Chapter 12: The Guard Captain

Chapter 12: The Captain of the Guards

The scholar Nikola took Lyman's silence the wrong way and said regretfully, "Brother, it's only natural you don't get this, after all those years of the Dawn Church messing with your head. Once I lay out the cosmic truth I've seen, it'll all click for you..."

"Nikola!" the guard shrieked. "You little pest, you spreading that poison heresy again?! Shut it, or I'll cut your tongue out!"

With that, he cracked his whip at the scholar.

The prisoners, fearing they'd be caught in the crossfire, scattered like roaches.

The scholar grimaced and clutched his shoulder, muttering, "Just you wait—history'll prove me right. When that day comes, all you who insult the truth will be nailed to the pillar of shame, and my name'll go down in history..."

"Shut it!" the guard bellowed. "All of you! Break's over—get back to work!"

The prisoners grumbled, but with the whip as motivation, they got moving fast.

Besides the scholar, Lyman's partner was a boy he'd never seen before. He looked even younger than Sylen—almost like a grade-schooler, with soft brown hair and a freckled face that still had that kid look to it.

The scholar pulled the cart while Lyman and the freckled boy pushed. They gave it everything they had, just barely making it back to the prison. When Lyman saw the grand gates, he felt like his arms were about to fall off.

The group ground to a halt. The lead guard gestured to the watchtower, signaling for the gates to be opened. From a distance, Lyman caught sight of a young guard standing atop the tower. His uniform was fancier than the others—crimson cape, gleaming sash across his chest, the works.

He leaned against the railing, a crossbow slung over his shoulder, looking totally chill. But as the gates slowly creaked open, he suddenly straightened up, raised the crossbow, and took aim at the group.

A bolt ripped through the air!

It was aimed right at Lyman!

The Silver-haired Youth's pupils shrank to pinpricks. "Masterful Acting" kicked in instantly, his Supernatural Ability flooding his body, letting his bones and muscles move in ways that shouldn't be possible.

Lyman leaned back like a contortionist acrobat, his upper body nearly parallel to the ground, yet maintaining an astonishing balance.

The bolt grazed past the tip of his nose, whipping up a breeze, and embedded itself in the cart behind him.

—What the hell?! Have I been exposed?

The thought shot through Lyman's mind.

The prison found out who I am and sent someone to silence me? How could this happen? Where did I slip up?

"Damn it!" the lead guard cursed loudly, cracking his whip and shouting at the prisoners. "Move it! Faster! Goddamn you idiots, are you trying to get me killed?!"

Meanwhile, the young guard on the watchtower nocked a second bolt.

Swoosh—

The bolt shot out, aimed at Lyman... no, at the freckled kid next to him!

"Watch out!"

Lyman grabbed the boy's shoulder and shoved him down.

In the blink of an eye, the bolt whistled past the boy's head, slicing off a few strands of brown hair.

The boy looked up in a daze, seemingly unaware of what had just happened. It wasn't until he saw the fallen strands of hair and the bolt still quivering in the cart behind him that he realized he'd just come within an inch of death.

The scholar pulling the cart turned back and hissed, "Hurry! Hurry! Or someone's going to die!"

Not aimed at me...?

Lyman had no idea what was going on.

Seeing the other prisoners pushing for dear life, he followed suit.

The group quickly passed through the gates and into the prison yard. Only after the gates closed did everyone stop—including the guards—all panting like they'd just dodged a bullet.

Lyman leaned against the cart, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Thank you!" the brown-haired freckled boy stuck out his hand. His face was bright red, and his legs were still trembling. "If it weren't for you, I might be dead. My name is Eric Mavo."

"Layman Vichard." Lyman shook his hand. "What was that all about?"

The boy, still shaken, shot a nervous glance at the tower. "That's Captain Prew. He likes to do this kind of thing. It's his... hobby."

"Hobby—shooting arrows at prisoners?" Lyman was floored.

What kind of world is this? Are there this many sociopaths running around?

The scholar sidled over and said in a low, sneaky voice, "That's nothing. He's done worse."

Lyman was about to ask for details when he caught sight of two familiar figures in white robes emerging from a nearby tower.

Aether Orolan's brow was scrunched up so tight you could crush a moth in it. One hand resting on his sword hilt, he strode purposefully straight toward Lyman.

Lyman immediately pretended to be busy, furiously wiping dust off the cart as if competing for the title of Model Prisoner of the Year.

Aether walked toward him. Aether walked past him. Aether headed for the gate tower without so much as a glance in his direction.

Nashel skipped along behind him, a blade of grass dangling from his mouth. As he crossed the yard, he gave Lyman an exaggerated wink.

"Captain Prew, what do you think you're doing?" Aether stopped at the base of the tower and glared up. "I saw everything just now!"

A flash of crimson cape fluttered on the watchtower. The flamboyantly dressed young guard sauntered down, crossbow still slung over his shoulder, bouncing with each step.

"What are you getting so worked up about, Your Honor the Inquisitor?" Captain Prew drawled. "I was just teaching those scum some manners. They're always so slow."

Aether stared coldly at the flashy young guard. "You almost hit someone! Your job is to watch over the prisoners, not to play games with their lives!"

"Well, I didn't hit anyone." Captain Prew shrugged. "Why are you so uptight? If you've got a problem with me, go report me to the Holy City. Just say, 'Enoch Pry missed his shot.'"

"You—!" Aether's eyebrows shot up, his right hand gripping his sword hilt.

"Calm down, Aether!" "Don't be rash, Enoch!"

Two shouts rang out at the same time.

Inquisitor Nashel grabbed Aether's arm and shook his head. On the other side, a short, tubby figure came waddling out of the main prison tower.

The figure looked like a ball with two thin little legs, his guard uniform stretched to its limits over his gut. He pumped his stubby legs furiously, huffing and puffing as he ran up to the two inquisitors.

"Who's that?" Lyman whispered to the scholar.

"That's our beloved Warden," the scholar said, his tone utterly devoid of any "beloved."

The ball-like Warden pushed Captain Prew back and slapped on a beaming smile. "You two have got it wrong! Captain Prew was just playing around with those prisoners. He means no harm, right?"

Nashel was also desperately holding Aether back: "Since no one was hurt, let's just drop it. It's not that big a deal."

Aether's face was as dark as the sky right before a storm. Captain Prew wore a faint smile, but there was no trace of amusement in his eyes.

Even from this distance, Lyman could smell the tension in the air, about to blow at any second.

"I'm starving!" Nashel announced loudly. "Let's go, Aether, it's snack time!"

"What snack time, I never—"

"Never turns it down!" Nashel's voice drowned out Aether's.

Aether realized his companion was trying to smooth things over. He couldn't refuse Nashel to his face.

"Fine," he said through clenched teeth.

The Warden, meanwhile, jumped up and patted Captain Prew on the back: "Come on, Enoch, there are some documents that need your approval."

Aether and Captain Prew shot each other a hostile glare before being pulled apart by their buddies.

When their figures disappeared, the tension in the square instantly melted away. Every prisoner and guard let out a collective sigh of relief.

"What are you looking at! Get back to work!" A guard snapped his whip.

The prisoners immediately got back to their posts, pretending nothing had happened.

Lyman and the others hauled stones to a corner of the square, stacked them up, picked out the right shapes, and after a quick polish, used them to pave roads or build walls.

"Tsk, not good, not good..." the scholar Nikola muttered while carrying stones.

Lyman picked through suitable stones and asked quietly, "Are you saying Captain Prew's in trouble, or the Inquisitor?"

"I'm saying *we're* in trouble."

Lyman was puzzled: "What's that got to do with us?"

The scholar nervously glanced at the guards, and seeing that they too were idling in small groups, he got up the nerve to speak: "You're new here, you wouldn't know. The Warden is the nominal head of Cape Prison, but in reality, Captain Prew calls the shots."

"Why?"

"He's got people up top!" the scholar said matter-of-factly. "Captain Prew's uncle is the current Preacher General—one of the biggest shots in the Church, second only to the Holy See!"

Lyman recalled what the captain who escorted him had said: "I heard that the guards at Cape Prison are here to pad their resumes, and after putting in a certain number of years, they get promoted."

"Captain Prew is the same," the scholar said. "The Warden is an old subordinate of the Preacher General, and he can be promoted after one more year. By then, Captain Prew will take over his position, and after three years, he'll be transferred back to the Holy City."

No wonder he acted so high and mighty, Lyman thought.

"If he and the Inquisitor argue, we're the ones who'll pay for it?"

Eric walked over carrying a bucket of mortar and lowered his voice: "Captain Prew's always been arrogant, and nobody dares to rein him in no matter what he does. But this time, the Inquisitor dared to challenge him face to face..."

The scholar nodded in agreement: "The Inquisitor outranks him in the Church. He wouldn't dare touch the Inquisitor directly, so all that anger's gotta go somewhere..."

"Get taken out on the prisoners," Lyman said thoughtfully. "So that's why you said we're screwed."

The scholar sighed: "In Cape Prison, if a prisoner dies on a regular guard's watch, that guard gets disciplined no matter what. But Captain Prew is different. He just has to file a report saying the prisoner died of sickness. Who's gonna dare to investigate him? So for the time being, we'd better keep our heads down and walk on eggshells."

Lyman's heart sank a little. He had thought he only needed to deal with the Inquisitors and dispel their suspicions, but he hadn't expected danger to be lurking around every corner...

Until his loyal followers arrived at Cape Prison, or until he gained supernatural abilities as powerful as Nashel's, he'd better keep his head down.

The three continued silently picking through stones. Then, the guards ordered them to build a wall. The damaged low wall was part of the chicken coop; the prison kept some animals for self-sufficiency. However, these nutritious foods were reserved for the guards only—prisoners couldn't even dream of them.

As Lyman built the wall, he stared at the clucking chickens with a hostile, hungry gaze. Being this "Evil God" was too miserable. Could he ask his followers to offer some sacrifices? "Book of the Evil God," this is the feature you should unlock! Forget your crappy world map!

The sun slanted westward, and finally, it was dinner time.

Prisoners with labor duties at Cape Prison got two meals a day, morning and evening. The mess hall was a crude thatched shed in a corner of the square. Prisoners queued up in an orderly line for their food, each receiving a bowl of vegetable soup and a black bread as hard as stone.

Lyman wondered why they bothered going all the way to the quarry to haul stones. Why not just use this bread as material? It was far more useful than stones.

The three joined the food line, standing at the very back. Just then, Deputy Captain Edton approached with a constipated expression on his face.

"Perfect timing! Hey, you three!" He pointed at Lyman, the scholar, and Eric. "Come with me!"

The scholar was so startled he dropped his bowl: "Sir, I swear I haven't been spreading any heretical teachings today!"

Deputy Captain Edton let out a frustrated laugh: "Who asked about that! Captain Prew has important business with you!"

Author's note:

Alright, the first minor villain has finally made his appearance (Lyman: Finally, it's my turn to show off!).