Just as Aiden exhaled, ready to rest, he felt it—a sudden shift in the air, a distant echo of footsteps approaching the golem field's massive door.
His instincts kicked in.
Without hesitation, he grabbed the voodoo warrior's body and swiftly tucked it beneath a collapsed pile of shattered golems. He wiped a bit of dust from his sword, stood upright, and composed himself just in time.
The heavy doors groaned open.
A tall figure entered, adorned in a radiant silver voodoo mask that shimmered under the moonlight. It was him—the one Aiden had followed through the mines, the one who radiated eerie calm and subtle menace.
"Great work, slave," the silver-masked voodoo said smoothly, his voice too calm to be genuine. "Ah, I forgot to mention… You need to drag all these golem corpses to the gate as well."
Aiden's jaw tightened. His brow twitched. His eyes narrowed for a brief moment, betraying a deep, simmering frustration.
The silver mask noticed instantly. Thin tendrils of mist formed into translucent tentacles from his back, writhing slowly in the air like warning signs.
"What's with that expression?" the silver mask asked, stepping forward. "Thinking of rebelling against us? Don't make me laugh. You could barely handle a single voodoo warrior… and now you dream of rising up?"
Aiden froze.
How the hell does this guy know about that?Did he see it? Was he watching? No... there's no way...
His lips pressed into a flat line.
"Fine. I'll do what you want," Aiden said, voice low and controlled.
The silver mask tilted his head, unsatisfied. "What's with that tone of voice, slave?"
Aiden drew in a sharp breath, then repeated the same words—this time through clenched teeth, stiff posture, and mocking subservience.
"...Yes, of course. I shall do exactly as you command, Great One," he said, bowing his head slightly—but his eyes burned with silent defiance.
The silver-masked figure stared at him for a moment longer before turning around.
"You'd better," he said flatly, before vanishing through the doorway.
One Month Later
The golem extermination grounds had changed.
The stone battlefield still echoed with battle, but now there were more bodies—and more slaves. Some screamed in pain. Some cried. Some moved without thought, their spirits long broken.
But not Aiden.
He was sharper now. Quicker. Stronger. He'd become the equivalent of three versions of his former self. His kicks were heavier. His strikes more precise. His endurance—monstrous.
Other slaves worked around him, some casting glances, others avoiding him altogether. Aiden didn't care. He had one goal.
Escape.
This place rewarded "pity"—a base amount of resources you were allowed to keep. Anything you earned above that? You could keep half.
Aiden always earned more.
He'd used the surplus to buy light armor, reinforced leggings, and body-enhancing potions. Not because he wanted comfort—but because he was preparing.
Preparing for him.
Now, sitting atop a pile of dead golems under a blood-orange sky, Aiden whispered quietly to himself:
"...Will I be able to defeat that silver-looking voodoo mask now?"
His hand curled around the hilt of his sword.
He didn't know the answer.
But he'd find out soon enough.