayed without emotion, contrasting the chaos of the black suits. He gazed upon Parsival in amusement. “So it’s true. Well done boy. 

The racing of Parsival’s heart decayed as he heard those words. He struggled to make sense of it all, but it was obvious his life was on the line. A thin one at that.

Just as his heart faded, it rose again. “But do you have any idea what you’ve just done? You killed the dog of a deity.” Farg’s tone darkened.

Farg raised his hammer and struck the pallet. “It’s settled,” he said. “Cripple him, then offer him to Krampus before Krampus cripples us.”

The decision hung heavy in the air. Parsival trembled, the taste of blood thick on his tongue. In his mind, a storm gathered: fear, rage, disbelief. He thought of his mother. He thought of what waited beyond death.

Crack.

Leg’s fist had struck the table, his body alight with traces of lightning that danced along his arm. “We’ve sacrificed many talented soldiers before,” he said. “This one, however, we cannot.”

“Talent means nothing right now!” someone shouted.
“The court has been ruled!”

“Silence!” Farg’s voice split the air. “Elaborate, General Lagaan.”

Leg’s gaze slid toward Parsival. He did not move his head, but his eyes said, Hold on.

“This blue suit killed the beast on his own,” Leg said. “He made the creature known for its lack of fear into a trembling coward. The beast ran from him.”

Murmurs stirred across the table. Even Farg’s composure faltered; a flicker of surprise crossed his face.

“But that isn’t why he should live,” Leg continued. “When I lent him my current, he didn’t die. He adapted. He turned my current into his own and used it for himself. I’m unsure if it was intentional, but he’s mastered the control aspect.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Every soldier understood the implication. Power like that did not appear by chance—it was something born, not made.

Farg raised an eyebrow, he understood manipulating the control aspect of someone like Leg wasn’t an ordinary feat.

Farg exhaled through his nose, a sound almost like a sigh. “Unfortunate,” he said softly, “that such a talented soldier must die such a horrible death.”

The black suits whispered again, voices like knives in the dark.

“Break his legs first.”
“No, surgically remove them.”

Parsival’s body shook, his teeth grinding against the gag until it splintered. Pain flooded his mouth. He felt his molars snap loose, blood spilling between his lips. His mind screamed—It’s not fair. It’s not fair!

Then—crack.

The sound silenced the room.

A second crack, then a snap.

Wood and blood fell to the floor.

Parsival spat out what remained of the gag and lifted his head toward the pillar. His voice came hoarse but steady. “You want to offer me up? Fine. But I won’t be alive for it.”

He braced his arms, every muscle coiled.

In the gallery above, Farg studied him with interest. What he saw was not defiance, but resolve—a soldier’s death wish turned inward. He almost smiled.

He reminds me of Lagaan, Farg thought. A pity.

Parsival closed his eyes. I’m sorry, Mom. Lyla. I’ll pay for everything. Here and now.

Farg’s laugh rolled through the room. “You’re quite the soldier, aren’t you?”

Parsival spat blood. “Fuck off. I’m no soldier.”

Tears streaked down his face as he yanked the chains with all his strength.

Zzt. Crash.

And then.

The contraption fell apart, piece by piece, each segment of iron and spring landing softly at his feet as if carefully placed. The room filled with the scent of ozone. Lightning cracked beside him.

Leg stood there, electricity fading from his skin. His expression was calm, but his eyes blazed with pride. Watch this, his eyes said.

He tore Parsival’s shirt away, revealing the mark etched into his stomach.

Farg’s eyes widened. “The mark of Midas…”

Gasps rippled through the black suits. “The mark…” someone whispered.

Leg stepped back, posture straight and measured. “Marked,” he declared. “Every soldier burdened with the mark has shaped history into what we know today. If you want to kill him, fine—but it will be humanity’s greatest mistake.”

Farg leaned back, laughter rising again—low, unstable, echoing through the hall. “General Lagaan, you sure know how to prove a point!”

Leg smiled faintly. “Who do you think I learned it from?”

The laughter faded. Silence returned.

“He’s your problem, General Lagaan,” Farg said at last. “If Krampus comes, you and him will be the ones to pay.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Commander.”

Farg watched as the chains clattered to the ground, as the boy stood free for the first time. Two who defied death, he thought. Let’s see how long fate spares them.

Parsival looked down at his trembling hands. He had begged for death twice in the past thirteen hours—and both times, it had refused him.

Somewhere above, unseen, the world watched. And in the silence that followed, the gods stayed quiet.