The Chamber of Suffering
The room was cold, its stone walls damp with moisture. The scent of blood, sweat, and despair hung in the air, so thick it was suffocating. The torches flickered dimly, casting elongated shadows across the filth-stained floor.
Elara and Sylphie were dragged inside, their bodies too weak to resist anymore. The guards threw them to the ground, and a group of nobles and high-ranking officers of the Organization stood before them, their expressions ranging from amused to indifferent.
"Look at them," one of the men sneered, swirling wine in a crystal goblet. "The so-called friends of the Demon King. Disgusting."
Elara lifted her head slightly, her body trembling with exhaustion, but her eyes still burned with defiance.
"Go to hell," she rasped, her voice hoarse from dehydration and screaming.
The noble chuckled, stepping forward. He was a tall man with silver hair slicked back, his face untouched by battle, a man who had never known true hardship.
"Still fighting? How admirable." He crouched in front of her, gripping her chin harshly and forcing her to meet his gaze. "But tell me, where is your precious Demon King now? Hm? Do you think he's coming to save you?"
Elara jerked her face away, her cracked lips forming a bitter smile.
"He will come," she whispered. "And when he does, he will burn this place to the ground."
The noble's grip tightened, his amusement replaced with irritation.
"Tch. I was going to be gentle at first, but since you insist on being a stubborn bitch… break them."
At his command, the guards lunged forward, grabbing Elara and Sylphie as they struggled weakly, their bodies too exhausted to resist.
And then, the real nightmare began.
The Breaking Point
The night stretched endlessly.
Elara and Sylphie were violated over and over again, their screams echoing in the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls. Their tormentors laughed, mocked, and reveled in their suffering, treating them as nothing more than entertainment.
At some point, Sylphie stopped screaming.
She just lay there, eyes open but vacant, her breathing shallow.
Elara barely clung to consciousness, her body shuddering uncontrollably. Pain was all she knew.
A noble ran his fingers through her sweat-drenched hair, whispering in her ear.
"Where is your fight now, little traitor?"
Elara couldn't answer. Her mind was slipping away, trying to escape the horror.
But she refused.
She refused to let them win.
Even as her body was broken, she held onto a single thought—
Ainz will come. He will come.
And when he does, none of them will escape his wrath.
The Dungeon of the Dead
Time lost all meaning.
When they were finally thrown back into the dungeon, their bodies were beyond healing.
Tyren and the other prisoners watched in horror as the guards dropped their broken forms onto the stone floor like discarded corpses.
Elara didn't move.
Sylphie didn't move.
For a long, unbearable moment, there was only silence.
Tyren crawled forward, his chains dragging behind him. His heart pounded in his chest, a sickening mix of rage and sorrow.
He reached out a trembling hand and touched Elara's shoulder.
She flinched violently, instinctively trying to curl into herself as if expecting more pain.
Tyren froze.
His throat tightened, his vision blurred.
This wasn't Elara.
Not the Elara he had known.
The fire in her eyes was gone.
The proud, unyielding woman who had once fought beside them was now a hollow shell.
And it broke him.
The Last Laugh of the Monsters
The guards stood outside the bars, watching with amusement.
"Enjoy them while they last," one of them sneered. "Though I doubt they'll last much longer."
Another chuckled. "Maybe we should lend them to the other prisoners. Might be a waste if only we got to have our fun."
Tyren clenched his fists so hard that his nails dug into his skin, drawing blood.
He wanted to kill them.
Rip them apart.
But he was too weak.
A prisoner beside him whispered, voice shaking, "They turned them into nothing but toys…"
Tyren lowered his head.
Ainz.
If you ever return…
Burn Benling to the ground.