“You blasphemous traitors! Release us this instance!” an old black man hollowed, rattling the jail bars. Men around him groaned in pain. They were a badly beaten group, all squished against the cold stone. Only a day had passed since their capture and the rot has already made its home in this dungeon. The lucky ones seated themselves in the far left corner of the jail, away from the unlucky ones, who now lay stacked and unmoving in the top corner of the jail.

“Just shut up already, it’s been ten fucking hours!” another old man called out from the crowd. “Traitor this traitor that, the Justicia will execute you and Justucai will execute that. We’re greedy lil' fucks that wanted points, not deranged followers of your cult. Don’t dirty our reputation, freak."

The old man whipped his face around, revealing a set of two mismatched eyes, one dead white and the other brown. Each eye looked in different directions, but neither looked in the direction of the man it was addressing “You weak spined, eel feces, son fucker! Have you no honor? No faith? No conviction? They have brought upon us the wrath of a hundred Pnévmas! Bringing retribution upon their sinful souls will deliver us from The Great One’s retribution!”

“And what’s thrusting your shriveled cat penis against iron bars going to do? Ha?” A different man called out from within the throng of bodies.

“More than sitting flat on your own shit going to do, you bald dicked, white shrimp!”

“T-that wasn’t me! I wa-”

“Fuck off, they could smell your fouled pants from the next cell!”

“No they ca-”

“Quiet down there!” A guard yelled, a distance away, One more disturbance and you crippled fools will be skipping lunch!”

The Old Man snapped his shriveled body around, opening his mouth with hostile venom. Before the first word was uttered, however, every half-alive man threw his limbs at him, bringing him down and covering his vile mouth. Only a few muffled curses escaped his lips.

After a rustle, the prisoners heard the far gates closing, sounding the guard's exit.

The Old Man escaped the mass angry fingers that held him, indulging everyone around him about the wretched corruptness and vile nature of human beings, and how they had brought this upon themselves. He was also kind enough to remind them of their impending doom and endless horrors of the afterlife, which they had been sentenced too by the great Ruler upon surrendering their souls to the wicked ones. Who the wicked ones were, the Old Man was not too specific about.

An hour later, the rebels were spared the rest of the lecture by the gate's screeching against the stone ground. A horde of iron boots echoed in the long halls of the dingy dungeon, their stormy entrance and hard spears awakening any slumbering prisoner.

Nilbog peeked out from the cluster of bodies, catching sight of The High Guard. Giant soldiers with even more enormous halberds. The shortest of them towered at six foot five. Each wore a full set of heavy steel armor, colored blue and white, with the exception of the Captain, whose fancy white was a torch by itself. They were the elite force of the Animus.

For the twenty hundredth time, Nilbog cursed his wicked luck. How he got round up in the capture of the Anima forces, he had no idea. One moment he was forging for food, the next he was caught in a chaotic mess of metal and limb.

The Animus had won the war at the worst time possible.

“Instead of executing you pathetic lot for your crimes against the kingdom, you will instead serve in its battle against the dark forces!”

What nonsense. All we did was pick a faction, and just because we lost, everyone from it is now considered a "traitor."

Faces lit up all around, dead men flinching in each corner of the block prison. The wisest of them had already submitted to the grim reality of their nearing judgment, yet the life in their bodies returned. One of the men in the stack of corpses even woke up.

"Of course, we will not force this upon you. I will personally escort any man wishing to forsake this divine opportunity," the captain of the High Gaurd said, snapping the butt of his spear against the ground.

The ground cracked. The meaning of it was not lost upon the prisoners. Not even the babbling old rat opened his mouth. Only a special few had the humor left to nudge him forward. No one was foolish, or brave enough, to wish leave from this mission.

“Very well. As you all know, the Games have begun. As mandatory, each person’s class, profession, and stat sheets will be identified, recorded, and drafted into appropriate positions. The Animus pledge only applied to Animus followers. We advise you to turn off any disguise skills, as attempting to bolster, or understate, your capacities will be noticed by the Observer's skills, and you will have ground for high punishment. You will leave the cells in groups of fives. It is in your best interest to cooperate with us.”

As the Lead Guard said, in fives, the prisoners left beyond cells, and then beyond the doors. To some, this was a possibility of redemption. If they could show some use for being kept alive, then their futures were not as bleak. They could join a slightly more haggard part of the army, and could possibly gain enough power to raise them on the ladder. They would have a black mark on their histories, but life will be possible.

But for Nilbog, it was a death sentence. If it was as the Lead Gaurd said, then being Scouted by a skill which passes through disguises will cause him to be cut down on the spot, and that was the best prospect. A creative mind would have thought about all the different horrors he would have to go through if they chose to keep him alive, but at that moment, Nilbog was far too busy contemplating how wretched his life had been.

When his name was called, his limbs moved with a stiff coldness and resigned eyes. It was enough, he thought. He had lived long enough. Forty years of thievery, beggary, conflict, and deceit was beyond the lifespan of his race. His leather coat was already taken from him, leaving him only with his thick and layered shirts, all gray in color, but the cold no longer bit at him. He was numb to it and all the pain and soreness of his bruised body. He had to be pushed a couple of times forward by the cellmates behind him, as his body no longer responded to him. As he trundled past, the Lead Gaurd’s eyes fell of him, threatening to crush him under the pressure.

“Halt,” he said. Nilbog made no effort to stop, but the words were heeded by his body. The Lead Soldier glanced to his side. “What is this child doing in these cells?” he asked.

“He was with the rabble, sir, as we cornered them.”

“Are you telling me children are now revolting to increase their point count?” the Lead Guard said, pulling up Nilbog by the collars, lifting him off his feet.

“I’m not sure, sir. He may have wandered into the battlefield by mistake. He had weapons on him and a hefty coat that certainly did not belong to him. Do we release him?” the soldier said.

The Lead Guard glanced at Nilbog, looking at him in the eyes. He smiled and let him go. “Absolutely, not. Children like him, that murder and loot the dead, are the bane of our future. Throw him in with the other lot,” the Lead Gaurd said with a dismissive gesture.

On cue, Nilbog began walking, but this time, he shook. His legs quivered and the muscles on his arm spasmed incessantly. The blood reached to the cold tips of his ears, and his heart threatened to cave in under him. He was awake, now, and felt each bit of pain and despair oozing in his body. He was fully conscious of his desire to live. He wanted to have hot food and wanted to sleep all day in a warm house with thick blankets and not have to worry about being mugged or killed.

His eyes glanced furtively, looking for something sharp or a hope to prolong his life, but as he made his way out the prison room, through damp corners and dingy halls, he found nothing. The guards that escorted him kept a tight watch, and the four other prisoners with him did not seem intent on escaping. His HP was too low, as well, barely half, and while his STM was full his Overall STM was at half. He would not make it very far, even if he somehow made it out.

Not yet. Not giving up yet. The last thing that could possibly save him, was his Shape-Shifting resisting the Scout skill. It was a unique rated skill, and if the identifier is not too powerful, then his stat sheet will simply become a child’s, without the skills or class.

Player Killer Activated.

A hiccup made Nilbog jump a step. He looked up, ignoring the cold air that burned his throat. A few paces away, in front of the prison entrance, he saw a man with his feet up on the table. His arms were folded, and below the fur hat and thick coat, Nilbog saw two narrow eyes, a small nose, and sharp chin. The man grimaced, groaned, and complained about all the litter he had to waste his time on.

The Inquisitor. An Ascended from the previous Game, and the one that had killed his master.