Darkness. Only occasionally, deep in the mine, dull sounds echoed of a pickaxe striking the thick walls of the cave.
Working almost at the very bottom, in solitude, was Verdian. His black hair, shoulder-length, was disheveled; his clothes were dirty, torn in places, especially around the sleeves and stomach. His thin arms strained to lift the pickaxe upward, offering almost no resistance when it fell.
The cause of his condition was the daily work in the mine. Every day, he got up at the same time, not even knowing what hour it was. And immediately set off on the exhausting labor, after which he went to dinner and ate stale bread along with a small bowl of soup that seemed like plain water.
That was all he did, day in and day out. Heaving a heavy sigh, he ran his hand over his pale face, wiping away sweat. Soon, distant footsteps were heard behind him, growing clearer and clearer.
Out of the shadows, like a shroud of night, appeared a short man of athletic build. His short, light-brown hair was smeared with some kind of dirt, as were his clothes.
"Go back, Verdian. You'll continue here tomorrow..." the man said extremely displeased.
Putting a hand to his face, he peered through his fingers, met Verd's gaze, and after looking into his blue eyes for a moment, the corners of his mouth twisted into a sullen grimace.
"And what possessed Kael to give such a name."
The young man, ignoring him, walked past as if no one was there.
'Shut your mouth already. Annoying.'
He didn't know why he was named that. Opening his eyes for the first time, the first thing he saw was a crowd of people surrounding him, who spent the next few days actively studying him. His memories held no name. Who was he? How did he get here? Absolute emptiness and misunderstanding.
In the first week, while he was getting used to the surroundings, he met Kael. The current boss of this mountain. He was the one who gave him his current name, saying it meant green, or freshness. Although the latter hardly suited him...
The mountain was huge, so it was commonplace to have to walk nearly a kilometer to get back.
***
Finally reaching the gathering of other people, similar to him, he got in line for food. The only difference between them was that they all remembered their past. Verd, however, had arrived with nothing.
The room was almost empty. The main furniture was broken wooden oak tables. Around them stood shaky benches that could barely hold two people.
Finally, when the line reached Verd, a displeased cook, with cuts all along his arm, handed him a small wooden bowl with a transparent, empty soup and a piece of bread lying in the middle.
'Am I imagining it, or did the portion get much smaller?'
Taking his food, he carefully sat in a corner where no one was. Lowering his gaze to the floor, he placed his pickaxe beside him. No spoon or anything similar was provided with any of this. As soon as the wooden bowl touched Verd's lips, for just a second, hot water flowed. He immediately greedily enjoyed that pleasant feeling spreading through his mouth. However, in that same second, it all ended.
'I wish there was a bit more.'
Placing the bowl on the pickaxe, he broke off a small piece of the soggy bread and put it in his mouth. The taste was disgusting. From time to time, it seemed to him that this bread was made from some kind of dust or wood. And that was partly true.
Though he couldn't possibly know about the wood. In all the six years he had spent here, he had never once had the chance to go outside. All he could know about the outside world was information from torn-out book pages. So he even doubted if anything existed beyond the mountain.
Having chewed the piece thoroughly, his attention was drawn by shouts in one crowd. The situation was primitive for this place. Looking up, through his hair he saw a group of men in better condition take food from an emaciated old man who could barely move.
"Get the hell out of here, skeleton! You've got one foot in the grave anyway."
The cook or the overseers of this place did nothing. The law of the jungle prevailed here, so they didn't intervene, letting them sort it out themselves. Even if one side had no chance at all.
The old man tried with all his might to reclaim his last food of the day, even grabbing the man's leg. In response, the healthiest guy, the one who initiated it all, kicked him in the face so hard he stopped moving.
"Hey... he's not moving..." one of the guys standing near him muttered.
"Who gives a damn?"
The guy, showing no compassion, tossed the bread into his mouth and said with his mouth full:
"Like I said, he's got one foot in the grave anyway."
Verd, with an empty head and stomach, continued to watch all this until his bread ran out.
'Maybe, for the first time, I'll get full.'
Tossing the bowl aside, he picked up his pickaxe and, slowly dragging it, approached their group until he stood behind them. Verd acted without warning, and before they could turn around, the pickaxe was lodged in the head of the main guy of their group.
The watching people screamed and ran farther away, barely seeing the bloody fountain from the head. The guys standing next to him froze in shock. Their eyes darted over their friend's, their leader's body, and from time to time at Verd himself.
He showed no emotion, thereby instilling even greater fear in them. Grabbing the pickaxe handle along with the falling body, he almost in one motion pulled it out and pierced the mouth of the nearest person.
Having quickly dealt with the two bullies, the remaining third, who had been watching, almost immediately wet himself and ran away, afraid even to look back in Verd's direction.
The young man stood in a free and relaxed pose, looming over the pale body and the guy with the pierced mouth. He slowly reached for the lifeless body and pulled a whole piece of bread from its belt.
He did nothing more with the second one. He just held out his hand to him. Trying to hold back the gushing blood, he noticed the dry hand. Rejoicing at his luck, within a few seconds, he realized this wasn't a gesture of mercy or help.
With this gesture, Verd showed him only two options. Either he obediently gave up his piece, or he would follow the fate of his leader. At that same moment, a small tear ran down his face, and he reluctantly, with a trembling hand, gave up his food.
Bending down and picking up his bloody pickaxe, Verd calmly left the room. No one dared to speak to him.
All this was part of his small plan for a quiet life here. Every time someone new appeared here and staged such a scene, Verd quickly dealt with them. In his thinking, with such actions he showed the newcomers, and even some of the old-timers here, that it was better not to approach him or try to contact him in any way.
Of course, for the most part, he did this so as not to repeat the same fate as that old man. After all, these were the most primitive things. The strong use the weak to survive, and considering Verd's appearance, the chance of him becoming their next target was almost a hundred percent.
Leaving, Verd glanced over his shoulder back into the room. The old man's body was already surrounded by a small group of people trying to somehow bring him to his senses, but he was already dead. Seeing such a dramatic scene, his facial expression didn't change; he had long been accustomed to seeing such scenes, so he considered it some kind of daily event like waking up early in the morning.
***
The rest room offered no luxurious conditions. A small stone bed, on which lay a small pillow half-stuffed with fur. And above it, right in the wall, long holes were cut, used as a wardrobe.
As soon as the young man entered it, the thick wooden door, reinforced in places with metal alloys, grated shut from the other side.
Sitting on the edge of the "bed," he simply stared at the floor; a stream of thoughts didn't crowd into his head as with ordinary people. Over years of practice and harsh conditions, he had learned to clearly control his thoughts and, when he wanted, could listen to the silence in his head.
A great addition to this was his solitary room. While the other inhabitants lived in rooms with five or six people, because of his behavior, Kael had allocated Verd a separate room.
'Well, another day has passed.'
He lay down completely on the bed, throwing his legs over each other and staring at the ceiling.
'It feels like the days are passing faster. Or maybe I'm just too used to this monotonous work.'
The next moment, his stomach growled loudly, but that wasn't the worst of it... Jumping up abruptly, he began to cough violently, and covering his mouth with his hand, he noticed drops of blood on it.
'Oh, great... I wish there was twice as much food instead of blood.'
Carefully wiping the blood on his clothes, at that moment the painfully familiar grating of the door sounded. Verd didn't react at all; he just continued to sit on the bed and waited for the door to open completely.
A second later, stepping over the threshold, Kael entered the room. A gray-haired man with a small stubble. His face was old and wrinkled, and his clothing resembled a long robe. His long gray hair was neatly gathered into a thin ponytail. In his hands was a small bag with pieces of bread.
If Verd had to compare his relationship with the local inhabitants, he could, with a small degree of confidence, consider only Kael a friend. Although, he still couldn't trust him completely because of his strange behavior.
Since their acquaintance, Kael had maintained contact with Verd every day. He tried to talk, befriend him, brought him a few pieces of bread twice a week. To anyone else, all this might seem just a gesture of kindness, a desire to help a person in a bad condition. However, what kind of person would get the idea to show kindness in such a place? So for all six years, he had constantly been on guard around him.
"Heard you caused trouble again?"