Chains that would not break, chains bound by words.
Making a promise to a vast minor royal family was a death wish. Whether you liked it or not, you would attend the event. You would fight to the death. And because of your previous act, you would remain locked in this room until the event began.
Know your place.
He lowered his head.
The other fighters stayed in their own rooms too, merely waiting for the event, for their deaths. He had nothing else to do.
So, he trained.
Until his body ached. Until the hours blurred. Until exhaustion felt normal.
Then came the knocking.
He opened the door.
Two people stood outside.
He froze when he recognized one of them.
"Get in."
They entered anyway. One of them sat down like he owned the room.
"Boss," the younger man said, leaning forward, "our sales have increased tremendously. Your promotion worked, very efficiently. We got a lot of sponsors and visitors."
He nodded once. "Fine."
But the younger man's expression shifted. The excitement died as fast as it came.
"Why?" the younger man asked. "Why would you do that? You know where this ends. You know where we would end up."
He pointed toward the window, toward the chains outside, stretched across the street like a warning. The city was wrapped in them. The air itself felt restricted.
The second man, an old man with a calm, heavy gaze, finally spoke.
"Why aren't you panicking?" he asked. "Most people would've broken by now."
He didn't answer.
His hands started shaking.
He looked down at them as if they belonged to someone else.
Then he walked to the mirror.
His reflection was crying.
Tears ran down his face, but the feeling didn't match. He didn't remember choosing to cry. He didn't remember deciding to feel anything. It was happening to him, not from him.
He stared at himself, mouth parting.
"I… I…"
The younger man watched him with blurry, unsettled eyes.
"Boss," he said quietly, "don't tell me…"
His voice dropped.
"…it can't be that your identity got stolen."
No. No. This can't be.
It has to be the effect of the chains. I've been careful. I've been careful not to let my name be known.
He started shouting, but the old man only sighed.
"A partial corruption," the old man said. "Fortunately, it seems only one of the princes or princesses has learned your name."
The room went colder.
"If it were the emperor who knew it," the old man continued, "you'd already be a soulless puppet."
"What?" His voice cracked. "But I can still think. I'm still me."
"Unfortunately," the old man cut in, "no one is that special."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"There's a saying going around now," the old man continued. "Over seventy-five percent of the population has been corrupted by the emperor. You are not an exception."
Silence pressed down.
Then the old man's tone shifted slightly.
"There's still good news."
He looked directly at him.
"If you can still think…, do you still have faith?"
"What?" the younger man blurted. "What can he even do?"
The old man didn't answer immediately.
"It's probably either the First Princess's faction," he said at last, "or the Third Prince's."
He swallowed hard. "Aren't they all the same?"
"Don't they just want to humiliate me?" he demanded. "Watch me get killed?"
"From the moment I was born, they were killing, enslaving, and exploiting my people. Only recently did things ease slightly, and even that was only because the emperor fell ill or something like it."
The old man shook his head.
"No. No."
He leaned forward.
"Tell me something. Did you have any reason to enter that contest?"
A pause.
"Or did it suddenly feel like a good idea, and you went for it without consulting anyone?"
He swallowed. "Yes. I heard about the contest, and I thought it would be a good idea."
The old man's eyes narrowed.
"And the fact that you're still training, still acting like there's no need to escape these chains, means their objective isn't to punish you."
He let the words land.
"It's to make sure you enter the competition."
"For whatever scheme they're building."
The younger man hesitated, then spoke carefully.
"Could it be… because of the rumor?"
His head snapped up. "Not this again. Not this again…"
The old man's gaze hardened. "What rumor?"
The younger man continued anyway, voice low.
"The rumor about the battle spirit powerhouse."
He swallowed.
"They say there was once a powerful battle spirit locked up somewhere for years. The only magic he could use was manipulating his own body, eating hard objects and turning them into power."
"And when he finally got out… something happened."
His eyes flicked to the mirror, then back.
"His body and soul exploded. It infected the nearby area. That's what caused the mutation. That's what caused the birth of the Adiphyte."
He exhaled.
"And they say every Adiphyte has the potential to become a battle spirit."
The old man nodded once.
"Then that explains everything."
His voice stayed calm, but the meaning behind it was sharp.
"The prince or princess doesn't want a weak puppet."
"They want a strong one."
He stepped closer.
"So, they're pushing you into the contest."
"Pushing you toward your limit."
"And if you break through… if your potential truly matches the rumor…"
He paused.
"A battle spirit will form."