*Piak!*
A broken piece of rock cut through the stale air of an underground mine. The rock smacked directly into the forehead of a young man of around 18 years of age.
The young man was forced back a couple of steps, his right foot submerging itself into a pile of debris.
"That debris is just as useless as you are, Nylon!" A 19-year-old boy wearing similarly torn clothing as Nylon scowled. "If you continue slacking and dozing off like a baby, we'll all be punished! And if that happens, I'll beat your ass black and blue, ya hear!?"
Nylon listlessly rubbed his forehead, feeling a thick liquid trickling. The distinct smell of iron wafted into his nose, and a sharp pain registered.
Yet he didn't make even a peep.
Nylon approached the 19-year-old boy who had chucked a rock at his head. The scary glint in Nylon's golden gaze as he came closer and closer made the other boy instinctively take a step back.
Embarrassed by this action, the 19-year-old boy cursed, "You damn trash!" while throwing the punch of an untrained amateur.
Nylon coincidentally ducked in the same instant. He picked up a scuffed pickaxe before rising. The 19-year-old boy had already fallen onto his bum because of the misdirected momentum, shame and anger filtering through his expression.
Laughter echoed around him, entering his reddened ears.
"Brad, what are you doing down there, haha!"
"Is that cultivationless trash really giving you some trouble!?"
"I'm going on 60 years, and even my old bones could manage to beat a mortal! What sort of disappointment are you, young man!?"
There were all sorts of people gathered in the Mines—male, female, young, old—all carrying pickaxes and covered in blackened soot. And right now, their sneers were deeply affecting the fragile mind of the egotistical 19-year-old Brad.
Unable to take the jeering anymore, Brad let his rage consume him. He shouted, "I'll fucking KILL YOU!!!" while running at Nylon with a pickaxe.
Nylon stopped in his tracks, and with an effortless flow of movements, pivoted on his right foot. He spun around the charging Brad, grabbed his hand, forced him to drop the pickaxe, then kicked it away before resuming his original trot.
The spectators went wide-eyed at this development.
Brad, on the other hand, only felt his blood pressure rise more than ever before. His logical reasoning had already been all but entirely abandoned, and with a burst of energy, he unleashed the full extent of his Enhancement Plane cultivation.
On top of that, the atmospheric energies above his right arm swirled and coalesced. A bright blue sword took shape, emitting deadly intent.
"!!!" "!!!"
"Are you out of your damn mind, Brad!?" A man in his early twenties threw out his hands in disbelief. "It's forbidden to summon your Martial Spirit unless otherwise instructed by the Wardens!"
"I don't give a shit anymore!!" Brad roared, with mindlessly shifting pupils. "Today, this trash dies!!"
This crazy bastard has really gone insane!
Summoning your Martial Spirit as a slave was already a crime that would get your cultivation crippled by the Wardens. But to go so far as to kill a fellow slave was the same as defying the will of the Masters and was deserving of the death penalty.
It looked like two slaves would be dying today…
Nylon, who was chipping away at an impure ore cluster, cocked his head in Brad's direction. The rash young man was rushing at him with the intent to kill, making Nylon's indifference slightly subside.
A murderous intent like no other spread out from Nylon. It forced dread onto the faces of dozens of slaves. As the sole target of this intent, Brad experienced a sense of despair that suffocated him to the point of preventing oxygen from entering his lungs.
With a voice as cold as ice, Nylon said, "Just because I allow your idiocy does not make me a pushover. Learn your place, boy."
After speaking for the first time in weeks, Nylon returned to his job. The sparking sound of metal colliding against metal resounded, forcing all the stunned slaves out of their stupors.
"You…" Brad no longer felt like fighting anymore. His reasoning returned to him.
He was still angry, obviously. However, now was not the time to get his revenge.
Cursing under his breath, Brad stomped away from the robotically moving Nylon. A number of small rocks were kicked as Brad left this tunnel of the mine, planning to complete his work in one of the other tunnels.
Just then, a loud voice reverberated as a middle-aged man in uniform entered Nylon's tunnel. "What was all that ruckus just now!? Are you dumb pieces of shit not properly doing your work!??"
No one answered—they chipped away at ore chunks, pretending to have been doing so this whole time. Seeing this, the Warden clicked his tongue before heading out the other end of the tunnel to continue his patrol.
None of the slaves wanted to attract the attention of the Wardens; thus, they kept silent. It was in no way for the sake of acquiring the favor of a cultivationless trash like Nylon.
Not that Nylon cared either way.
He didn't have any sort of affection for anybody in the Mines. This may have been where he lived for the past year, but it was not his home.
— Later in the afternoon —
"Your shifts are over, you useless shits!" The booming voice of the Chief Warden was spiritually projected throughout the dozens of mine tunnels. "Return to your cabins right away, and prepare for another early 12-hour shift tomorrow morning!"
For most slaves assigned to the Mines, 12-hour-long shifts were the norm. However, for Nylon, who was highly looked down upon, 16- or even 18-hour shifts like the one today were nothing out of the ordinary.
Left all alone in the dimly lit mines, Nylon raised and smacked down with his pickaxe. Even as large amounts of sweat built up under the searing heat contained in the underground channels, Nylon kept on swinging.
Until, at some point—just like earlier—his consciousness slipped. Exhaustion grabbed hold of his mortal shell, his physical body on the verge of collapse due to severe overworking.
The fairy-like silhouette of that beautiful goddess who saved him a year ago appeared in his dreams this night as well. Yet, even after all these reappearances, Nylon still couldn't make out her facial features.
He wasn't even sure she actually existed.
But then the repetition of her angelic voice and kind words would make him realize the truth. She was probably the realest part of his torturous life—he was disappointed in himself for even doubting that fact.
If not for the blackness of the human heart and its boundless greed, he could be listening to more of her voice right now.
However, reality was reality. And Nylon's reality—his fate—was being sold off by the government officials who promised that goddess that he'd be taken care of.
For the tiniest amount of profit, his life had been once again decided for him.
But now, none of that mattered, now did it?