Ch 10.2

The outer cabins—once advertised as peaceful guest lodgings—had become Wallus’s den.

After the incident with Tevu, the atmosphere around the Pavilion had shifted. Aisha’s public apology had bought the guild time, nothing more. Wallus, pleased by the submission, had delayed reporting the violence to higher authorities. In exchange, he demanded payment in a different currency—more girls, more access, more control.

That was when the real trouble began.

Inside one of the cabins, Wallus lounged comfortably on a wide couch, boots propped on a low table cluttered with empty bottles, half-drunk potions, and scattered plates. He looked relaxed, almost cheerful, a smug smile fixed on his face.

One arm was draped casually around a petite beastwoman seated beside him.

Sheila.

Her body was rigid, wings drawn tight against her back as if trying to disappear into herself. Her hands trembled in her lap, knuckles pale, eyes glossy with unshed tears. She stared straight ahead, terrified to move, terrified to look away.

On the floor before her, another beastwoman writhed.

The girl convulsed violently, clutching at her own body as if something inside her was tearing her apart. Her limbs flailed uncontrollably, knocking over chairs and sending a table crashing to the side. Each breath came out as a broken cry, her voice cracking as pain ripped through her again and again.

Laughter filled the room.

Wallus’s crew watched with cruel amusement, some leaning against the walls, others nursing drinks as if this were nothing more than a game.

In the corners, two or three other girls lay slumped or shaking. One had already passed out, her body limp. Another bite into her own arm to stifle her screams, tears streaking down her face as she endured whatever was burning through her veins.

Sheila’s vision blurred.

Her chest felt tight, each breath shallow and sharp. She could feel Wallus’s arm around her, heavy and possessive, and it made her skin crawl.

Finally, Sheila found her voice.
“Why... why are you doing this to us?”

The question escaped her as little more than a whisper, but it carried everything she could no longer keep inside—fear, confusion, anger, and the desperate hope that there was some explanation that made sense.

Wallus didn't remove his arm from Sheila. A fellow Sheila’s sister trembled on the floor. He barely spared her a glance.

Instead, he turned toward Sheila and lifted her chin with one finger.

“It isn't your fault that you were born into your race,” he said calmly. “After all, your kind are closer to mana beasts than you are to humans, dwarves, or elves. The real inhabitants of this realm have spent centuries suffering because of the beasts that roam the wilds. Yet your people share the same blood.”

Sheila stared at him in disbelief.

“What are you talking about? We're living beings just like everyone else.”

Wallus sighed and grabbed her cheeks, forcing her to look directly at him.
“Oh, spare me. So what if you can speak, think, and walk upright? That doesn't change what you are.”

He reached out, his finger tapping rhythmically against her chest.

“That solid core beating within you is a trait shared by every beastman,” he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. “It is the exact same mana core one finds in common beasts. This is a truth your people can never escape. While humans, dwarves, and elves possess ethereal cores, your anatomy remains indistinguishable from that of a mana beast.”

A cold, mocking smile spread across his face.

“With that in mind,” he continued, “what possible reason could we have to view you as our equals?”

Sheila's eyes widened.
“Is that why you're doing this?” she asked, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “Is that why you've been torturing us? Just because we were born differently? What did we ever do to deserve this?”

The words trembled out of her as she voiced the question every girl in the room wanted answered.

Wallus shrugged.
“This isn't meaningless cruelty.”

His tone remained disturbingly serious.

“In fact, it's for a greater purpose.”

Sheila stared at him, “What?”

“We're developing new sealing techniques,” Wallus replied. “Unfortunately, every advancement requires testing. Every breakthrough requires sacrifices.”

His gaze drifted across the battered girls scattered around the room.
“And what better test subjects than a few lowly beastwomen who already sell their bodies for coin?”

The words struck harder than any slap.

“What...?”

Wallus threw his arms wide, as though he were unveiling a stroke of genius. “Rather than wasting flesh on mere carnal desire, we utilize your forms to further the progress of mana arts,” he declared. “It is a scenario where everyone gains.”

Around the room, several girls lay motionless from exhaustion. Others curled on the floor, crying softly as pain coursed through their bodies. Bruises covered exposed skin, and the air reeked of fear, sweat, and blood.

Wallus's men laughed.

Every scream drew another chuckle. Every whimper seemed to amuse them.

Sheila's teeth clenched so hard her jaw hurt.
Her entire body trembled, yet she forced herself to meet Wallus's gaze.
“You people are insane.”

Wallus laughed.
“Innovators are always called insane at first.”

The men behind him joined in, their laughter filling the room.

“Not that I care what my test subjects think.”

Sheila glared at him despite the terror clawing at her chest.
“Our guild will never forgive you for this.”

Wallus finally paused.
“Oh?” He tilted his head, genuinely amused.

“Still fighting.” A grin spread across his face.
“I like that look. The moment when fear and pride are battling each other.”

He reached to the side of the couch and picked something up.

Sheila saw it and screamed.

Wallus caught her wrist before she could pull away, fingers locking tight as he brought it closer, deliberately slow. The thing writhed in his hand, its long body coiling, countless tiny legs rippling as it reacted to her panic.

“No! Please, don’t do this!” she cried, struggling uselessly.

Wallus chuckled.
“Relax. You won’t remember any of this.”

He pressed the creature forward.

Sheila collapsed moments later, her body hitting the floor hard as agony seized her, limbs thrashing uncontrollably. Tables toppled, chairs scraped across the ground as she writhed, wings beating weakly against the stone.

Wallus didn’t flinch.

He looked up at one of his men. “That’s the last one. Get moving.”

As one of the suffering girls clutched desperately at a crewman’s leg, sobbing for help, he kicked her away without hesitation.

“Enough,” Wallus snapped. “Don’t hit their faces. We don’t want visible marks.”

“Sorry, boss,” the man muttered.

“Stomach. Back. Anywhere that won’t show,” Wallus said calmly. “We’ve got plenty of healing potions, thanks to our generous friends.”

A crate sat open in the corner—vials neatly packed, glinting faintly in the dim light.

Wallus picked up a parchment from the table and skimmed it once more, his smile returning.

“Still,” he mused, amused, “I never expected to find allies like this on the Isle. Guess filth finds filth wherever it goes.”

He laughed softly, the sound echoing through the cabin as the girls’ cries faded into ragged silence.

-----x-----x------x-----

Morning came quietly.

Sheila woke on the cold floor, her head throbbing as if she had been struck from the inside. For a moment, she lay still, blinking up at the ceiling, trying to understand where she was. Her body felt heavy—wrong somehow, as she had slept in armor she didn’t remember putting on.

Slowly, she pushed herself up.

Around her, the other girls were stirring as well, groaning softly, eyes unfocused. Their clothes lay rumpled and out of place, half-folded as if someone else had dressed them in a hurry. Sheila’s hands trembled as she gathered her own garments and pulled them on properly, fastening each tie with care, grounding herself in the small, familiar motions.

The others did the same, movements clumsy and uncertain.

Across the room, Wallus’s men were sprawled on couches and chairs, snoring openly. Empty bottles littered the floor. Wallus himself stood by the window, sunlight cutting across his face as he swirled wine lazily in a glass, already dressed, already whole.

“You may take your leave,” he said without turning.

No one argued.

The girls bowed their heads and hurried out, bare feet whispering against the floor as if afraid to make noise. Sheila followed them, keeping her eyes down until she crossed the threshold and the cool air of the corridor hit her skin.

One of the girls hugged herself tightly, shoulders shaking.
“I… I don’t remember what happened last night,” she whispered.

Another swallowed hard. “Neither do I.”

Sheila tried to search her own mind. The moment she stepped back into memory—after entering the cabin—everything blurred. A sharp pain flared behind her eyes, sudden and punishing, forcing her to gasp and look away from the thought entirely.

She said nothing.

Like the others, she returned to her quarters in silence, walking carefully, as if her body remembered something her mind refused to hold.

The Pavilion moved on as it always did.
Laughter returned. Lamps were lit. Customers came and went.

But whatever had been done that night did not leave with the dawn.

It will come back to haunt them.
And there will be more such nights to come.

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Trivia:
Beastfolk have a tangible mana core inside their bodies, unlike humans, elves, and dwarves. Their cores can be harvested much like those of ordinary mana beasts and used as ingredients in alchemy or for crafting artifacts. This was also one of the reasons they were hunted to near extinction in some regions.