Chapter One – Born in Chains

  Samael woke to the sound of dripping water.

  Cold stone pressed against his back, damp as a grave. His wrists burned. When he shifted, iron scraped across the floor—chains, heavy and coarse, biting into raw skin.

  He tugged once.

  Twice.

  They didn’t move.

  Panic flared sharp in his chest. It burned, spread—then dulled into something colder. A quiet weight that anchored him where the chains could not.

  That’s when he felt it.

  A pull deep inside, like a hand tugging on a rope buried in his bones. Not outward, but inward, as if a part of him was waking. He reached for it without thinking.

  It slipped away like smoke, leaving him hollow.

  His breathing slowed.

  The single torch in the room burned weakly, its light crawling over rough stone, but he saw it with unnatural clarity. Every crack in the wall stood sharp as ink lines. Each bead of wax dripping down the shaft seemed deliberate. The stink of mildew clung thick, but beneath it he traced sharper threads: rust, damp stone, rot.

  Every sound pressed sharp against his ears. His own breathing. The shuffle of chains. Footsteps, faint.

  Breathing—three other rhythms besides his own.

  A voice cut through the dark.

  “Don’t bother with the chains. Already tried.”

  He blinked and turned his head.

  Across the cellar sat a girl, ankles shackled, wrists bound like his. Even in the dim torchlight her hair burned vivid red, falling in ragged waves around a face carved from stone. Her eyes locked onto him, unflinching. Not broken. Not pleading.

  A fighter pacing in her cage.

  “Welcome to the collection,” she said, voice flat as steel.

  Samael said nothing.

  Movement stirred beside her. Two boys sat chained to the same length of iron. Twins—the resemblance impossible to miss, though one sat upright and calculating while the other lounged like the chains were an inconvenience, not a sentence.

  The lounging one tipped his chin, a grin stretching across his bruised face.

  “Red’s been chewing her cuffs since we got here. Oh, and that’s my brother, Malachai.”

  The sharp one gave a curt nod, eyes observing Samael like he was a puzzle piece that might matter later.

  “And I’m Ash,” the grinning one added. “So. Wanna tell me how you got caught?”

  “Don’t encourage him,” Malachai muttered.

  Ash spread his grin anyway. “What? We’re all screwed together. Might as well be polite.”

  Silence pressed close again. Water dripped. The torch sputtered.

  Ash leaned forward, cuffs rattling.

  “So,” he said, “I’m Ash, and I’m an alcoholic. What’s you guys’ problem? Always a story.”

  Malachai groaned. “Ash…”

  “What? We’re not going anywhere,” Ash shot back.

  redhead shifted. Her jaw tightened. She held her silence long enough for it to scrape raw, then spat the words like broken glass.

  “My father was drunk. Gambled more than he owned. When he lost, he gave me instead.”

  Her eyes cut across the cellar, daring pity.

  “I fought. Thought I cut him when the knife slipped. Prayed I had. But no.

  Too much of a coward to bleed for his debts.”

  A bitter laugh cracked her lips.

  “So here I am. Winnings on a tavern table.”

  The words hung heavy.

  Samael waited for something inside him to stir—pity, anger, grief.

  Nothing came.

  Ash gave a low whistle. “Brutal.”

  Malachai shot him a glare. “Don’t.”

  Ash shrugged. “It’s a hell of a story. Guess it’s our turn.”

  He raised his shackled hands, grinning like a showman.

  “We ran fortunes in taverns. Candlelight, painted stones, a little smoke, a little drama. People ate it up.”

  “You mean we conned them,” Malachai said. “Ash spun lies. I kept the coin moving.”

  “See? Partners in crime. We lived well enough.”

  “Until you punched a slaver,” Malachai muttered.

  Ash leaned forward, grin gleaming.

  “So this guy walks in. Not drunk. Too steady. Malachai’s whispering the whole time, ‘Ash, don’t. He’s not a customer.’”

  “Because he wasn’t,” Malachai said flatly.

  Ash waved him off.

  “He sits, drops a coin, tells me to read him. So I give him a little show, eyes rolled back, whites shining, real dramatic, then I say the best line of my life: I see death. And pain. Both are very close.”

  He chuckled.

  “And he sneers, ‘Are you sure about that, boy?’ So I say, ‘Yeah. Pain.’ Then I smash my fist into his nose.”

  Even chained, Ash laughed, head tipping back.

  “Blood everywhere. He howls like a bull, Malachai’s dragging me toward the stairs, and I’m shouting, ‘Don’t forget to tip your fortune teller!’ Best night ever.”

  Malachai rubbed his forehead. “You’re lucky he didn’t gut you.”

  Ash’s grin faltered, just a fraction.

  “It didn’t matter. We made it out. Or so I thought.”

  Malachai’s voice cooled. “We ducked into the alley. Thought we’d lost him.”

  Ash scratched at his jaw, sheepishly.

  Malachai continued. “He wasn’t alone. Three more were waiting.”

  Malachai went still, breathing changing—not ragged, but slow. Deliberate. His gaze fixed on nothing, eyes locked on somewhere none of them could see.

  Then Samael noticed it.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  A faint light pushed through Malachai’s chest like embers under skin. Veins shimmered briefly as Malachai raised one trembling hand and pulled.

  Something came loose.

  A sliver of black glass slid free of his chest. It wasn’t held so much as it hung there, dripping faint echoes into the cellar air—whispers of iron, smoke, blood.

  The shard pulsed.

  The basement bled away into piss-stained cobblestones and the stink of lantern smoke.

  Ash and Malachai tore down the alley, still riding the rush from the tavern.

  Then the trap snapped shut.

  A crooked-nosed brute lunged from the shadows. His fist cracked across Ash’s jaw mid-run.

  Smash.

  Ash reeled, spit and blood spraying as he stumbled into the wall.

  A second man followed right behind the first—Malachai was ready. He rammed him into stacked barrels, wood shattering as sour ale flooded the stones.

  A third looped around from behind and threw chained collars around Malachai’s neck.

  Ash turned, sprinted two steps along the wall, and kicked off. He flipped backward clean over the crooked-nosed brute’s head, landing in a crouch behind him.

  “Surprise.”

  He lunged forward, fists driving two sharp jabs into the man’s kidneys.

  At the same moment, Malachai tore the chain around his own throat free, twisted, and hauled the third man over his shoulder. Ash was waiting—a knee smashed into the man’s chest as he came down, and Malachai’s fist cracked across the side of his skull.

  The man crumpled hard, gagging.

  The scarred brute ripped free of the barrel wreck, swinging his chain. Malachai caught it on his arm, teeth gritted as blood ran down his forearm. He yanked.

  Ash sprinted in, planted a foot on Malachai’s bent knee like a step, and vaulted high—his fist crashing into the slaver’s jaw mid-air.

  The man spun sideways, smashing into the wall hard enough to split stone.

  For a heartbeat, the alley was theirs.

  The three attackers writhed, broken and gasping.

  Ash bent double, hands on his knees, grinning through blood.

  “See, Mal? You worry too much.”

  Then the tavern door slammed open.

  The fourth man—the one Ash had sucker-punched inside—stepped out. His nose was bent, blood dripping, eyes sharp as knives. He moved differently.

  Steady.

  Heavy.

  “Tier One,” Malachai muttered, breath ragged, eyes wide.

  Ash spat blood and smirked. “Oh, shit. Here we go again.”

  The man stepped once.

  His fist blurred.

  Boom.

  Ash flew back, slammed against the wall, coughing blood.

  Malachai roared and swung wild. The Tier One caught his arm, twisted, and drove a knee into his gut.

  Crunch.

  Malachai folded, blood pouring from his mouth.

  Ash staggered up again, fury in his eyes. He launched a desperate punch—

  Caught.

  Redirected.

  A palm smashed into his temple.

  Ash collapsed sideways, vision swimming.

  “Pathetic,” the Tier One sneered, standing over them without a mark on him.

  —

  The shard re-entered Malachai’s body.

  The cellar snapped back into place, damp and dark.

  Samael still felt ribs splintering. Still tasted blood in the air.

  Red’s knuckles whitened. Even chained, her body leaned forward like she’d tear into that Tier One herself if the memory let her.

  Ash smirked crookedly. “Well. I wasn’t wrong about the pain.”

  Even Malachai snorted.

  The torch guttered, shadows stretching like claws.

  All three turned to Samael.

  Red’s stare steady.

  Malachai’s sharp.

  Ash’s playful.

  Their eyes asked the same question.

  And you?

  Samael parted his lips.

  “Sam,” he said at last. “I… don’t remember.”

  It wasn’t a lie. Not fully.

  A flicker stirred in his skull—a voice, faint and familiar, whispering from somewhere deep. Clear for a heartbeat.

  Then gone.

  He lowered his gaze. Chains bit into his wrists.

  And then—

  [ECHO DETECTED.]

  The words weren’t spoken.

  They burned across his vision. Stark. Mechanical.

  Samael sucked in a breath.

  Light scrawled before his eyes.

  [WORLD SYSTEM — PERSONAL OVERLAY]

  NAME: Unregistered

  RACE: UNKNOWN (Creation Line)

  FRAGMENT: CREATION FRAGMENT (Unique)

  STATUS: Unregistered Echo — Singularity

  FUNCTION AVAILABLE: CREATION INTERFACE

  PROMPT: Anything may be created with sufficient energy and imagination.

  WARNING: Fragment incomplete. Created items may exhibit limited duration, instability, or degraded effects.

  Samael let out a slow breath.

  “You tried to wake me up,” he murmured.

  The system did not respond.

  The words hung in place, indifferent to his realization.

  He kept reading them over and over but it never changed.

  Is this the same thing that happened to Malachai?

  No… his came out of his chest, like some burning coal.

  This was different.

  This was just… floating in his eyes.

  He looked at the word [CREATION] again.

  A spark of something he hadn’t felt in years hope, or maybe just desperate ego flickered in his chest.

  Wait.

  Am I finally getting superpowers?

  Is this the part where I turn invisible?

  Because if I can turn invisible, I could rob banks. Like easily. I would never have to work again.

  Hahahahahaha.

  Screw you, whoever came up with the nine-to-five, five-days-a-week nightmare.

  Okay.

  Wait.

  Focus.

  How do you even create invisibility?

  And from what I’d seen so far, That guy had literally shown them a recording from his chest which he was pretty sure was a memory maybe i should ask him about that later.

  Hold on.

  If I can create things…

  Can’t I just create money?

  Oh my god.

  I’m rich.

  I’m rich.

  Ash perked up. “What was that, Sam? Talking to ghosts?”

  Malachai frowned. Red’s gaze sharpened.

  Samael shut his mouth.

  Only then did he realize he’d been muttering out loud.

  While Samael tried to focus back on the floating words The basement door screeched open.

  A slaver stomped down the steps, torch held high. He stank of sweat and cheap liquor.

  “Still breathing? Shame.”

  He shoved the flame in their faces, inspecting them like cattle.

  “Soon enough. You’re all just about ripe.”

  Ash muttered, “Don’t smell like fruit to me.”

  The torch jabbed into his chest. Ash wheezed, gagging.

  The slaver laughed, sniffed, and spat on the floor.

  “Too much mouth. Nobles won’t want you.”

  He drifted past Red, eyes narrowing, then barked a laugh.

  “Maybe some lordling’ll pay for that face.”

  At Malachai, he grunted.

  “Strong back. Perfect for the mine’s.”

  Then his gaze slid to Samael.

  He lingered. Scowl deepening.

  “Dead weight.”

  He kicked Samael’s chain hard enough to rattle bone.

  “Empty eyes. Clients hate empties.”

  The slaver spat on the stones and trudged back up the steps.

  The door slammed.

  The cellar felt darker than before.

  Ash twisted in his chains, cursing. The movement tore open a half-healed cut along his arm.

  Blood trickled down.

  Ash’s blood hit the floor.

  For a heartbeat, Samael froze.

  Symbols—jagged, burning—flickered into being over the dark stone. They crawled across his vision like fireflies forming patterns.

  For a breath, he didn’t understand.

  Then the glyphs twisted, straightened, and meaning snapped into place.

  [SYSTEM NOTICE]

  Trace identified: Blood contains condensed energy.

  Energy may be extracted, stored, or converted.

  His breath caught.

  He stared at the dark smear on the floor.

  For a second, it didn’t look like blood at all.

  It looked like fuel.

  Like a spark waiting to burn.

  His shackles groaned as he shifted, testing their weight.

  “What the hell was that?” he whispered—though he wasn’t speaking to the others.

  No one answered.

  Red stared at the door.

  Malachai brooded, eyes lowered.

  Ash hummed a low, tuneless note, tapping his chains.

  None of them had seen it.

  None of them could.

  Samael’s chest tightened.

  The message had been for him alone.

  He swallowed, throat dry.

  Blood is… energy?