The Dungeon of Benling
The air was thick with the overwhelming stench of blood, sweat, and rotting flesh. The dungeon beneath Benling was a place where hope came to die. It was a pit where the Organization tossed those they deemed threats, left to rot, forgotten by the world above.
The cells were lined with rusted iron bars, the stone walls slick with dampness. A single torch flickered weakly in the hallway, its dim light casting long, twisted shadows on the walls. The prisoners had lost track of time. Minutes, hours, or even days—it all blurred together in the unending darkness.
Against the farthest wall, Elara sat with her arms shackled above her head. Her clothes were torn, her once vibrant eyes dulled with exhaustion. She was barely conscious, her head leaning against the cold stone as she listened to the shallow breathing of the other prisoners.
Across from her, Tyren, the once proud and loud warrior, sat slumped against the opposite wall. His body was covered in bruises, his face swollen beyond recognition. One of his eyes was shut completely, and dried blood coated his chin.
A weak cough echoed in the silence.
"Elara…" Tyren's voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
She forced her head up, her vision swimming. "You're still breathing," she murmured, attempting a weak smirk.
"Barely," Tyren rasped, shifting slightly, wincing at the pain. His shackles rattled as he adjusted himself. He glanced around at the other prisoners—most unconscious, a few barely clinging to life. "Where's—"
"Dead."
Elara's voice was flat, void of emotion.
Tyren swallowed hard. His fingers clenched into fists, the iron cuffs biting into his skin. He didn't ask for details.
They all knew what "dead" meant in this place.
The Interrogation Begins
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, breaking the eerie silence.
The prisoners tensed as the iron door groaned open. A cold gust of air followed, carrying the scent of something metallic—blood.
Three figures entered.
The first was a tall man draped in silver and black robes, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. The High Officer of the Organization. Behind him, two masked enforcers followed, clad in dark armor, their hands resting on their weapons.
The officer's gaze swept over the prisoners like a predator examining its prey. He stepped forward, his polished boots clicking against the stone.
"Good evening," he greeted casually, his voice smooth and mocking. "I trust you've been enjoying your stay?"
No one answered.
His smirk widened. "Still so quiet? How disappointing."
His gaze landed on Elara. Slowly, he crouched down in front of her, tilting his head.
"You know," he murmured, reaching out to grasp her chin, forcing her to look up, "this could all end so easily."
Elara met his gaze with icy defiance.
The officer chuckled. "Tell us where Ainz is. Tell us about his abilities. His kingdom. His plans."
Elara didn't blink. Then, without hesitation, she spat blood at his feet.
Silence.
The smirk vanished from the officer's face. His grip tightened painfully on her jaw.
A heartbeat passed. Then—
CRACK!
A brutal slap sent Elara's head snapping to the side. The force of it sent her body crashing against the stone wall. A sharp sting spread across her cheek, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth.
Tyren lunged forward despite the shackles. "You bastard—!"
One of the enforcers stepped forward and slammed a boot into his stomach.
THUD!
Tyren doubled over, coughing violently, struggling to breathe.
The officer didn't even look at him. His attention remained on Elara.
"Such spirit," he mused, standing up. "But I wonder… how long will you last?"
He turned to the enforcers. "Take the women."
The air grew still.
For the first time, the prisoners' defiance wavered.
The Horror Begins
The guards grabbed Elara and the other female prisoners, dragging them out of the cell.
"NO!" Tyren roared, straining against his chains. "LET THEM GO!"
The other prisoners shouted and thrashed, their voices filled with rage and desperation.
The officer ignored them. He watched with a smirk as the women were ripped away, their screams echoing down the corridor.
Tyren's heart pounded in his chest. "DON'T TOUCH THEM! YOU HEAR ME? DON'T—"
SLAM.
The iron door shut.
Silence.
The officer turned to the remaining prisoners, his expression smug.
"You should start praying," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "Because by the time they return…"
His eyes gleamed.
"They won't be the same anymore."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving only darkness and distant screams.