The Elven Prison was a machine, and Pronto admired its ruthless efficiency. Every field, tunnel, and broken body had its place.

  The land within the lava moat was treated as prison property, divided into farmlands, orchards, flower beds, granaries, and factories dedicated to processing plant-based goods.

  Elves were sorted into sectors based on production needs. The sheer volume of goods produced here turned the prison into the economic backbone of the Human Race, allowing those in Human-controlled territories to focus entirely on industrial expansion.

  Stretching from the Ogre Gate across the lava moat was a steel bridge. It glowed red-hot, yet hadn’t reached its melting point—the metal had been specially refined to withstand extreme heat.

  But that wasn’t all.

  At either end of the bridge, embedded like altar stones, were two Sun Stones.

  Nancho approached the nearest one and pressed his palm against it.

  At once, the metal bridge cooled as the Sun Stone absorbed the heat, drawing it away from the surface. Satisfied, he turned to Pronto.

  “You can cross now, Your Highness.”

  Pronto hesitated. “You’re not coming with me?” His brow furrowed. “This is my first time here. I need a guide.”

  Nancho shook his head. “My subordinate will accompany you.”

  A soldier stepped forward, saluting.

  “I have my own duties to attend to,” Nancho continued. “Please pardon my inability to personally guide you through the Elven Prison.”

  Pronto studied him for a moment before inclining his head. “Thank you for your cooperation. Please, carry on with your work.”

  Cupping his fists in respect, he boarded the metal carriage, the soldier stepping in beside him as their journey into the prison began.

  A thrust of flame erupted behind the metal carriage, propelling it slowly across the steel bridge. Now that the bridge was cool, the wheels remained intact, avoiding the risk of melting.

  The crossing took nearly five minutes, and the moment the carriage reached the other side, Nancho removed his hand from the Sun Stone.

  Instantly, the bridge reactivated.

  The metal absorbed the heat radiating off the lava moat, its surface shifting into a dull orange glow. Within moments, it had reached a temperature hot enough to sear flesh on contact. Now, this bridge was a path only Humans could cross.

  Of course, if an Ogre Army attempted to layer it with stone, enough heat would still permeate through, rendering their efforts futile. But that wasn’t the only safeguard.

  The bridge was engineered with weight limitations—it could withstand only so much pressure before failing. For the Ogres to safely cross, they would need to pile an immense amount of stone—far beyond the bridge’s structural tolerance.

  And if the Humans ever needed to retreat, they had a final contingency. By overloading the Sun Stones, the bridge would heat to near-melting point. If the Ogres attempted to cross in that state, the ends would buckle and collapse, sending them plunging into the lava moat below.

  Even if they somehow found a way to traverse it, the fumes alone were lethal. By the time they accounted for every risk, the Humans would have regrouped and returned with a larger force.

  The moment the metal carriage arrived on the other side, a sharp whistle cut through the air.

  Nancho whipped his head toward the gate just as shadowy figures emerged at the clearing’s edge.

  Without hesitation, flames erupted from his legs, launching him into the air. He landed atop the gate, scanning the approaching figures. A quick glance was all it took.

  Then, he ascended higher, soaring to an altitude of two hundred meters for a better view.

  ‘One… five… twenty… a hundred…’ His eyes narrowed. ‘There are a hundred Ogres. This will be a tough battle.’

  But what concerned him more was the small team of five at the center. Their stance, their aura, their sheer presence—he knew exactly what they were.

  ‘Level 2 Ogres… five of them.’

  Nancho exhaled sharply. “I’ll need serious firepower for this.”

  He landed on the fortress wall, his voice sharp and unwavering.

  “Bring me my weapon.”

  "I'll handle the Level 2 Ogres. As for the rest," Nancho bellowed, "Target them with the Ballistae!"

  A minute later, a soldier hurried over, presenting a metal gun embedded with a Sun Stone. The stone was set into the handle, ensuring it remained in direct contact with the wielder’s palm.

  The gun’s design resembled a revolver, built to hold six bullets—though unlike those on Earth, these bullets were massive, measuring fifteen centimeters in length.

  Each bullet had a tapered front, forged from reinforced metal. The rear consisted of a 12-centimeter-long cylinder, its interior packed with compressed air.

  To fire, the wielder would channel heat from the Sun Stone into the bullet’s rear. The heat would rapidly expand the air, triggering a controlled explosion that launched the bullet forward.

  The weapon was effective, but limited. An Ogre’s hide was too tough for direct penetration. Nancho carried the revolver not to kill, but to blind his enemies before closing in to incinerate them.

  More importantly, he could tap into the Sun Stone’s stored energy to unleash firepower beyond his own capabilities—his true trump card.

  Slipping a bag of extra bullets onto his belt, Nancho signaled the Ballistae crews to prepare to fire.

  Then, he froze.

  The Ogres had stopped moving.

  Nancho’s eyes narrowed as five Level 2 Ogres stepped forward. They scanned the Ballistae, taking a few moments to observe the layout of the battlefield.

  Then, they summoned stones.

  While the Level 2 Ogres conjured raw stone, the Level 1 Ogres immediately got to work, shaping it with precision. They were building a fortress.

  Nancho’s jaw clenched. "This will be a battle of attrition."

  His instincts screamed that something was off. Ogres were never this patient. They relied on brute force, overwhelming their enemies with sheer numbers and power.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Yet now, before his very eyes, a stone fortress was rising—built just beyond the Ballistae's range.

  If the Ogres charged head-on, they would be massacred. Instead, they had adapted. Their plan was clear: they would extend their fortress, inch by inch, moving forward while staying protected.

  "Bring out the oil containers!" Nancho barked.

  If the Ogres thought they could hide behind stone, he would burn them out. He grabbed a barrel of oil, launched into the sky, and prepared to drop it directly onto their fort.

  But by the time he reached overhead—

  The roof was already complete.

  A layered stone structure, tiled like the rooftops in regions prone to heavy rainfall, shielded the entire fortress.

  Nancho cursed under his breath. ‘Damn it. They came prepared this time.’

  He dropped back to the ground, his face grim.

  "Damn it. They're digging in for a siege." he growled.

  ???????????

  Hours had passed before the metal carriage finally arrived at its destination—a garage buried deep within afortress.

  Pronto followed the silent soldier through a maze of narrow tunnels, most of which wound underground, where darkness clung to the walls. Small air vents provided circulation, their faint hum the only sound beyond their footsteps.

  The tunnels were clean, well-maintained even, yet there was something suffocating about them.

  ‘I imagine keeping one’s sanity intact in this place would be an achievement.’

  Even with the ventilation, the sterile corridors carried a dreary weight—an unseen presence pressing in from all sides.

  It was a labyrinth, designed to disorient, to trap. And yet, the soldier never hesitated, not once doubting his path.

  For twenty minutes, they walked without stopping.

  Pronto, accustomed to leading rather than following, finally gave in to curiosity.

  "How… how do you know where to go?"

  The soldier didn’t even glance back. "I apologize, Your Highness. Please refrain from asking. I am merely a grunt following orders."

  Pronto clicked his tongue. "Alright. Forget I asked."

  Instead, he focused on the subtleties—the way the soldier walked, the barely noticeable tension in his shoulders. He was following something unseen, something Pronto had yet to perceive.

  And then, the realization struck.

  He muttered, half to himself, “We’re following heat.”

  —Tap!

  The soldier halted abruptly. His head snapped toward Pronto, his eyes wide with something very close to fear.

  A heartbeat later, he caught himself, saluted stiffly, and forced his voice steady. "I apologize for my behavior, Your Highness."

  He turned and resumed walking, but Pronto noticed the change immediately.

  The soldier’s steps had lost their strength. Before, he had moved with the certainty of duty. Now, he walked as if marching toward the gallows.

  For another hour, they walked deeper into the heart of the maze. The air grew thicker, heavy with something unseen yet inescapable. Then, at last, they arrived.

  The soldier stopped before a massive stone gate, turning to meet Pronto’s gaze.

  His voice was flat, void of emotion. "You were right. We navigate using the heat as a compass. And the source..." He reached for a lever, his hands steady in a way that only made the moment feel more wrong, "Summons your presence."

  With a deep groan, the gate opened.

  Beyond it lay an open field, a full hectare of land blanketed in dew-dripping grass. At its center stood a tree of fire.

  The flames were gentle, flickering softly, their glow washing over Pronto in an eerie, suffocating warmth. Yet, despite its very nature, nothing burned. The grass beneath its roots remained untouched, unscorched, unbothered by the blazing inferno above.

  At a glance, it resembled a banyan tree, its branches thick with opaque flames, swaying as if whispering in a tongue older than language itself.

  Pronto had seen Relics, weapons, war machines, but this?

  This was not natural.

  This was not meant to exist.

  “I have brought Prince Pronto!”

  The soldier’s voice rang out, shattering the silence. He prostrated at the entrance, pressing his forehead into the cold stone. Then, after a deep breath, he spoke again.

  "I have fulfilled my role, Your Majesty. I am ready to receive judgment."

  The fire tree burned without sound, its flames flickering softly, almost gentle—until suddenly, it stirred.

  And then, a voice emerged.

  A voice that did not need to rise to command. A voice that carried such weight, such presence, that it made the very air shudder in submission.

  “Walk towards me.”

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  The soldier’s voice was steady. Resigned. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, crossing the grassland—and then, as though passing through a veil, he entered the fire.

  There was no scream. No thrashing. The flames did not surge or flicker. They simply swallowed him whole.

  A ripple. Then—ashes.

  The remains floated gently down, vanishing between the blades of grass, indistinguishable from the dew. As though he had never existed at all.

  Then, the voice returned, this time directed at Pronto.

  "You must be Pronto."

  It was not a question.

  "That soldier revealed the maze’s secrets to an outsider. So, he chose to retain his honor as a soldier. His family will be compensated for his sacrifice and given preferential treatment for a job of their choosing."

  The voice paused. Then, with a tone of deliberate indifference, the voice added—

  "Since you're a prince, I offered you an explanation."

  The words hung in the air, cold and absolute.

  "Satisfied?"

  Pronto was already kneeling. He hadn’t even realized it at first.

  Sweat dripped down his face, his body drenched, his lungs burning as though he’d been shoved into a furnace.

  The heat wasn’t coming from the fire tree.

  It was inside him.

  His blood felt boiling, his skin tightening over his bones. His vision blurred for a moment as waves of scalding air pressed into his chest, filling his throat like invisible smoke.

  He was being cooked alive.

  His body screamed, his instincts roared, but he forced himself to remain composed.

  "Yes, Your Highness!"

  The heat stopped instantly.

  Not gradually.

  Instantly.

  The unbearable heat, the suffocating pressure—it was simply gone, as if it had never been there at all. Pronto exhaled sharply, not daring to wipe the sweat from his brow. Before he could fully recover, something fluttered through the air toward him.

  A parchment.

  It did not fall. It did not drift randomly.

  It moved with purpose, floating toward him with an unnatural grace. A thin stream of fire danced beneath it, controlling the air currents with surgical precision—angling, lifting, guiding it forward.

  Pronto snatched it midair, his fingers tightening around the parchment.

  For the first time in a long time, he hesitated.

  ‘Is this even… humanly possible?’

  He had fought powerful warriors. He had witnessed the might of Relics—but this was different. This was not strength alone. This was mastery. Perfect, terrifying mastery.

  Unfolding the parchment, he saw what he had come for—written permission to meet the Dwarf capable of repairing his metal carriage. A flicker of thought passed through his mind.

  ‘Father always complained about the Warden’s troublesome personality.’

  Pronto had assumed it was just an exaggeration. It was not.

  The voice spoke again, casual yet absolute, as if granting him a favor out of amusement rather than obligation.

  "An officer named Rachad will guide you to an Elf who is responsible for contacting the Dwarf."

  At that moment, another soldier entered, prostrating at the entrance, awaiting his command. The Warden had already arranged everything.

  "Since you got what you came for, leave."

  There was no room for argument.

  Pronto stood, saluted, and turned, his mind still racing with thoughts. He had never seen the Warden’s face. He had never even glimpsed his silhouette. And yet, it was as if the entire world bent to his presence.

  He was halfway through the exit when the voice spoke again. This time, there was something different in its tone. Amusement.

  "Oh, there's a small ceremony scheduled at sunset."

  Pronto paused.

  "Rachad is probably en route to organize it. As a guest, you’re welcome to join the fun."

  The stone gate slammed shut behind him. A final whisper lingered in the air, almost like a chuckle—

  "Welcome to the Elven Prison."

  …

  Gangnea Daily Article #17:

  At least one slave from every Sentient Race can be found within Human Territory.