They were led through the massive iron gate, which creaked open slowly, making a terrifying sound as if it hadn't been opened for centuries. As soon as they crossed the threshold, Zarathos felt like he had stepped into an entirely different world.
The air here was heavier, saturated with the scent of scorched metal, sweat, and blood. The clanging of chains and metal echoed through the space, while muffled screams filled with pain faded into the deep tunnels.
Zarathos moved with the rest of the slaves through a narrow stone passage, surrounded by walls of black rock lit by strange flames—not ordinary fire, but a cold blue glow that danced on the walls in a haunting manner.
Soldiers walked beside them, surrounding them with heavy weapons and grim expressions. Anyone who tried to slow down or stumble was shoved roughly, sometimes struck without warning.
But Zarathos didn't care.
He was watching.
Studying.
Understanding the nature of the place and the rules that governed it.
After minutes of walking, they arrived at a wide courtyard located in the heart of the mine. It was crowded with slaves—some dressed in tattered clothes, their skin covered with wounds and scars, while others looked more vicious, their eyes filled with hatred and primal survival instinct.
At the center of the courtyard stood a raised stone platform, and on it stood Lord Karon with several of his men.
Karon raised his hand, and immediately, silence fell over the place.
He looked at the new slaves, his eyes scanning each one of them as if choosing his victims.
"Listen carefully, you scum."
His voice was calm, but carried a clear sense of dread.
"You are now in the Shadow Mine. That means only one thing… your lives are no longer your own."
He stepped forward and smirked coldly.
"Here, the weak are crushed… and only the strong have the right to breathe."
Suddenly, he raised his hand, pointing at one of the older slaves standing at the back.
"You."
The chosen man trembled, swallowing hard before stepping forward in fear.
Karon said nothing—he simply signaled to one of the soldiers beside him.
In a swift motion, the soldier drew his sword and struck the slave immediately, decapitating him in a single blow.
The body collapsed to the ground, hot blood spurting from his neck as the head rolled to a stop at the feet of the new slaves.
Some trembled, others fell to their knees in horror.
But Zarathos…
He just watched.
It was a familiar scene to him.
In his past life, he had seen worse.
Karon smiled as he observed their varied reactions, then spoke again.
"Did you learn the lesson?"
No one dared answer.
"Anyone who disobeys… will end up like this fool."
He pointed at the bloody corpse.
"But those who prove themselves… might find a chance to live—or even grow stronger."
He lowered his hand and turned to one of his men.
"Take them to the work zones. Let them taste the hell of the mine."
The soldiers moved immediately, pushing the new slaves toward the passageways leading to the mine's depths.
They walked through long tunnels that grew narrower the deeper they went. The air became thicker, and the humidity made the walls feel like they were breathing.
Finally, they arrived at the work area.
A vast space carved into the mountain, filled with slaves wielding massive pickaxes, digging into black rock, while the cold eyes of the guards tracked every movement.
"Each of you will be assigned a task."
A supervisor's voice echoed—a large man with wrinkled skin and countless scars on his face.
"If you don't work… you know what will happen."
He gave them a quick look before assigning jobs.
"You, dig there."
"You, carry those rocks."
"You… clean the tools."
When he reached Zarathos, he paused, then laughed mockingly.
"You're too weak to even dig… you'll carry water for the workers."
He lifted a heavy wooden bucket and held it up to Zarathos's face.
"Here, take it."
Zarathos looked at him silently, then took the bucket without protest.
This wasn't the time to challenge anyone.
He needed to understand this place more before making any moves.
"But don't worry…"
The supervisor added with a sarcastic grin.
"If you can't even carry water, we'll find another use for you… maybe as a corpse?"
Some guards laughed as they shoved Zarathos toward a corner where a small pool of dirty water lay.
He took a deep breath and began his work.
But as he filled the bucket, his mind was working rapidly.
"They think I'm weak?"
"Fine… let them think that for now."
"But soon…"
"I'll show them who the real Zarathos is."
…
…
The work was more exhausting than it initially seemed. Carrying the heavy water bucket and moving between the workers in the mine seemed like a simple task, but in truth, it was a test of his patience and limited physical strength in this frail body. Every step drained what little energy he had. In his past life, he had endured exhaustion and pain—but not this level of weakness.
The bucket was filled with filthy water, mixed with dirt, and smelled terrible. It was clear that the workers here didn't even have the basics of life. Yet, they had no choice but to drink from it.
The guards watched him as he moved between the lines, their eyes filled with ridicule.
"See that new slave? He can barely carry a water bucket!"
"Hahaha, I bet he won't last two days here!"
But Zarathos didn't respond.
He didn't care about their insults.
He was just observing… everything.
Every tunnel, every corner, every guard's movement. He knew that chaos would be his only opportunity here.
"In this place, the weak are crushed."
"But I won't remain weak."
"Not this time."
After hours of nonstop labor, his arms were trembling from exhaustion. Sweat drenched his entire body, but his mind remained sharp. This body was weak now, but with time, and the right training, he would rebuild it.
When it was time for rest, he sat with the other slaves in a filthy corner of the mine, where the darkness was thickest and humidity dripped from the rocks above like cold drops of blood.
One of the slaves, a scrawny young man with a scratched-up face, looked at him and spoke in a low voice:
"You're new here, right?"
Zarathos nodded without speaking.
The young man gave a bitter smile. "Doesn't matter. You won't last long anyway. Either you'll die from exhaustion, or a guard will decide you're no longer useful."
Zarathos said nothing.
"But if you want my advice… don't try to be a hero. Just do what you're told, and don't lift your head."
Zarathos looked at him calmly. "Is that what you did?"
The slave laughed, but there was no joy in his voice. "Yeah… and that's why I'm still alive."
Zarathos moved away from him and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to regain his energy, but his mind wouldn't stop racing.
"This place is full of opportunity—but also full of danger."
"I need power… as soon as possible."
He knew there were two ways to gain power in a world like this.
First: rigorous training, which he would definitely do—but it would take time.
Second: find an external source of power… something that could accelerate his growth.
But in a mine like this, any power would come at a price.
"Adrias! Get up!"
A harsh voice snapped him from his thoughts as he was yanked roughly to his feet.
One of the guards—a massive man with dark skin and a long scar across his left eye—glared at him with harsh features.
"Work's not over. There's a load of rocks that needs moving!"
There was no choice.
He was shoved alongside another group of slaves and tasked with carrying heavy stones through one of the tunnels.
For Zarathos, it was true hell.
His body wasn't ready for this kind of effort, and every time he lifted a stone, pain exploded through his exhausted muscles.
But he didn't give up.
Every stone he lifted, every step he took, only strengthened his resolve.
He knew this suffering was only the beginning.
And soon…
He would show everyone who he really was.