The ink was still wet on the front page.

A boy's face stared back—young, hollow-eyed, bruised but eerily calm. Even the grainy black-and-white couldn't blur the void in his gaze. Beneath it, the headline screamed:

"PRODIGY OR PSYCHOPATH? SON OF PHILANTHROPIST ADOLF VOSS BUTCHERS FAMILY, SENTENCED TO 10 YEARS."

In the prison intake ward, the newspaper passed from hand to hand like scripture. Some inmates laughed. Others squinted with suspicion. A few simply looked away.

"He's just a kid," one muttered, thumbing a rosary made of chipped plastic. "What kind of kid does that?"

But kids don't paint dining rooms with jugular spray.Kids don't stare down a courtroom like they've already lived a hundred lifetimes.And kids sure as hell don't walk into a maximum-security facility like they belong there.

When Vale stepped into Cell B-17, he didn't flinch.Didn't blink.Didn't ask what came next.

He just stood there, bare feet cold against the concrete, shoulders relaxed, eyes scanning the shadows.

The cell was small. Four walls and a slot for food. No light except the dim buzz of a dying bulb overhead. The air smelled of rust, mold, and something older—like sweat soaked into stone.

But the shadows in that room weren't empty.They were waiting for him.

And they didn't wait long.

That night, the wolves came.

There were no words. No footsteps. Just the smell—sweat, bleach, and the sour reek of old rage—and then the hands.

They gripped him like meat. Calloused palms and tattooed forearms pressing him to the concrete, each finger a vice. The cold slap of skin on skin echoed in the dark. Someone giggled. Someone grunted. The cell reeked of anticipation.

A knee jammed into Vale's spine, pinning him like an animal. He couldn't move. Could barely breathe. His face pressed sideways against the floor, his cheek scraping against grime and dried blood.

Then a voice—slimy, deliberate—slithered near his ear.

"Little Devil," the man whispered. "We're just here to write your name."

The man straddling his chest had teeth like graveyard stones. Yellow. Cracked. His breath smelled like vinegar and rot. In his hand, a plastic spoon—the tip melted, sharpened by fire and hate.

Then came the first cut.

It wasn't clean. The spoon had no edge. It wasn't meant to slice—it was meant to dig. Tear. Scrape. The man pressed hard, and skin gave way with a sound like wet paper ripping.

Vale didn't scream.

He counted the strokes.

One… two… three…

The pain wasn't even the worst part. It was slow. Mocking. The spoon dragged across his ribs like a nail across old wood, drawing thin lines of blood that beaded and pooled, soaking into the waistband of his thin prison pants.

Four… five…

Someone laughed again. High-pitched. Nervous.

"Make it deeper, Caskey. The Warden wants to see it from the tower," another muttered, voice thick with sick amusement.

Vale's eyes didn't blink. His breathing was shallow, but his mind—

His mind was counting.

Seven… eight…

Then, something worse than pain.

Fingers. Greasy. Wandering.

A hand slid beneath his waistband.

"You tight, Devil?" the one behind him whispered, voice low and trembling with anticipation. "You ever felt a real man before?"

That was when the counting stopped.

A shift in the air.

Something old cracked in Vale's chest. Not bone. Not heart.

A silence. Still as death.

Vale jerked—just once—and the man holding his legs yelped as Vale's heel slammed into his nose, cartilage crunching with a wet snap. Blood sprayed.

The grip loosened.

Vale twisted—savage, desperate—and smashed his head backward into the kneecapper's jaw. Teeth flew. The man fell.

He was free.

But not safe.

The one with the spoon—Caskey—tried to stab again, screaming now, frothing, furious. But Vale was already moving.

He bit Caskey's wrist. Hard. Until blood and skin peeled away between his teeth. The spoon clattered. The man shrieked.

Vale tackled him. Mounted him.

And then—

He didn't stop.

He pounded Caskey's face with the base of his palm. Again. And again. And again. Blood sprayed like oil, thick and red and gurgling from the man's mouth. Teeth shattered. Bone gave way.

He kept going.

He didn't stop when Caskey stopped screaming.

He didn't stop when the man beneath him stopped twitching.

He didn't stop even when the cell was soaked in red.

Only when his fists slowed—when the sound of flesh hitting flesh faded into wet slaps and nothingness—did he rise.

Naked from the waist down. Blood and grime streaking his torso.

He stood over Caskey's corpse like a forgotten god—forgotten, yes, but awake.

The other two crawled to the walls, shaking, praying, pissing themselves.

Vale turned to them. Spoke softly.

"If you touch me again… I won't stop with your face."

He walked past them barefoot, dragging the spoon behind him. It scratched a line in the floor as he went. He didn't look back.

The guards came. They took him to solitary.

But they didn't touch him.

No one touched him again for a long time..

He stared at the wall, his face pale, his lips parted as though he might cry.

But he didn't.

Instead, the voice came.

Soft. Patient. Familiar.

"They want you broken," it whispered inside his head. "Let them build you instead."

The voice was not new.It had whispered to him during the trial.It had hummed through the silence of the courtroom.It had laughed when the gavel fell.

Dante.

That was its name. Or maybe just the name Vale had given it.

That night, with his back stuck to the floor by dried blood, Vale pressed his forehead to the concrete. Pain throbbed from his chest like a second heartbeat, but it grounded him.

It reminded him he was still alive.

His breath shook. His nails dug into his palms.And he remembered.

His mother's scream—sharp, ragged, unfinished.His father's body crumpling like paper.The warmth of blood that wasn't his.And the silence after. The kind of silence that echoes forever.

They'd buried the truth.

The courts. The lawyers. The media.Every lie was polished, rehearsed, expensive.And they worked.

The world forgot the truth.

But he didn't.

Vale curled tighter, jaw clenched, breath shallow.

"I swear…" he whispered, voice hoarse.

The rats paused, ears twitching. Even the flickering light stilled.

"Every hand that touched my family…"

"Every lie that buried me…"

"Every guard who laughed while I bled…"

The darkness pressed closer.

"I'll find you."

"I'll break you."

"And when I'm done…"

He opened his eyes. They didn't blink.They didn't waver.They just stared forward, calm and endless.

"Even the devil will beg for mercy."

From somewhere deeper than the cell, deeper than the prison itself, came the faintest echo of laughter.

"You're a child of rage, Vale. But rage won't save you. It will only bleed you dry."

Vale didn't respond.He didn't need to.

But the weight of it settled over him, heavy and suffocating. The mocking voice wasn't just Dante anymore. It was the prison, the world, the lies, and the power that crushed him. They wanted him broken, yes. But in this place, broken things are rebuilt. Turned into tools.

And Vale was going to be the sharpest tool of them all.

He let out a breath, low and even. There was a faint tremor in his chest, but he stilled it. His body was a battlefield, each injury a step closer to his metamorphosis.

They had hurt him. But they would regret it.

And in this darkness,

That was the night the Ashborn was born.

Not with a cry.

But with a vow.

In the morning, Vale awoke caked in dried blood and saline. The sting of salt burned through the open gashes across his chest, a cruel reminder that pain had a way of turning the body into a canvas. His skin was raw, torn apart by the guards' "art," as they liked to call it.

Brine had been poured over the wound, seeping into his torn flesh, aggravating it until the wounds no longer bled but wept—leaving them open to infection, a subtle form of torture. A guard with a sick grin knelt beside him and muttered, "You'll heal crooked."

Another guard snapped a Polaroid and pinned it to the cafeteria board under a crooked sign: BEHAVIORAL CASES. Vale didn't care about the photo. He knew that in this place, your body was a property to be broken and rebuilt. But the soul? The soul was still his.

That night, the guards came for him again. The cell door slid open, and two of them entered, laughing in low, guttural tones. One of them dragged Vale to the center of the room, shoving him face-first into a bucket of dirty mop water. The cold liquid sloshed around his head, choking him, filling his lungs.

The other guard hovered over him, asking questions with malicious glee.

"What did it feel like killing your mother?"

Vale's head felt like it was being crushed by the weight of water and the weight of the question. The words hit harder than any punch they could throw. But he didn't flinch.

The guard pushed harder, whispering venomously, "How many pieces did you cut your father into?"

Vale's mind churned, flashing back to the blood-soaked nightmare of that night—the sharp, metallic scent of death, the crackle of bone under his hands. His hands trembled beneath the surface of the water, but he steeled himself.

"How long do you think before we do the same to you?" the other guard spat, his words like gravel.

Vale's throat was raw, but he didn't give in. He coughed and choked, expelling the water from his lungs before finally answering, "You're wasting water."

The silence that followed was thick with rage. The guards stepped back, fists clenched, but the look in Vale's eyes—calm, detached—infuriated them. The mocking indifference only earned him more.

They locked him in solitary confinement for a week.

The hole was a graveyard of the mind. No sounds. No light. No time. Just four walls closing in on him, threatening to swallow him whole.

In the stillness of that empty cell, Dante's voice came like an echo through the darkness.

"The mind is a fortress. But a fortress must have a map."

The words felt like a lifeline in the suffocating silence. Vale focused on the voice, grasping at it like a drowning man reaching for a rope. His body was bruised, broken, but his mind—his mind was a weapon.

Dante's teachings were grounded in reality, rooted in the same survival tactics used by POWs under extreme duress. He'd read about them, seen them in films—how soldiers would count backward from one hundred, imagining cold wind against their skin to slow their pulse. He'd seen it in anime, too, the calm demeanor of characters like Gintoki Sakata from Gintama or Levi Ackerman from Attack on Titan—men who remained steadfast even in the face of unimaginable pain.

"Count, Vale," Dante whispered, his voice sharp and unwavering. "Count backward from one hundred. Slow your heart. Make it stop."

Vale inhaled sharply, exhaling slowly, letting his thoughts settle like dust in the air. The pain throbbed in his chest, in his arms, but he pushed it aside.

"Ninety-nine… ninety-eight… ninety-seven…"

With every number, his pulse slowed. His body relaxed. The tension began to drain away, like the water from the mop bucket.

His mind, like a blank canvas, began to fill with the memory of his cell—the sharp scent of mildew, the constant hum of fluorescent lights above, the echo of his own breath as he adjusted to the darkness. His senses sharpened. He could feel the cool concrete beneath him, the slight shift in the air as the door would creak open every now and then. He mapped it all—every corner, every sound, every painful landmark.

"One hundred and one steps," Dante whispered.

Vale grinned, despite himself. His body was weak, but his mind was becoming something else. His eyes snapped open.

The darkness, the silence, no longer felt like an enemy. It was his ally now. And in the quiet, Vale began to see the way forward. He knew the guards' patterns, their weak points. He could feel the subtle shifts in their movements. He could anticipate their actions. The map of the prison was taking shape inside his mind, and with each passing day, the walls of his cell seemed less like a prison and more like a stepping stone.

In this place, survival was about more than strength. It was about control—over your body, your mind, and those around you. And Vale had learned, as Dante had taught him, that true control came from knowing the game better than anyone else.

Week three in prison. The days bled together, each one feeling like the last. The walls of the cell were the only constants, the only things that knew him by heart. The silence of the place suffocated him, but it was in the silence that he could hear everything—every whisper, every shift in movement.

Jorge "Tombstone" Malone made his move that week. He was a hulking figure, tattoos crawling up his neck, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and too many drugs. His reputation preceded him. He'd been known to break men with just a look, using fists to carve respect into the bones of the weak.

But he wasn't looking for respect. He was looking for power, for control. And Vale, with his blank stare and dead calm, was an anomaly in the chaos of the prison. An oddity to be tested.

"Whatchu starin' at, little psycho?" Jorge growled, shoving Vale against the wall as he passed. The echo of the blow bounced off the concrete, but Vale didn't budge. He didn't flinch. His expression remained unchanged.

Jorge didn't understand that. He liked fear. It made him feel strong. But Vale was an enigma.

"Say somethin', man. I told you—don't stare at me," Jorge repeated, this time jabbing his finger into Vale's chest.

Vale's eyes flickered up to meet his, but his lips were sealed. He didn't respond. Instead, he waited.

That night, when the lights were dimmed, when the guards' steps grew distant, Vale moved quietly, like a shadow, to Jorge's bunk. His fingers brushed the cool metal frame, and he leaned in close, just enough for Jorge to hear his whisper.

"Your mother doesn't forgive you."

Jorge's body stiffened, and his breath caught in his throat. It was like a cold hand wrapped around his chest, squeezing.

"You see her every night. Her face, staring at you from the stain on the wall, left of your bunk. Her eyes follow you. You see it, don't you?"

Vale's words hit with surgical precision. They weren't just insults; they were traps, clever little pieces of psychological manipulation. He wasn't speaking from a place of anger. He was speaking from a place of knowledge—knowledge gained from years of learning the art of human behavior. Cold Reading. The technique of telling someone just enough to make them believe you know everything about them.

Jorge's chest heaved, the air in the room thickening. He could feel the sweat trickling down his spine. His eyes darted to the corner of the room, where the flickering light cast shifting shadows against the wall. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, and for the first time in a long while, the iron walls around him felt like a cage.

Vale didn't wait for a reaction. He slipped back into the darkness of his cell, leaving the words hanging in the air like poison.

By morning, Jorge looked like a man who hadn't slept in days. His eyes were bloodshot, his movements sluggish, and the usually indomitable air of menace that surrounded him was gone. Gone, replaced by paranoia.

Vale had observed everything—the little tremor in his hand when he gripped his cup, the way his eyes darted to the corner of the room, scanning for the "stain" that Vale had mentioned. It was an illusion, of course. The stain on the wall was nothing more than years of grime, built up from months of inadequate cleaning. But in Jorge's mind, it was something far worse. It was a specter. A haunting reminder of guilt.

That evening, Vale slipped into the dormitory again. Jorge was asleep, but his restless movements showed he wasn't truly getting any rest. Vale left a note, carefully tucked under his pillow, written in trembling cursive: "I forgive you. But I'm not alone."

The handwriting was shaky, intended to make the note seem more genuine, more desperate. It was a perfect touch, another psychological bait. Jorge wouldn't know whether to feel comforted or unsettled. Either way, the seed was planted. It was enough to gnaw at his mind until it consumed him.

A few days passed. The tension in the air grew thicker. Vale observed Jorge with even more intensity, watching his behavior slip further. Jorge's usually loud, dominating presence was replaced by an anxious silence. He began avoiding eye contact, checking the corners of the room constantly, even when walking to the mess hall. His food went uneaten, his movements stiff and erratic. It was as if the walls were closing in on him, and the face he saw in the stains wasn't just his mother's—it was something far worse.

Vale saw an opportunity.

One evening, as Jorge sat in the corner of the yard, staring at the ground, Vale slipped a red pen into his pocket. The pen was the same color as lipstick. He sat on the other side of the yard, out of sight, and wrote a message in Jorge's Bible, knowing the book was something Jorge never parted with. He scrawled the words in the margins, the ink thick and bold:

"Hell isn't fire. It's watching you lie."

The words were meant to dig deep. To break him down. Vale understood that manipulation wasn't just about physical pain. It was about making the mind turn on itself, creating a cage of self-doubt and terror.

That night, as Jorge read his Bible in the dim light, he flipped open to the page where Vale had written. His face went pale, his lips trembling as his fingers traced the words. His breath came in shallow gasps. The guilt that had been festering in his chest now had a shape, a form.

On the seventh day, Jorge was found hanging from his bunk, a shoelace tied tightly around his neck. It was soaked in bleach—another deliberate touch, another psychological torment Vale had introduced into his already fragile mind.

The guards found him, but Vale knew what had happened. He knew that Jorge had cracked under the weight of his own demons, unable to escape the mental hell Vale had forced upon him. Vale didn't feel triumph. He didn't feel sorrow. He only felt the calm of someone who had learned that control could be taken in the quietest of ways.

In the cold, sterile silence of the prison, Vale had learned something vital: The body could be broken, but the mind? The mind could be molded into something far worse.