Wolves in the Sa Cage
After being taken to the police station, Lucas initially thought it was no big deal.
To him, this entire incident was nothing more than a minor inconvenience—an annoying interruption in an otherwise carefully laid plan.
He had already prepared for this outco.
After all, he had deliberately used his bone-shrinking technique, altering his fra, his posture—even the way his muscles sat under his skin. The man who fought Julian D’Aurelius in the casino... technically didn’t exist anymore.
No face.
No identity.
No trace.
At worst, being caught would result in a simple charge—illegal gambling.
A fine. Maybe a few days of inconvenience.
Nothing more.
That’s what he believed.
That’s what should have happened.
But reality, for once, didn’t follow his expectations.
For so reason...
This ti, after being caught—
They didn’t let it go so easily.
The questioning began.
One round turned into two.
Two turned into five.
Cold white lights shone directly into his eyes.
The room slled faintly of old files, sweat, and stale air.
Questions ca one after another—repeated, twisted, rephrased.
"Where were you before the casino?"
"Who were you eting?"
"Why is there blood on your clothes?"
"Explain your injuries."
"Who else was with you?"
Lucas sat there, expression calm... but inside, sothing cold tightened.
Too much.
This wasn’t normal.
Even worse—
They didn’t even offer him a glass of water.
Not once.
The dryness in his throat grew unbearable, but he didn’t show it.
His fingers rested calmly on the tal table, unmoving.
Only the faint tightening of his jaw betrayed his irritation.
Sothing is wrong...
For a brief mont, a thought flickered through his mind—
Did soone notice sothing?
But no matter how many tis they questioned him, no matter how deep they dug...
They found nothing.
No evidence.
No witnesses.
No link.
Just a man caught at a casino.
In the end—
After an entire night of pressure, fatigue, and silent resistance—
They had no choice.
He was processed like any other offender.
Charged.
Stamped.
Transferred.
So they sent him to the prison on charges of participating in illegal gambling.
—
The heavy iron gate creaked open.
The sound echoed like sothing ancient being dragged awake.
Cold air drifted through the corridor.
Lucas stepped inside.
Chains clinked faintly sowhere in the distance.
Voices murmured.
Soone laughed harshly from another cell.
The atmosphere pressed down like damp stone.
But Lucas walked in calmly, hands behind his back, posture straight.
Like he still owned the world outside those walls.
And then—
He saw them.
Four familiar figures.
For a brief second, even his calm expression wavered.
...
It was the four mbers of the Scythe Division.
Hemil.
And the other three.
Standing there in the sa prison cell.
The mont felt strangely surreal.
In the vast sea of people...
To et here, of all places—
Even Lucas couldn’t help but feel a strange emotion rise in his chest.
Damn...
This place is starting to feel like an Obsidian Wing clubhouse.
"Young Master Lucas, why are you here?"
Hemil stepped forward first.
His twelve fingers flexed slightly as he spoke, his tone respectful—but his eyes sharp, observant.
Lucas paused for half a breath.
Then he straightened slightly and replied calmly,
"I ca to check on you."
"And take you out."
His voice carried effortless authority.
Like everything was still under control.
Like this... was all part of the plan.
The four exchanged glances.
Sothing flickered between them.
Then one of them tilted his head slightly and asked,
"Then why does Young Master Lucas look a bit pale?"
Lucas’s lips twitched slightly.
"A bit carsick."
A beat of silence.
Then another one stepped forward, squinting slightly.
"Then why is there blood on you, Young Master Lucas?"
Lucas’s gaze darkened for a mont.
"I injured soone."
His answer was short. Flat. Final.
But the questions didn’t stop.
Hemil stepped closer, lowering his voice slightly.
"Was it a strong opponent, Young Master Lucas?"
"Did soone force you into this situation?"
"Do you need us to deal with anyone once we get out?"
Another one chid in, eyes shining strangely.
"Did that person... manage to hurt you?"
"Who was it?"
Lucas felt a faint irritation rise in his chest.
Too many questions.
Too persistent.
Too... different.
For a mont, he studied them.
Sothing about them felt off.
Their tone was loyal.
Their words were respectful.
But the way they looked at him...
It wasn’t quite the sa as before.
There was sothing hidden there.
Sothing... he couldn’t quite grasp.
...
A bit strange.
A bit... stupid.
Lucas narrowed his eyes slightly.
But in the end—
He dismissed the thought.
He waved his hand lightly, cutting off their questions.
"You guys rest first."
"We’ll leave together tomorrow."
"I still need your help in Valemont."
His tone carried authority again.
Final. Decisive.
No room for further discussion.
The four imdiately straightened.
Then—
In perfect unison—
"With Young Master Lucas’s trust—"
"We will repay with our lives!"
Their voices echoed through the cell.
Firm. Loyal. Unwavering.
Lucas looked at them.
And slowly—
A satisfied expression appeared on his face.
Good.
As expected.
These were the death warriors he had personally trained.
Tools forged through blood and discipline.
Their loyalty—
Could shake heaven and earth.
At least...
That’s what he believed.
After a brief pause, Lucas beckoned them closer.
"Co here."
The four leaned in slightly.
Their faces serious.
Their ears attentive.
Lucas lowered his voice.
And began to speak.
His plan unfolded quietly between them.
Carefully calculated.
Layer by layer.
Control Valemont.
Eliminate threats.
Draw out Julian.
Use pressure. Use chaos. Use people.
Every word he spoke was precise.
Cold.
Efficient.
But as they listened—
Sothing strange flickered in their eyes again.
Not doubt.
Not hesitation.
Sothing else.
Sothing... twisted.
Yet when Lucas finished—
They nodded imdiately.
No hesitation.
No questions.
Just obedience.
Lucas leaned back slowly onto the hard prison bed.
The thin mattress barely softened the surface.
Cold.
Uncomfortable.
But he ignored it.
He closed his eyes.
His breathing slowed.
Inside his body—
Pain still lingered.
That punch from Julian...
It wasn’t sothing he could brush off easily.
Even now, his chest felt heavy.
His internal energy unstable.
That bastard...
His fingers tightened slightly.
Julian D’Aurelius...
You just wait.
Healing required ti.
And this injury—
Wasn’t light.
Ten days...
Half a month at least.
Until then—
He would endure.
Recover.
And then—
He would co back stronger.
In the dim light of the prison cell—
Lucas lay there silently.
Like a coiled predator.
Waiting.
For the mont—
He could tear everything apart again.
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