Chapter 81: Stripped of Identity
The metal walls of the transport vehicle felt like a cold, vibrating coffin. The hum of the engine was the only sound inside, punctuated by the heavy breathing of the six guards stationed within. Ren sat slumped against the hard bench, his mangled left arm pulsing with a rhythmic, sickening pain. Each jolt of the car sent a new wave of agony through his shredded muscles, but he barely felt it. His eyes were fixed on the back of the transport.
There lay Hana. Two guards held her firmly, their hands gloved in Vane-suppressing fabric. She was still unconscious, her face pale and peaceful, a sharp contrast to the monstrous transformation she had undergone only an hour ago. Across from Ren, two more guards sat with their pistols leveled at his chest, their eyes cold behind their tactical visors.
Ren looked out the small, barred window. The familiar ruins of Sector 7 were being left behind, replaced by the towering, grey monoliths of the Inner City—the place where the "Elite" lived, and where the "Forsaken" were judged.
It wasn't supposed to be like this, Ren thought, his heart sinking. I saved her from the curse, but I couldn't save her from the Law. And she's innocent... she doesn't deserve this.
"What's going to happen to her?" Ren asked, his voice raspy and dry. He looked at the guard closest to him, the one who seemed slightly less mechanical than the others.
"Shut up and sit still," the guard barked, tightening his grip on his rifle.
"Please," Ren persisted, ignoring the threat. "She didn't do anything. She was being used. What will they do to Hana?"
The guard sighed, a sound of weary annoyance. He looked at the unconscious girl and then back at Ren. "She'll be taken to the Biological Research Wing. They'll run tests—deep Vane scans. If they find that her soul is corrupted or that she's no longer 'human,' the order is simple: termination. Or worse, she becomes a permanent test subject."
Ren's blood ran cold. "And if she's normal?"
"If she passes the human-baseline tests," the guard said, leaning back, "then she's just a criminal. A cultist. She'll be processed and thrown into a cell, probably in the same block as you. But don't get your hopes up. Most people who go into the Research Wing don't come out in one piece."
"But she was being controlled!" Ren shouted, his frustration boiling over. "There was a necklace—an iron chain with a yellow stone. It was forcing her to do those things!"
The guards shifted, exchanging shocked glances. The one who had been speaking leaned forward, his interest piqued. "A necklace? A cursed catalyst?"
"Yes!" Ren nodded frantically. "It was on her neck. It was glowing. That was the source!"
The guard's expression changed from annoyance to a strange kind of pity. "If that's true, kid, you might have had a chance. If you had brought that necklace as evidence, the High-Ups might have classified her as a 'Victim of Influence' instead of a 'Collaborator.' Where is it? Do you have it?"
Ren's heart skipped a beat. He remembered the church... the fire... the way the iron links snapped in Adam's hand. "It... it stayed there. Adam broke it. Everything burned."
The guard shook his head, looking away. "Then it's over. Without the catalyst, there's no proof. You're just a boy making excuses for a monster. Especially today... Miss Hima gave the orders personally. And what she wants, she gets."
"Who is she?" Ren asked. "Everyone keeps mentioning her name."
The guard lowered his voice, as if afraid the walls themselves were listening. "Miss Hima? She's the shadow behind the throne. She's the boss of the Higher-ups, the one who cleans up the messes the King doesn't want to see. She talks directly to King Zero. If she's the one who ordered your arrest, then you're already a dead man walking."
The Iron Gates: Blackgate Penitentiary
The transport came to a jarring halt. The heavy hydraulic doors hissed open, revealing the massive, obsidian gates of the most notorious prison in the Sector. High above, searchlights cut through the morning mist, and automated turrets tracked their every move.
Three guards grabbed Ren, dragging him out of the vehicle. His legs felt like lead, and his injured arm hung uselessly at his side. He watched in silence as the transport, with Hana still inside, sped away toward a different wing of the complex.
"Hana!" he called out, but his voice was swallowed by the wind.
The guards led him through a series of reinforced doors until they reached a small, sterile room. The air smelled of ozone and industrial bleach. They shoved him inside, and the heavy door slammed shut with a finality that made his skin crawl.
"Against the wall. Hands up," a guard commanded.
Ren obeyed, leaning his forehead against the cold tile. He felt hands moving over his body, searching his pockets. One by one, his few belongings were placed on a metal tray.
First, the small, serrated knife he used for survival. Then, the weight of his Golden Revolver.
The guards stopped for a moment, staring at the weapon. Even in the dim light, the gold finish seemed to hum with a faint, regal energy. "An Elite weapon," one guard muttered. "How did a brat from the slums get his hands on something like this?"
They set it aside, along with his tattered coat. As they searched the coat, one of them pulled out a small, laminated card. It was Ren's Academy ID—the only proof that he had ever been more than a shadow.
The guard read the details aloud, his voice flat and mocking.
Name: Ren Vority Age: 17 Family: Martha (Mother), Mero Zo (Father) Sister: Hana Vority Classification: Elite (Forsaken Status) Pathway: Magic Crow Rank: 9
"Magic Crow, huh?" The guard chuckled, tucking the card into his own pocket. "A rare pathway for someone with such bad luck. Rank 9... you're practically a hatchling."
The guard stepped back and looked at Ren's blood-stained shirt. The fabric was stiff with dried gore from the fight at the church.
"Remove the shirt," the guard ordered, his hand resting on his baton. "We need to log every scar and every injury before you're processed. Move it, 1029. That's your name now."
Ren hesitated, the pain in his arm flaring up at the thought of moving. But he knew he had no choice. He reached for the hem of his shirt with his right hand, slowly pulling it over his head.
As the fabric came off, the guards fell silent. They weren't looking at his mangled arm anymore. They were looking at his back—at the faint, glowing lines of a mark that shouldn't have been there. A mark that looked suspiciously like a frozen crown.