Maleth stopped laughing. The silence that followed was worse than the hysterical laughter.

  "The 20 Damned," Maleth said slowly, losing every trace of madness in his voice. "The most powerful Cold Enhancer I've ever forged. Twenty imprisoned souls will be servants bound to your will, and above all, they'll be soldiers who cannot die because they're already damned."

  Brando felt a shiver run down his spine. He didn't know whether to be happy or terrified of such a power. It seemed like something truly dark.

  "But," Maleth continued, "to create a weapon so powerful requires paying a particular price."

  "What?" Alessio asked, his voice tense.

  Maleth turned toward him. He smiled. "Pain. The kind that shatters your soul. The kind that transforms men into monsters and monsters into something worse."

  He turned back toward Brando. "Tell me, boy. What's your worst memory? The one that wakes you up at night screaming? The one you've buried so deep you've almost forgotten it?"

  Brando didn't answer right away. But he already knew. "How does it work?" he asked, his voice steady despite everything.

  Maleth perked up, his fire-eyes gleaming intensely. "You lie down on this giant anvil," he said, pointing to it—an anvil of black metal as large as a bed. "I extract the memory from your Cold Veins. Literally. I pull it out like ripping a heart from a chest."

  He made a gesture with his hands that mimicked tearing something out. "The memory will become tangible, literally crystallized. Then I strike it with the hammer. I'll deliver twenty blows, one for each damned soul."

  "And me?" Brando asked, trying to understand better.

  "You relive it. Every time the hammer goes clang, the memory intensifies. At the first strike, it'll be like remembering normally. At the tenth, it'll be like living it again. At the twentieth?" Maleth laughed. "It'll be worse than when it first happened."

  Brando felt something cold in his stomach. Worse than the first time. How could it be worse?

  "You won't just relive the event, you'll relive everything that caused it. Everything condensed into a single memory."

  Brando wasn't sure he understood. How could you compress an entire series of traumas into one memory? It was all so strange.

  "After twenty blows," Maleth continued, "the memory re-enters you. It stabilizes in your right hand, and I'll pour molten metal onto your hand to create a gauntlet. The memory becomes part of the metal, and the metal will become your Cold Enhancer. Then you'll obtain the 20 Damned."

  Alessio stepped forward. "Pour molten metal? That's insanity! No one could withstand something like that. Brando could die before—"

  "Trust me, someone managed it," Maleth interrupted. "I know that whoever succeeded is now one of the Four Aces. I can assure you it's worth it. The risk of losing your life is calculated. Great risks bring great rewards."

  Brando looked at his fists. He thought of Ripa who had beaten him. Of Esposito who had struck him. Of all the times he'd been too weak to do anything.

  The price was high. Reliving Michele twenty times. Reliving everything that had led to that moment. But what alternative did he have? Stay weak? Continue being the Zeta everyone despised?

  No. He'd already decided when he entered this cavern. Whatever it took to become stronger.

  "I'll do it," Brando said.

  Alessio turned toward him. "Brando, you don't have to—"

  "I'll do it."

  Maleth smiled. "Good! Then lie down on the anvil."

  Brando approached. The anvil emanated heat like an open furnace. He hesitated for only a second. Then he lay down.

  Maleth leaned over him. His enormous hands settled on his chest, directly above where he felt his heart pulsing.

  "Now," the blacksmith whispered, "think about the memory. Relive it. Let it take shape. I'll do the rest."

  Brando closed his eyes.

  The orphanage hallway.

  Michele laughing.

  The push.

  The stairs.

  The silence.

  He felt something move in his chest. Not pain. Not yet. Just... pressure. As if something was pushing from inside to outside.

  "There it is," Maleth said with reverence. "The core of your damnation."

  The core looked like an amorphous piece of purplish crystal, as large as a hand. He placed it on another anvil of black metal, smaller than the one Brando lay on. Immediately after, he grabbed an obsidian hammer. It was as long as an adult man and as massive as a column. He lifted it above his head with an ease that contradicted its weight.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "Twenty blows," he said. "One for each damned soul. Prepare yourself."

  "One," Maleth counted. The hammer descended.

  CLANG.

  The sound exploded in the cavern. It vibrated in his bones. Brando felt something crack in his chest—not physically but deeper. As if someone had opened a sealed door.

  The orphanage hallway appeared before his eyes. It wasn't a normal memory. It was sharper. Michele was laughing. Brando saw every detail: Michele's worn shoes, the sauce stain on his shirt, the way his eyes narrowed when he laughed. Then came the push. Brando's hands extended, contact was made, and Michele staggered backward.

  Then nothing. The memory vanished.

  Brando breathed heavily. It hadn't been that bad. Worse than a normal memory but bearable. Like watching a high-definition video instead of a blurry one.

  The hammer lifted again.

  "Two."

  CLANG.

  Stronger.

  The hallway returned, but the colors were much more vivid. The push came and Michele fell. The first step, the second, then nothing.

  "Three."

  CLANG.

  Michele was falling, but now Brando felt HUNGER.

  It didn't seem like a memory but real hunger. His stomach twisted as if he hadn't eaten in days. The previous week overlapped with the hallway: Michele stealing bread from his bowl. The contemptuous smile. "You don't need it anyway."

  The push. Michele falling. First step hunger, second hunger, third hunger.

  The memory continued beyond. The base of the stairs. Michele motionless. Silence.

  Brando understood the pattern. Each blow added weight. Not just the scene but everything that had caused it. Every trauma that had led to that moment.

  Maleth continued striking.

  "Four."

  CLANG.

  Cold merged with hunger. Bare feet on the orphanage's frozen floor. December. Three years earlier. Insufficient blankets. Sleeping curled up to avoid losing heat.

  Michele falling. First step hunger, second cold, third hunger and cold together.

  "Five."

  CLANG.

  Punches to the stomach became impulses in the arms that pushed. The daily bullying that came after. Three older boys holding him down while the fourth struck. "You're a damn murderer. No one wants you."

  Michele falling. First hunger, second cold, third punches, fifth hunger cold punches.

  "Six."

  CLANG.

  Humiliation burned. Eight-year-old Brando wetting himself after being locked in the closet for hours. The laughter of those bastards echoed in his ears. They called him "Bed-wetter" for it.

  Michele falling. The sequence expanded. Each step brought a new layer.

  Brando groaned. His hands clenched. Blood dripped from his nose.

  "Seven."

  CLANG.

  The loneliness of the courtyard. Six-year-old Brando sitting alone while the others played. The cold of the metal bench. Adelaide finding him there, hours later. "Why aren't you with the others?" Brando didn't know how to answer.

  "Eight."

  CLANG.

  The broken arm. Ten years old. Fallen down the stairs because someone had put their foot out. "It was an accident," they said. How ironic—Brando could have died just like Michele.

  "Nine."

  CLANG.

  The burned photo. The only image he had of his parents. Marco Ruocco had stolen it and set it on fire, laughing. "They're dead anyway. Who cares?"

  Brando's Cold Veins began to glow and pulse beneath his skin. Pulsing violet. Blood from his nose intensified. Maleth's voice became a distant echo, like listening to someone speak underwater.

  Michele kept falling. It never ended. Each time it restarted. First step hunger, second cold, third punches, fifth shame, seventh loneliness, ninth pain.

  "Ten."

  CLANG.

  All previous traumas compressed simultaneously.

  Michele fell in slow motion. First step and Brando felt: hunger + cold + punches + shame + loneliness + betrayal + pain + fear.

  All together.

  All in one instant.

  Every unpleasant and painful sensation—Brando was experiencing it in that moment. And he couldn't take it anymore. His body contorted on the anvil. He didn't scream, he simply moaned wordlessly. The sounds he emitted were monstrous, vaguely reminiscent of Bianca's after she'd transformed.

  His eyes rolled back.

  "He's literally going insane!" Alessio hissed. His voice seemed to come from miles away. He then took a step forward against the furnace's heat. "Stop! You're killing him!"

  Maleth didn't stop. "If he stops NOW, he really dies! The process must complete!"

  Alessio looked at Brando writhing. The blood flowing from his nose and ears. The Cold Veins pulsing so intensely they seemed to be on fire.

  Then he made a decision. He approached the anvil and placed his hand on Brando's shoulder. He called on an ability he hadn't used in ages, from his Tank days, that allowed him to partially absorb others' pain.

  "Burden Bearer."

  The wave of agony hit him like an avalanche.

  He saw fragments through Brando's eyes. A child sleeping on the cold floor. Hands shoving food into his mouth so quickly he choked. Punches. Always punches. Laughter. Loneliness that weighed like concrete.

  "Fuck," Alessio groaned.

  His knees wavered. But he didn't give in.

  CLANG.

  "Eleven."

  The weight Brando was carrying lightened slightly. Not much really, but enough not to pass out. Now he felt someone with him in the pain. He wasn't alone finally.

  "Hang on," Alessio whispered. His voice trembled but was firm. "I'm here. You're not alone."

  Michele kept falling infinitely and repeatedly. But now there was a hand on Brando's shoulder, sucking away some of the pain Brando was experiencing.

  CLANG.

  "Twelve."

  Alessio saw: Is this how he's lived for years?

  CLANG.

  "Thirteen."

  CLANG.

  "Fourteen."

  CLANG.

  "Fifteen."

  Maleth's voice dissolved into a distant echo. The numbers stopped making sense. Brando no longer knew which blow it was. Only that the hammer kept descending.

  Michele falling. First step.

  Hunger. Empty stomach burning.

  Second step.

  Cold. Stolen shoes. Snow outside the orphanage.

  Third step.

  Physical pain. Punches everywhere. Mouth full of blood.

  Fifth step.

  Warm piss on his legs. Laughter. "Bed-wetter! Bed-wetter!"

  Tenth step.

  Everything together. Hunger, cold, punches, shame, and loneliness.

  Michele falling again. Starting over. First step. Hunger. Second step. Cold.

  Infinite loop.

  Brando fragmented.

  I can't.

  The thought split in half. Words no longer formed completely.

  too much

  He forgot his own name. Who was he? Where? When?

  Answers didn't come.

  The body on the anvil contorted. Foam at the mouth. Fingers dug into the obsidian, leaving scratches.

  "BRANDO!" Alessio's voice was loud but distant, as if underwater. "Stay with me!"

  That voice. The only solid thing in a melting world.

  Brando's Cold Veins pulsed more intensely, reaching a violet so brilliant it was almost white.

  pain shared weight halved someone is here not alone.

  hunger cold punches shame this is what he lived for years every day this.

  CLANG.

  Distant echo. "Seventeen."

  Michele falling. First step hunger second cold third punches.

  CLANG.

  "Eighteen."

  Michele falling. First hunger second cold third punches fifth shame.

  CLANG.

  "Nineteen."

  Michele falling falling falling never stopping.

  Brando no longer knew where the memory ended and the present began. Everything was that fall. Everything was that push.

  Alessio couldn't cry, but if he could have, he would have. His hand gripped the shoulder. Didn't let go.

  Maleth lifted the hammer one last time.

  He hesitated. Only for a second.

  Then he let it fall.

  CLANG.