In the union of human skill and mechanical ingenuity, the smithy churned out weapons of destruction, their sheer quantity a testament to the intentions of King Girsal.
The manufactured weapons were then immersed in an expansive basin, filled with an enigmatic, bluish-black liquid. Eva gracefully floated closer, her ethereal form inspecting the substance with a slightly grave expression. A furrow formed on her brow. "This is the blood of the Death Folk race. Yet, I sense no trace of Death Folk presence here, unless there exists a secret alliance between them and King Girsal. No wonder these weapons can inflict harm on a person's very soul," Eva uttered with a tinge of understanding, her gaze excited as she continued to tail King Girsal through the smithy.
Suddenly a man, towering at around ten feet tall, donning a mysterious blue mask, approached King Girsal with a respectful bow before locking eyes with him. "Your majesty, please where would you like to go?" the masked man inquired.
"Escort me to the Saintess!" King Girsal commanded, his voice dripping with authority. The man in the blue mask nodded in obedience.
"As you wish," he replied, his voice tinged with an air of respect. With measured steps, he guided King Girsal out of the weaponry room and into a grand hall.
Eva, observing their departure, couldn't help but be taken aback by the revelation. "The current Saintess is alive? No wonder I've sensed a formidable surge of holy energy ever since I came down here!" Eva exclaimed, her voice tinged with astonishment, as she discreetly trailed behind them.
After a while of passing through several halls and doors, they finally arrived before a large black door. Eight burly guards, each standing at an imposing 10 feet tall, pushed open the door as they noticed King Girsal approaching, only to seal them shut behind him with an ominous thud.
Eva's steely gaze swept across the chamber, revealing a ghastly sight within the cages that lined its walls. Here, imprisoned were souls from diverse races and backgrounds, but these were no ordinary prisoners. Their eyes glimmered with an unsettling mix of icy coldness and frenzied madness, an unsettling reflection of their corrupted spirits. Some diligently honed their bodies within the confines of their cages, performing ceaseless repetitions of push-ups and sit-ups, while others erupted into hysterical fits of laughter that echoed through the air, reminiscent of the deranged and unhinged.
"I guess this is the prison where the most heinous of criminals of Sandeph are kept. I saw a lot of these faces in some of the info the Pidis got. Guess the other prison was just normal," Eva muttered as she continued to trail behind King Girsal and the blue masked man.
Undeterred by the grim spectacle, Eva trailed behind King Girsal and the mysteries man with the blue mask. She then observed the dimly lit cells, as they went deeper, taking note of the other prisoners confined within, each a specter of danger and malice. They were a motley assortment of malefic beings—vicious sorcerers with eyes alight with sinister magic, hulking brutes whose muscles bulged with raw power, and cunning assassins whose every movement dripped with deadly precision. Their gaunt faces, etched with the scars of past conflicts, bore testament to lives steeped in treachery and transgression.
The cells themselves were cold, damp, and foreboding, their iron bars a stark reminder of the prisoners' inescapable fate. Each cell contained only a meager straw mattress, a testament to the prison's uncompromising stance on comfort.
To subdue these vile individuals, the prison employs a range of extraordinary measures. Mystical restraints, enchanted with powerful spells, bind the most volatile prisoners, rendering their supernatural abilities useless. The air resonates with the constant sound of clanging chains, a haunting reminder of the captives' eternal torment.
Walls lined with ancient runes, pulsating with arcane energy, served as both a deterrent and a safeguard against the prisoners' attempts to wield their malevolent powers.
The very architecture itself seems designed to amplify suffering, as screams of anguish echo through the dimly lit corridors, evoking a chilling atmosphere that permeates every inch of the facility.
The prison's corridors echoed with the whispers of forgotten curses and the tortured cries of the damned. The tormented souls, their spirits broken by the weight of their crimes, shuffled aimlessly in the dim light, their eyes devoid of hope or remorse. The clank of chains and the rattling of shackles punctuated the gloom, a symphony of confinement that echoed through the desolate halls.
Overseeing this sinister domain were the thousand burly, somber-faced guards two were over ten feet tall, clad in austere black armor adorned with thorny spikes. They patrolled as though s they were ever-watchful sentinels, their solemn duty to maintain order and ensure the prisoners remained confined within their dark abodes. Their eyes, hardened by the atrocities they had witnessed, scanned the shadows for any signs of unrest. Once King Girsal passed by them, they gave respectful bows before continuing on with their duty.
As they progressed through the prison passages, a putrid stench assailed Eva's senses, clawing at her throat and causing her delicate features to contort in disgust. Their journey led them to a place where the walls smoldered with seething heat, radiating waves of blistering energy, while the scorched ground beneath their feet crackled with an infernal blaze. Clad in somber black and gray uniforms, the criminals toiled relentlessly, their sweat-drenched brows glistening as they pushed against the machines, forging and refining molten metals. Others, their spirits seemingly broken, labored in the depths of shadowy mines, relentlessly extracting precious minerals from the heart of the earth.
The room pulsated with an air of torment and desperation, as if the very fabric of suffering had taken tangible form. The captives, condemned to this existence of eternal torment, appeared mere shadows of their former selves.
Eva observed the grim scene with her usual detached gaze. The oppressive atmosphere, coupled with the arduous work being carried out, hinted at the depths of despair and suffering these individuals were subjected to. Yet, amidst the searing heat and the clang of metal, a glimmer of determination and defiance still flickered within the eyes of some of the prisoners, a testament to the resilience they possesed.
As they ventured deeper into the dungeon and entered yet another grim chamber, Eva's eyes turned cold and her lips curled into a slightly disgusted expression.
"Ple...as...e...kill...me!" A hauntingly melodic voice pierced the air, its mournful plea resonating with an ethereal beauty. The source of the cry revealed itself—a woman of remarkable allure, her tear-streaked face etched with agony. Adorned with resplendent brown skin and cascading purple hair, gleaming like the petals of newly blossomed flowers, she possessed an otherworldly charm. Her eyes, once a captivating shade of gray, now betrayed a profound emptiness, devoid of life's spark. In their depths, pink cross-shaped pupils stood as haunting symbols of her suffering. Such was her allure that even kingdoms would crumble in their pursuit of her favor. Yet, she languished in her captive state, ensnared by chains of verdant green.
Beside her knelt two women, their visages devoid of mercy or remorse, methodically severing portions of her flesh and draining her blood in large bucket after bucket. Each act of excruciating mutilation was swiftly followed by an inexplicable restoration, the wounds on the woman's body healed instantaneously, leaving no trace as if they had never existed.
The woman lifted her gaze to find Girsal approaching, her voice choked with desperation. "Girsal, please... end my torment. I beg for forgiveness, Paige! Just let me die," she pleaded, her quivering lips betraying the depths of her anguish.
Girsal's response was devoid of mercy, his tone chilling as he drew nearer. "That cannot be granted, Chatel," he declared coldly, his voice devoid of warmth, and his footsteps deliberate. "You must atone fully for your transgressions before the final embrace of death."
A dry, hollow laughter escaped Chatel's lips, tinged with a hint of madness. "So, it is deemed a crime to be beautiful to the point it stirs jealousy in heart of Paige?" Her laughter echoed in the chamber, carrying the weight of bitter irony.
In a fit of rage, Chatel's hands clenched into fists, her teeth gritted in fury. "You and the Church of Beauty will face the consequences of all your wretched deeds against every Saintess! May this kingdom be one day be stained crimson with your blood, you fucking bastard! The church of beauty shall also meet its downfall hahahah!" Her laughter reverberated throughout the chamber, a haunting symphony of defiance, but it fell on deaf ears, her defiance failing to elicit even a flicker of a reaction from King Girsal and the onlookers.
A wicked grin curled upon his lips, his eyes gleaming with malevolence. "Keep clutching onto your futile dreams, my dear. For no force in existence possesses the power to topple the Church of Beauty. Your feeble words hold no power, mere echoes in the void. With the might of two Primordial Humans in the service of the Church, who would dare to challenge us?" King Girsal's voice dripped with arrogance, his tone a chilling testament to his unfathomable pride. Chatel's anger boiled within her, causing her teeth to grind against each other until they bled. But ultimately, a defeated expression settled across her face.