Soulbound: Dual Cultivation

"There's nothing you could offer me, young man," the prisoner said with a scoff, his voice thick with disdain and the faint undertone of pain. "Your little tricks and promises mean nothing to a man who has already lost everything."

Lucas didn't flinch at the words. He remained still, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable. He had expected resistance, but that didn't make the moment any less significant. He took a slow step closer, letting the weight of his next words settle between them like a sharp blade drawn in silence.

"What if I offer you what you lost?" Lucas said, his voice even, not a hint of jest or uncertainty.

The man raised a brow, confusion flashing through his battered features before being quickly masked by derision. Then, with a low grunt, he let out a short, humorless laugh.

"What you're offering is a good joke," the grandmaster said, baring a crooked grin. His teeth were stained, his lips cracked, but there was still an ember of mockery burning in his eyes. "A cruel one at that."

But his laughter began to waver as he stared at Lucas. There was something in the boy's face that made the amusement stall in his throat, something unwavering, something real. Lucas wasn't bluffing, he wasn't posturing. He was offering something he believed in, and the intensity behind his gaze made that much clear.

The grandmaster's chuckle faltered. For a heartbeat, he seemed to consider it. A long pause settled between them, his eyes narrowed, scanning Lucas with suspicion, as if trying to peel back his skin and glimpse the truth buried beneath.

Then, almost as if shaking the thought away, he scoffed again and forced another laugh, louder this time, but with less conviction than before.

"It's impossible," he muttered through the forced chuckles, his voice hoarse, like a man trying to convince himself of something he no longer fully believed.

Lucas didn't speak right away. He simply stood there, quietly observing the man before him. His eyes, sharp and discerning, caught the subtle flicker that had passed through the prisoner's expression, a brief lapse in the rigid mask of defiance. It was barely there, a shift in the set of his jaw, the brief upward twitch of his brows, and most of all, the faint glint in his eyes that betrayed something far more fragile than his words: hope.

It wasn't much, not yet. It was the kind of hope a man clings to after drowning in despair for too long, the desperate, irrational kind that grows out of the dust of broken dreams. But Lucas had seen it before. It was the same kind of look soldiers wore on the battlefield when they were wounded and cornered, thinking all was lost, only to catch sight of their commander riding toward them. That fleeting spark, that irrational faith, was always enough to keep them fighting just a little longer. And in this case, Lucas didn't need a loyal soldier. He needed a broken man willing to betray whatever code he had once held sacred.

The smirk that tugged at Lucas's lips wasn't born out of arrogance. It was the quiet satisfaction of a strategist who had just confirmed his gamble was working. He had planted the seed, and now it was taking root in the mind of a man who believed he had nothing left to live for. That tiny flicker in the prisoner's eyes told him everything he needed to know.

No matter how much the man tried to cloak himself in bravado and disbelief, no matter how loudly he laughed at the absurdity of the offer, the truth was already in motion. Lucas had given him a glimpse, just a glimpse, of something no cultivator, no matter how fallen or broken, could ever resist. A second chance. A return to power. The impossible, dangled just close enough to feel real.

And that was the most dangerous kind of hope of all.

All he needed was that flicker. That sliver of irrational yearning. Because humans, even the most hardened ones, were always drawn to the idea that something lost could be reclaimed, especially when that something was the very thing that once defined them.

Lucas reached into the folds of his robe with calm, retrieving one of the two vials he had carefully prepared in his chambers. The glass was warm in his hand, the contents swirling with a faint iridescent glow that shimmered subtly beneath the dungeon's dim light. It wasn't a show of alchemy or theatrics. It was power, condensed, refined, and waiting to awaken what had long been lost.

The man watched the vial, his posture still defiant despite the chains that bound him. Lucas stepped closer, holding the vial up just slightly, letting the flickering torchlight glint against the curved glass. He said nothing at first, giving the man a moment to take in the sight, to let the reality of it register in his mind.

Then, softly but firmly, Lucas spoke. "Open your mouth."

The command hung in the air, stark against the silent tension that filled the stone chamber. The man's jaw tightened. His lips remained pressed together, his eyes locked on Lucas with renewed defiance. He didn't need to say it; his entire body spoke the words for him: You can chain me, but you won't make me beg.

Lucas, however, was not deterred. He regarded the prisoner with a hint of cool amusement, then tilted his head, letting his voice drop into something quieter, sharper, like a knife meant not to cut flesh but to slice through pride.

"What's the matter?" Lucas asked, his tone low and mocking. "Are you so afraid to die, even after you've already lost everything?"

It wasn't shouted, it didn't need to be. The words landed with precision, striking something raw within the prisoner's chest....pride. The very core of his identity as a cultivator. Lucas saw it, the shift in his expression, not a breaking, but a bruising. A dent in the iron shell he wore so tightly.

The man's nostrils flared slightly, his eyes narrowing further, but this time it wasn't in defiance, it was restraint,rage and shame. His pride had been wounded, not by cruelty, but by a boy...no, a young man, who spoke with the confidence of someone far more seasoned than he had any right to be. And that was the thing. The man couldn't stand the idea of letting a younger, seemingly inexperienced figure get the better of him, not just in strength, but in will.

He held Lucas's gaze for a long moment, the air between them thick with unspoken challenge. Then, without a word, he parted his lips, just barely.

It wasn't submission or trust. It was pride...twisted, cornered, and forced to survive in the only way it knew how. If he had refused, he would have accepted defeat. He would have admitted that he feared what came next more than he feared staying broken. And that wasn't something his pride could allow.