Chapter 55: Spark Prison (Part Two)

Chapter 55: Spark Prison (Part Two)

When a stray beam of sunlight pierced through the gaps in the iron bars and fell into the dark cell, the curled-up figure inside slowly stretched out like a large, fuzzy caterpillar.

He shifted a few times, crawling toward the patch of sunlight.

Only when the sunlight bathed his face did he emit a sigh of supreme satisfaction.

By that faint, meager light, a face of mangled flesh and blood was revealed.

This face was so horrific that anyone seeing him for the first time would instinctively recoil a few steps.

The entire skin of his face had been peeled off while he was still alive, and his nose had been sliced away, leaving only two tiny black holes that slightly expanded and contracted to indicate he was still breathing. In place of the prisoner's right eye socket was only a deep, dark cavity, while his left eye was veined with red, showing extreme discomfort toward the gentle sunlight, yet stubbornly refusing to look away.

This was the extreme danger zone of Spark Prison. And the dark cell was the most critical core of that danger zone.

Every prisoner locked away here could be considered the most vicious, ruthless, and terrifying criminal in the entire world.

Hugh stood right outside the dark cell at this moment, and by that single beam of sunlight, he dimly perceived that the prisoner's body was mutilated.

His left arm was severed clean from below the elbow, and both legs had been chopped off, leaving him with only one intact right hand.

"Is he really Crispin Bolan?" Hugh found it somewhat hard to believe.

His appearance bore no resemblance whatsoever to the profile he had gathered from the documents.

Hugh even wondered whether, had this fellow been placed in the ordinary sector, he might have passed right by him without a second glance.

"Yes, Master Dadaniel," the guard replied very solemnly. "Crispin Bolan, one of the most dangerous prisoners in Spark Prison. Please do not underestimate him. If not for the explicit instructions once given by Archmage Malit, even if we were to chop off all his remaining limbs and knock out every single tooth in his head, he would still remain the most dangerous prisoner. If he so chooses, he can inflict harm upon you at any given moment, or even directly threaten your life."

"Is he truly that terrifying?"

"In the past ten years, no fewer than six guards have died at his hands, and as many as twelve have been severely injured by him. Over the past decade, he has attempted prison breaks three times. The first time, we severed one of his legs, yet he used his remaining leg to continue his escape. The second time, we chopped off his other leg, so he crawled along the ground with his hands to break out. The third time, we severed one of his hands, and with his sole remaining hand, he took our warden hostage in an attempt to escape. He succeeded that time, but we quickly recaptured him. After that, we gouged out one of his eyes. Not long afterward, he bit to death one of our colleagues using his bare teeth. This fellow is quite literally a suicidal puppet who knows nothing of pain and fears death not in the least. He never lets slip a single opportunity to attack us. Just three days ago, he bit off the groin of one of our brothers."

"That sounds rather interesting." Hugh chuckled softly.

A wretch mutilated beyond further ruin still possessed such a terrifying threat; this individual was perhaps the toughest and most resilient fellow Hugh had laid eyes upon since arriving in this world.

"Interesting?" The guard laughed. "I must admit, Master Dadaniel, you are the most courageous nobleman I have ever laid eyes upon. Many nobles were once filled with curiosity about this Crispin Bolan; they would come in to look at him, only to be scared trembling from head to toe shortly after. Interesting... That is the first time I have ever heard such a description from the lips of an aristocrat."

"It is indeed interesting," Hugh remarked. "Aren't you afraid you might torture him to death?"

"Rest assured, Master Dadaniel, he will not die. There was a time when we were quite worried this fellow might be tortured to death by us, which would have left us unable to answer to Lord Malit. Yet his vitality is as resilient as the weeds in a meadow. No matter how you treat him, he always manages to pull through and survive. Time and again we increased the severity of his punishments, yet he continues to live on quite well, and he never abandons his resistance against us."

"Would it be possible to let him out so I can take a look?" Hugh asked.

"This..." The guard hesitated.

Hugh casually produced a gold Winter and slipped it into the guard's palm. "Let us not forget I am an esteemed guest of the warden himself. Whatever happens, the warden will take the responsibility."

"Very well then, Master Dadaniel."

One must admit that money is a universal cure-all.

Owen the guard called over a turnkey and instructed, "Release Crispin Bolan and let the young master have a good look at what that bastard is like."

The turnkey nodded, turned around, and shouted at the top of his lungs, "You lot, come over here!"

Four turnkeys came running over simultaneously, bringing along two magic spirits.

Those magic spirits stared at Hugh with ferocious glares, clearly displaying an innate vigilance toward strangers.

Yet for some reason, after staring at Hugh for a mere moment, both magic spirits simultaneously trembled and backed away a few steps, panic flashing within their eyes.

This left everyone utterly astonished.

"How strange, what's gotten into these two today?" a turnkey muttered in bewilderment.

They were evidently entirely unaware that this was due to Hugh's presence.

Hugh was initially puzzled as well, but he immediately realized that it must be the lingering aura of the demonic dragon left upon him by Xu that made them perceive some terrifyingly powerful entity, thus generating this sense of dread.

Magic spirits and demonic dragons were both lifeforms of the Abyss by nature; in the military history of the Abyss, magic spirits had always been the lowly existences that demonic dragons disdained. Although these two magic spirits had been tamed by humans, deep in their bones they still retained the instinctual fear of mighty entities, and thus they did not dare to display the slightest malice toward Hugh.

Sensing this, Hugh stepped back a few paces and reined in his aura as much as possible, which immediately made the two magic spirits feel much more at ease, allowing them to rapidly resume their previous ferocious appearance.

"Looks like there shouldn't be any problem," a turnkey declared. "We'd better be careful with that Crispin Bolan though. Prepare to open the gate!"

The four turnkeys simultaneously readied themselves for combat.

The iron gate slowly creaked open amidst the sliding of heavy gears. Hugh noticed that this door was nearly half a meter thick, and the process of opening it even required the use of a winch.

As the iron gate swung open, sunlight flooded directly into the gloomy cell, and a wave of overwhelming stench surged outward on the wind.

There was no drainage basin in the room; turbid yellow water flowed across the floor, and the prisoner lay sprawled facedown in the filthy water, motionless.

The four turnkeys cautiously approached the prisoner, treating him like a formidable enemy as they firmly pinned him down. One pressed his head into the ground, another tightly bound his sole remaining arm, while the two others stood on strict guard. Seeing that he offered no resistance, they finally breathed a sigh of relief, dragged the prisoner out of the cell, and dumped him onto the ground.

"Crispin Bolan," Hugh softly uttered the name.

The other party finally showed a glimmer of a reaction; that bloodshot right eye glanced coldly at Hugh before dropping back down.

Yet in that single glance, what Hugh saw was boundless hatred and an unyielding fighting spirit.

He looked closely at Bolan's body. The fellow had grown emaciated beyond recognition, his bones protruding beneath withered skin like awls piercing through a leather pouch, sharply prominent. His body was covered in scars, presumably left behind by the guards whipping him. The fingernails of his only remaining right hand had been pulled out, and even his hair was entirely gone, leaving behind vast patches of mottled scalp.

Those were the unmistakable marks of severe burns.

A thought stirred in Hugh's heart, and pointing at Bolan's head, he asked, "Is this the masterpiece of Archmage Malit?"

"Indeed," a turnkey replied. "Master Malit comes to visit this prisoner every year. He has used his signature fire magic to sear this fellow time and again. There were occasions when he was nearly charred to a crisp, yet he always managed to tough it out. Master Malit has never been able to extract the information he desires, and he is furious about it. I truly cannot fathom what on earth makes this fellow hold out with such stubbornness."

"The power of hatred, coupled with the power of love," Hugh replied indifferently.

Crispin Bolan, who had not surrendered even under the harshest tortures, trembled violently all over upon hearing those words.

His sole remaining right eye fixed its gaze intently upon Hugh, filled with an expression of sheer incredulity.

Then, to his astonishment, he discovered that beneath the youth's spectacles, those eyes were actually flashing with a peculiar radiance.

There was pity, sympathy, and unexpectedly... support and encouragement.

The youth was smiling at him, even giving a slight nod of acknowledgment, full of admiration.

"Might I touch him?" the youth asked the turnkey.

"This!" The several turnkeys all hesitated somewhat. One of them replied, "He is an extremely dangerous element; getting close to him is an act of gross irresponsibility toward one's own life. Master Dadaniel, there is no need for you to take such a risk."

"No, precisely for that reason, I must get close to him. Just think, when I leave this prison, I can return and tell the maidens of the realm that I have witnessed the most terrifying prisoner in this entire facility. Oh, beneath my feet, he is reduced to nothing more than gasping for breath. You know how vain young women can be. A heroic tale can easily win their hearts. Of course, to a certain extent, I even hope he might try something, so that I—Master Sissel of the Dadaniel family—can subdue him with my own hands. That would make the story all the more perfect."

The turnkeys burst into laughter simultaneously. "Master Dadaniel, you must be exceptionally popular among the ladies."

"Indeed I am," Hugh made an elegant gesture.

"Very well then, Master Dadaniel, I hope you will be careful. You lot, wrap up his mouth; don't let him bite the young master," Owen the guard shouted loudly.

The four turnkeys swarmed forward and tightly bound Crispin Bolan's mouth with a strip of cloth.

Hugh walked over, crouched down in front of Crispin Bolan, inspected his injuries closely, and clicked his tongue in wonder. "It is truly hard to imagine how a man can endure such injuries without dying. Do you not know what pain is?"

Crispin Bolan stared fixedly at Hugh, while a ruthless, cold smile surfaced on Hugh's face. "Perhaps I should test whether you truly fear pain or not."

His fingers abruptly pressed down upon one of Bolan's wounds, applying forceful pressure.

"Mmph!" Bolan, his mouth muffled, let out a cry of agony. Large beads of sweat oozed across his forehead, yet his gaze remained filled with an indomitable will.

"So you do feel pain after all," Hugh's voice remained cold and deep. "I like tough guys. Look at the look in his eyes—not a single trace of surrender."

Owen immediately chimed in, "Quite right. No matter how you beat or torture this bastard, he never begs for mercy. Be that as it may, he is certainly a tough bastard."

"Is that so?" Hugh sneered. "I refuse to believe it. I am determined to make him beg me for mercy."

With that, Hugh suddenly stood up, lashed out with a kick aimed squarely at the prisoner, and trampled him beneath his foot. Pressing down with increasing force and mercilessly grinding his foot against the fellow's face, he said coldly, "Beg me for mercy and I will spare you; otherwise, you die."

"Mmph!" The prisoner stared fixedly at Hugh.

At that moment, his pupils dilated as he looked up at the right foot pressing down upon him, his eyes filled with astonishment and disbelief.

The youth was glaring down at him with a ferocious expression, roaring:

"Hurry up and beg me for mercy!"

A mocking smile flashed within the prisoner's eyes.

Hugh seemed infuriated by this smile. He lifted his right foot high and stomped it down onto the prisoner's face, kick after kick.

As those kicks rose and fell, Crispin Bolan's single eye grew brighter and brighter.

Suddenly, that wildly stomping right foot slightly skewed off target, landing precisely upon the strip of cloth gagging his mouth.

The cloth loosened slightly.

"Aargh!"

The prisoner, who had been unceasingly trampled by Hugh, suddenly let out a long roar toward the heavens. The cloth gag could no longer contain the rush of air from his mouth and was blown completely away.

The prisoner lunged upward, lowering his head, and charged ferociously at Hugh with his bald crown.

This sudden charge frightened everyone out of their wits.

Yet the young master, who moments ago had been acting as arrogant and overbearing as a spoiled scion torturing a pet dog, was apparently so terrified by this sudden assault that he froze in place, allowing the charge to strike him squarely in the abdomen. Then, throwing his arms around that large head, he began screaming at the top of his lungs, "Ah! Come and help me!"

Several turnkeys rushed forward simultaneously to tear Crispin Bolan away, but the fellow possessed truly astonishing strength and stubbornly refused to let go of Hugh.

When they finally managed to pull him apart with great difficulty, Hugh's clothes had been torn to shreds by the desperate fanatic, and even Hugh's left hand was dripping with blood where he had been bitten.

"Bastard! Bastard!" the young master of the Dadaniel family shouted in fury.

Clutching his left hand, he kicked frantically at Crispin Bolan.

Yet this time, he used his left foot.

Enduring the savage beatings of both the guards and Hugh, Crispin Bolan kept his blood-filled mouth shut tight and made not a sound.

His single eye stared unblinkingly at Hugh's left foot as it kicked him, the glimmer of hope for survival finally appearing within his gaze.

After a thorough and brutal beating—perhaps simply out of fatigue—Hugh finally ceased his attack.

"Lock him back up! I never want to see this fellow again!" Hugh shouted angrily, whirling around to leave.

Guard Owen hurried after him. "Master Dadaniel, I am terribly sorry for what happened. Oh, is your hand alright?"

"He bit me! I must head back immediately and get proper treatment. As for you lot, I am filing a complaint regarding your failure to provide adequate protection!" Hugh yelled, clutching his left hand.

That spoiled bastard, Owen cursed furiously in his heart. He had warned him from the start that the prisoner was extremely dangerous, yet the youth had stubbornly refused to listen. Now that he had been bitten, he was trying to shift the blame onto them.

Owen wore a bitter expression. "I told you beforehand that this fellow is terrifying, and he never misses an opportunity to attack people."

"Are you attempting to tell me this was all my fault?" Hugh barked angrily.

"No, not at all, Master Dadaniel," the guard replied obsequiously. "I merely meant to say that your complaint might lead the warden to believe we are incompetent... I mean, if that were to happen... we would be in considerable trouble."

Hugh looked coldly at the guard, pondered for a brief moment, and then a smile returned to his face. "Ah, are you suggesting that I shouldn't mention having seen Crispin Bolan to your warden?"

This clever rhetorical shift momentarily stunned the guard, but he quickly caught on, realizing this was precisely the opportunity he needed. He hastily affirmed, "Yes, young master. You must understand that you are not permitted to see Crispin Bolan. If the warden were to find out, or if Archmage Malit were to learn that you laid eyes on Crispin Bolan, it could spell rather immense trouble for you."

Hearing the name Malit, Hugh's body gave a slight shudder, and then he nodded. "Very well, since that is the case, we shall do as you say. But what about the others?"

Owen finally let out a breath of relief. "I can handle that."

"Then it's settled," Hugh nodded with satisfaction. "In that case, go ahead and pick up my belongings from the guard post for me; I'll be heading straight out."

"No problem, young master." Naturally, Owen would not say "no" to such a minor errand.

Walking out of the prison, Hugh returned to the carriage.

The old necromancer had already finished his work.

"How did it go?" Hugh asked.

"Not too well. As you saw, that fellow is a cripple. The moment he breaks out of prison, he will be promptly recaptured. It is virtually impossible for him to exert any meaningful distraction against Malit."

"I don't think so at all," Hugh smiled. "This man is the most resilient fellow I have ever seen—a true super tough guy. It matters not that his limbs are ruined; what matters is whether his heart has been ruined. From what I observed, it has not. He saw the words I wrote on the sole of my foot and responded without the slightest hesitation. From that standpoint, ten years of imprisonment have not eroded his fighting spirit; on the contrary, given the opportunity, he could become the most terrifying figure in this world."

"Do you truly believe that?"

"Yes, Eagler. Trust me, the energy Crispin Bolan possesses far exceeds your imagination," Hugh replied with utter confidence. "Let us leave now."

"Aren't you going to say goodbye to the warden?"

"There's no need for that. I suspect he has no desire to lay eyes on me. Hearing the news that I've departed this prison must come as a tremendous relief to him. Friendship... what an amusing word." Hugh sneered.

"Well done," muttered the old mage, flicking his whip.

Amidst shouted commands, the carriage gradually drove away from Spark Prison.

After Hugh's departure, Crispin Bolan was led back to his gloomy, lightless cell following the savage beatings and tortures inflicted by the turnkeys.

Lying prone upon the ground and listening intently as the footsteps of the guards faded into the distance, Bolan's tightly sealed lips twitched a few times.

"Ahem." Accompanied by a cough, a large mouthful of blood was expelled from his mouth.

To one's utter astonishment, ejected along with the blood was an unassuming metal ring.

The ring clattered against the stone floor, emitting a crisp chime. Bolan stared down at that ring, the fervor of freedom burning bright within his eyes.