Donald woke up and found himself trapped in some kind of old-fashioned tech. He was strapped to a chair—like the ones used in medieval psychiatric hospitals on their patients.
But unlike the usual ones, this chair was different.
It was old, crafted from an unknown wood that looked too tough to break. Its handles were cold, rusted iron steel, and its legs were pinned into the cold, wet floor.
Of course, Donald wasn't fully aware of all this. Ever since he came into this new place—or world—his mind had been in a frenzy. He was wide awake and could somewhat tell what was going on… but his mind couldn't fully comprehend it all.
It was like he was still Donald, but infused with someone else.
So it was hard to know who was really in control—because even though it was Donald's consciousness, someone else was inside him.
Someone they were hunting.
Donald was facing down, trying hard to maintain consciousness.
It might have been due to the heavy blood loss from his injury.
And the thing he used to stop the bleeding? It was no longer with him.
He sat in the chair, trying to break free.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Those were the sounds of the chains as he struggled—trying to find any bit of free movement in his arms or legs.
He could feel something heavy weighing him down as he tried to move.
"What… where am I?" Donald muttered, confused.
Footsteps approached him.
"Well, well, well. Looks like sleeping beauty has finally decided to join us from the dream world."
Something about that voice sounded familiar.
But not in a fearful way—no, it wasn't the fear of being trapped.
It was something else. A familiarity that tugged at him. Like he'd met this person before.
Donald didn't know what kept him so calm.
Was it the blood loss dulling his senses?
Or was it because something here felt off—out of place?
Maybe it was both.
After hearing the voice, Donald managed to regain half his consciousness.
"I'm sorry, but… have we met before?" Donald asked, trying to lift his head.
But whenever he tried to look up—skipping the slow scan from the ground to the face—he felt a fist hit his head.
"Here, take this so he won't find out," another voice said nearby.
Donald wasn't sure what had just happened in the last few seconds. The punch had disoriented him. He shook his head, maybe trying to process the pain.
He tried again.
This time slower. Carefully. Not out of fear of being hit again, but to study the person before him.
He looked from the bottom up.
The figure wore what looked like an old, classic, ancient-era dress.
The kind worn by priests during the witch trials.
Long black dress reaching the legs. Big black boots.
Puffed shoulders—almost like a maid's uniform from another century.
When Donald finally caught a glimpse of the face, he realized he was too late.
The figure had already slipped on an old iron-steel mask.
Clearly, it had just been put on recently.
The only visible part left were the person's eyes, sunken behind the mask—though not too deep.
From the body structure, posture, and even the clothing—it was obvious.
"So you finally decided to wake up?" the person asked.
Now, it was clear as daylight to Donald.
The voice was female.
The same one from before—but this time it sounded different.
Cold. Stale. Probably an effect of the mask.
The mask itself was ancient. One of those used on the condemned during the Dragon Era. Heavy, cold, and often permanent.
Strangely, this mask had a bit of style to it. It even had hair—golden blonde—to hide her real hair color.
"Why are you doing this to me? Who sent you?" Donald asked, looking her straight in the eyes.
"That's none of your business, you filthy rack," the woman said, and slapped him.
"You should be careful," a male voice interrupted. "If they find him all bruised up and beaten, they'll put two and two together. And trouble might come for us."
The woman grunted.
"Fine."
But it was no secret she was angry about being stopped.
"Thank you," Donald said sincerely.
Both the woman and the man were stunned.
They didn't understand why the hell this kid would be thankful.
The woman finally asked:
"Why are you being grateful, you runt?"
Donald raised his head and looked at them both.
And then he told the truth.
"I'm being grateful to him—for stopping you. Because you seem all bent up on killing me."
That statement alone infuriated the woman.
But the man?
He was impressed. Pleased, even.
Still, he wasn't dumb enough to let himself be seen.
He wore a long leather jacket. Long black boots. Leather pants.
On top, he was shirtless—his muscular body fully exposed.
But his head was hidden under a hood.
Unlike his companion.
Who wasn't anywhere near them, but rather sitting at a table nearby.
A table filled with deadly weapons.
Axes.
Swords.
Spears.
Hammers.
Barbed-wire sticks.
And more.
That man was fully exposed—unlike the hooded one.
He wore the same clothing, but left his monstrous, hairy face out in the open.
And he was sniffing something.
Donald was really in a bad state. He was hurt—and pretty bad too. His face was all bruised and beaten, thanks to the uncontrollable anger of the woman, who clearly hated him for some unknown reason.
But what stood out the most wasn't just the bruises, cuts, or the swollen face—it was the claw marks on the right side of his face, starting from his hairline all the way down to his jawline.
"You know, you could help by not exposing yourself," the woman suggested.
"Now where's the fun in that?" the man replied, continuing to sniff whatever he had on him.
The other one sighed.
"Please don't pay any attention to him. He's not just a beast—he actually has the mind of a wild animal."
The beast-man growled at his companion.
Donald hadn't given up on trying to free himself. He was still trying to get loose, and his attempts weren't as smooth and silent as he thought. While they were distracted, he saw an opportunity.
Cling. Cling. Cling.
That was the sound of the heavy chains being moved as Donald struggled.
Finally, that annoying sound got on the nerves of the man standing with the woman. He pulled out a big, sharp knife and pointed it directly at Donald's face—right between his eyes.
"Enough already!" The man now sounded pretty mad.
"Why are you doing this to me? Don't you know who I am? Don't you know which family I hail from?" Donald demanded.
"Oh, we know, kid," the man said as he slowly retreated his knife.
"Then you know if they find out what you're doing to me, all of your lives will be short-lived," Donald warned, trying to intimidate them.
Slap.
"Look at where you are, you rodent." The woman's hand hung mid-air.
"Look, I thought I already told you that's enough," the man said, stopping her from hitting him again.
Donald decided to look around—like the woman had said.
To his surprise, he realized he'd been in a dungeon this entire time.
And not just any dungeon.
It was his family's dungeon—inside his own home.
It looked so familiar. Bigger than a storage room. Filled with all kinds of torture devices. Long-dead skeletons, centuries old. And a single chair—the same chair he was now strapped into—its chains nailed into the wall.
His face saddened, knowing exactly what that meant.
He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't believe it.
But the grim reality was unavoidable: if this was his family home… then someone from his family wanted to end him.
Donald looked at the faces of those who had taken him.
He couldn't read their expressions beneath the masks and hoods, but he didn't need to.
He could feel it.
They were laughing at him.
He didn't know what to do. He wanted to shed a tear—but held himself back.
"You know, you're lucky I'm tied to this chair… or else I'd show you exactly why I'm the heir of the Crow bloodline," Donald muttered, his voice growing bolder.
For a moment—just a split second—what he said seemed to work.
Both the man and the woman took a step back.
It looked like they were… afraid.
The truth was, even though Donald was bound, he had tried to free himself.
He'd muttered ancient words, in a tongue only few still knew.
He'd attempted to perform some kind of magic through old hand signs.
But nothing had worked.
Still, seeing that both of them were falling for his bluff, Donald got an idea.
If he wanted to sell it, he'd have to go the extra mile.
So, he leaned back in the chair, lowered his gaze, and gave a blood-boiling, taunting grin.
Then, his eyes began to glow—faintly—an eerie orange light.
"Oh, I'm about to end your worthless lives," he growled, staring at the chains tightened around his limbs.
Boom.
A minor tremor echoed through the dungeon. The wall cracked. The chains nearly broke loose.
But then something disrupted his focus.
A sharp pain in his abdomen—right where his spleen was.
He'd lost so much blood already.
The beast-man had appeared before him and yanked the blood-soaked shirt Donald had been using to stop the bleeding.
Donald hadn't seen it happen. He just felt the sting—and groaned.
When he looked up, the beast-man was back in his corner, sniffing the cloth—smelling Donald's blood.
Something inside Donald snapped.
In an instant, he vanished from the chair and reappeared on top of the table where the beast-man sat. He launched forward, aiming to strike.
But the beast-man's reflexes were like lightning.
He slammed his hand into Donald's exposed wound—right into the gash near his spleen—and squeezed.
Hard.
Donald screamed, then blacked out.
Thud.
That was his body hitting the cold, hard floor.
"What are we going to do with him?" the man asked.
"How about I eat him?" the beast-man grinned, leaning close—ready to sink his teeth into Donald.
"Enough! With the eating!" the woman snapped, scolding him.
---
The next thing Donald knew, he was awake again.
But this time, he wasn't in the dungeon.
He was in his room.
Tied up—on his bed.
And the woman was on top of him.
"Get off me, you crazy witch! Do you even know who I am?" Donald shouted, trying to fight her off.
The woman remained silent.
"I'm talking to you, you crazy hag! I am Raze Crow, heir of the Crow bloodline! And if you don't get off me right now, I will—"
Before he could finish his sentence, the woman drove a dagger straight into his chest.