Deep beneath the ground lies a dungeon carved from bedrock older than kingdoms. The air is cold, stale, and metallic, as if the stone itself remembers blood. Narrow corridors twist like veins, lit only by guttering torches that spit weak orange light across iron-barred cells. Chains hang from the ceilings, some broken, some still warm from use. The walls are etched with claw marks, runes of despair, and the faint glow of anti-magic sigils that throb like dying stars.

  Moans drift through the dark, not loud, but constant, as if the dungeon itself breathes through its prisoners. Water drips somewhere in the distance, though no one has ever seen a well. At the lowest floor, where even torchlight refuses to linger, the cells hold creatures too dangerous or cursed for the surface, their silhouettes shifting behind bars that groan under their weight.

  In one of the cells, the “weird Elves” or rather, Humans, were locked away. Their faces bore signs of despair and exhaustion: hollow eyes, nearly dead expressions, malnourished bodies, and chains strapped to their limbs. Even Gerald, normally boisterous, looked lean and gaunt.

  Normally, they could have endured weeks without eating or drinking; they had trained their bodies to sustain themselves with mana instead of food. But this wasn’t their world. Back home they might be abducted by vampires, werewolves, or hostile factions, terrible, yes, but still nothing compared to what the stickmen had subjected them to.

  First, the wardens drained all their mana. Then they prevented any form of energy recovery, all suppressed by a special anti-energy spell. Afterward, they siphoned their biological energy, leaving them like withered husks, and denied them food and water for days.

  “I never thought there would be a group of people more heartless than we humans,” Gad croaked, voice hoarse, lips cracked and pale.

  “They treat prisoners worse than street dogs.”

  Clack!

  One of the wardens unlocked the cell door, entering with three others. Two wore the standard dark uniforms, while the third, standing at the back, was clad in thick golden armor from head to toe. His helmet was mask-like, with angular eye-slits that hid his real eyes in darkness. A pointed visor, three upright feathers, and a diamond symbol like a third eye adorned it. Curved metallic lines framed the faceplate like stylized markings, the insignia of Stickmanlandia.

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  “Uncuff them and take them to the waiting room,” the armored man commanded.

  The four humans were astonished but too weak to express emotion. They were led out of the dungeon into a well-furnished building where food piled high on a table awaited them.

  “Please, dig in,” the man said.

  The four exchanged glances. They were starving. Instinct overcame caution, and they devoured the food without hesitation.

  As they ate, their mana stirred. Their bodies regained strength, fatigue evaporating faster than seemed natural. When enough energy had returned, suspicion crept back in.

  “Why treat us kindly now,” Illyana asked, “after all that inhumane torment?”

  The armored man was silent for a moment before replying:

  “King Sora the Third wishes to meet with you... travelers from another world.”

  Gad scowled, mouth full. “If the king wanted to see us, why torture us first? We already told you who we are and where we come from, yet you still treated us like animals.”

  During captivity, the four had conversed with the stickmen through an interpretation spell; language was no barrier.

  Sometime later, they were full, surprisingly restored to peak condition. They could only assume the food held regeneration properties. It felt unreal: reduced to skeletons moments ago, yet one meal had rebuilt them entirely.

  Soon after, they were taken by carriage to the palace.

  The palace rose like a monolith of dark stone, angular, imposing. Sharp-edged towers jutted upward, connected by narrow bridges. Massive banners fluttered over a fortress-like gate. From afar, it appeared less constructed and more carved from a single colossal slab. Up close, it was breathtaking.

  The throne room was vast enough that echoes seemed hesitant to cross it. Towering obsidian pillars lined the hall, carved with stick-figure murals depicting battles, oaths, and ancient duels. The floor was polished, dark, mirror-smooth, reflecting every movement like a second world beneath their feet.

  At the far end stood the throne: a colossal seat forged from interlocking metal bars, shaped like a crown turned fortress. Intimidating in its simplicity, sharp lines, hard edges, no comfort anywhere. Behind it hung a massive banner with the Stickmanlandian insignia, swaying despite the still air.

  Guards stood in perfect symmetry along the walls, spears crossed on their backs, their silhouette-like bodies expressionless but alert. The four humans walked the long approach, the armored man beside them. Every step felt judged, every breath measured by the room itself.

  At the base of the throne sat councilors, generals, and high officials, each radiating an oppressive aura none of the four could hope to overcome even at full power.

  And the most intimidating of all was the king himself. His golden aura radiated from the throne, elegant, yet untamed and overwhelming. Even at rest, they felt crushed beneath it. He was clearly holding back.

  His eyes were cold and fierce, staring down at them like a primal predator appraising helpless prey.

  “Mesmerizing,” King Sora III said, voice echoing with authority.

  “To think I would behold the fabled beings of legends.”

  The four Humans felt suddenly, unmistakably small.

  Not because they were weak but because they finally saw what true danger looked like in this world.