The dim dungeon corridors stretched ahead, eerily quiet. The air was cold and each torch sputtered weakly, casting fleeting shadows. Stick shivered, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the chill or the crawling sense of dread that coiled tighter around his chest with every step. He crept behind Hadvar and PP, his heart pounding in his ears. The lack of guards felt wrong—an absence so conspicuous it gnawed at his thoughts. Relief would have been welcome. This wasn’t relief. Hadvar halted abruptly, his hand rising in a silent command to stop. Stick froze, his breath catching as his eyes adjusted to the new scene ahead. A heavy iron door loomed at the end of the corridor, flanked by two flickering torches. Their light sputtered and danced, as if hesitant to illuminate what lay beyond.

  “That’s the Farm,” Hadvar whispered, his voice clipped. “That’s where they keep the NPC of the week.”

  Stick’s stomach twisted. He hated the term—cold, dehumanising, and clinical. The Farm.

  The word conjured flashes of the Slaughterhouse. A place where people were broken by Carnifex members for their own twisted pleasure or worse. His jaw tightened, but he shoved the thoughts aside. Focus. I have to focus.

  A lone guard in silver armour stood outside the door, his back straight but his posture bored. Stick’s pulse quickened. Hadvar didn’t hesitate. He slipped forward, moving with the practised silence of a predator. Before Stick could fully process what was happening, Hadvar’s arm swung up in a quick, precise arc. The guard crumpled to the ground without a sound. Stick stared, stunned.

  “How… how did you do that?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling torches.

  Hadvar straightened, dragging the limp guard behind a crate.

  “Stunning Blow,” he said simply, his tone betraying a hint of pride.

  Stick blinked. “Is that… a skill?”

  “Yes,” Hadvar said curtly, tucking the guard out of sight. “Don’t you know what that is?”

  Stick shook his head. “No.”

  “It is,” Hadvar confirmed, his tone laced with condescension. “When you hit unsuspecting targets with a Stunning Blow, they fall unconscious.”

  He remembered the chaos of capturing Becket during their escape from the slave camp. That would have been useful to know.

  He turned to PP. “Can you do that?”

  PP shrugged helplessly.

  “No, it’s a Knight skill. Not that it matters. What matters is—” Hadvar gestured toward the iron door. “What’s our move here?”

  Stick scanned the scene. His mind whirred, working through the options.

  “The guard must have had the key, right?”

  Hadvar straightened, crossing his arms.

  “You can’t steal from another Player’s inventory,” he said, his voice flat. Then, after a pause, he added, “Unless…”

  Stick grinned, opening his interface. His fingers danced across the holographic display. The cool glow of the menus cast faint shadows across his face. There. His fingers hovered over the [Cell Door Keys]. With a click, they materialised in his hands. When he turned back, Hadvar’s gaze was no longer impatient. It was calculating. His eyes narrowed as they locked onto Stick.

  “You’re… [Unbound],” Hadvar muttered, the word landing heavily in the quiet corridor.

  Stick’s smile faltered. “Yeah… I guess.”

  For a moment, Hadvar’s expression was unreadable. Then, abruptly, his lips curved into a smirk.

  “Stick Arslan,” he said, almost to himself, rolling the name across his tongue like he was savouring it. His voice held a weight that sent a chill crawling up Stick’s spine.

  “What?” Stick asked, his voice defensive.

  Hadvar waved him off. “You’re full of surprises. Come on, let’s go.”

  Stick turned back to the door, unease prickling at the back of his neck. He slipped the key into the lock and turned it with a faint click. The door creaked open, and the trio stepped inside. The first thing that hit Stick was the stench—thick and metallic, the unmistakable scent of blood. It clung to the air, heavy and suffocating. The room itself was vast, the walls lined with iron racks meant for weapons, where cells should have held prisoners. They were all conspicuously empty, the absence of the weapon more ominous than their presence, but they all glistened with fresh blood. Chains dangled from the ceiling, their ends rusted and stained. Faucets were embedded in the walls, each one dripping into shallow pools of reddish water. The Farm wasn’t a prison—it was a workshop. At the centre of the room, a single figure hung by a chain, their body limp. Stick’s chest tightened. Shadis.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The NPC was beaten and bloodied, his clothes torn, his head slumped forward.

  “Damn it!” Stick rushed forward, his voice breaking.

  He reached for Shadis, his fingers trembling as he tried to find a pulse. The NPC was alive, but barely. His breaths were shallow, rattling in his chest.

  “How do we get him out of here?” Stick demanded, looking over his shoulder at Hadvar.

  Hadvar was already scanning the chains. “You need a Shackle Key.”

  Stick blinked. Shackle Key?

  It hit him like lightning. “We do! But it’s for PP’s restraints.”

  His gaze darted to PP, who was standing just behind him. PP hesitated, then raised the [Shackle Key (Prized Possession)] into view. The key caught the light, its polished surface gleaming faintly.

  “Any Shackle Key will do,” Hadvar explained. “It’s only listed that specifically because the game creates a failsafe whenever someone is restrained. However, it’s a one-time use.”

  Stick frowned. The words made sense, but they felt hollow. He turned back to PP.

  “Are you sure about this? This is yours.”

  PP hesitated, his chains clinking softly as his hands trembled. For a moment, Stick saw something new in his expression—a yearning so deep it almost hurt to look at, a fleeting glimpse of his desire for freedom. Stick’s chest tightened further.

  “No,” Stick said, stepping back.

  “What are you doing?” Hadvar hissed. “We don’t have time!”

  Stick ignored him. He spun back towards the unconscious guard and opened the man’s Inventory. His eyes darted over the icons—bandages, weapons, supplies—but no key. Frustration bubbled up as he yanked out a [Battle-Proven Selachii Sword] instead. At least he’ll be unarmed if he wakes up.

  An interface popped up:

  You don’t meet the appropriate LVL Requirements for-

  A dull thud made him whirl around. Shadis was on the ground, his body cradled gently in PP’s arms. PP’s shoulders slumped, his chains clinking softly as he hung his head.

  Stick’s throat tightened. “What… what did you do?”

  Hadvar’s voice was cold. “I told you we didn’t have time.”

  Stick’s anger flared. “Did you even ask him?”

  “No time for asking,” Hadvar snapped. “We needed action.”

  Stick’s fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. He shot a glare at Hadvar, but the Knight was already moving toward the door. It’s best to not tell him about that sword for now.

  “We got him alive. Be glad,” Hadvar said, his tone devoid of emotion.

  Stick turned to PP, his voice softening. “Are you okay?”

  PP nodded, though his eyes remained downcast. He gently adjusted Shadis in his arms, his expression unreadable. Stick’s heart twisted again. He wanted to say something—to apologise, to promise they’d find another way. If we use the shackles on the guard, then maybe-

  “We’re leaving,” Hadvar called from the door.

  Stick followed reluctantly, his doubts growing with every step. He cast one last glance at PP and Shadis, the faint clinking of chains echoing in his ears. Hadvar might have been their ticket out of here, but Stick couldn’t shake the question gnawing at his thoughts: Is he worth the cost?

  As the door creaked shut behind them, the stench of blood still clinging to his senses, Stick realised something else. Hadvar wasn’t just dangerous. He was watching him, calculating. And Stick had no idea what the Knight’s endgame really was.

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