The pain was no longer just a sensation; it was a living, breathing entity that had taken up residence in my marrow. I lay there, staring at the damp ceiling of my cell, convinced that my ribs were about to snap outward like a grisly cage. My left hand? It felt as if a master blacksmith had spent the morning using my knuckles as an anvil. My shoulders were a dead weight, numb and cold, and I feared I was becoming a permanent cripple.
And my legs... god, let's not even talk about my legs. The bones were twisted at angles nature never intended, and the right one—I could actually see the jagged white tip of the bone poking through the skin, staring back at me like a silent witness to my misery. My spine felt as though two mountain Golems had used my back as a landing pad for their morning exercise.
Even sleep offered no sanctuary. Every time my eyes drifted shut, I was dragged into a nightmare that felt more like a prophecy. I saw him. Cassian. The "Golden Hero" of the Pantheon. In my dream, he wasn't saving anyone; he was wading through a sea of blood in a nameless village. I saw the spray of crimson on the thatched roofs, heard the gurgling cries of infants, and watched the Temple Knights mount the heads of men on fence posts like gruesome ornaments.
I watched the systematic destruction of families, the absolute violation of the innocent. Even for a cynical rat like me, it sent a chill down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold stone floor. Before he was the "Hero," Cassian was a Temple Knight. That bastard has been a monster since our school days; he just has better armor now.
You know the Temple Knights, don't you? They are the "pious" face of the Church. In reality, they are just a collection of average murderers and thugs hiding behind a prayer bead and a shiny shield. But they are just one flavor of rot. If you ever see the Inquisition, run. They'll arrest you on a whim and whip you in the public square until your back is a map of scars. Believe me, I know how that feels.
But if you're an Elf, a Dragon, a Dwarf, or anything that doesn't fit their narrow definition of "human," then God help you if the Exorcists find you. They don't arrest; they exterminate. I'm telling you this as a warning—and as a piece of my own soul. Don't laugh, or I'll find where you live and burn it to the ground.
When I was five years old, I had a friend. An Elf named Elorion. The Exorcists found us. I watched them kill him, and because I was a witness, they beat me until I couldn't scream, robbed me of the few copper coins I had, and left me for dead. Five years old. That was my introduction to the "holy" Kingdom of Nordara. They preach peace and equality, but all I've ever seen is blood and dirt. I'm fourteen now. I've spent my life in a city that's a tomb, and I've wasted every second of it.
My brief moment of optimism—dreaming of the Asura Empire where the emperors actually know how to rule—was crushed by the arrival of the Slave Trader.
A mountain of a man, a sweating, bloated employee of the trade, grabbed me by my broken arm. I felt the bones grind together, a fresh wave of agony surging through me. My spine shifted, clicking in ways that made my vision go dark. I wanted to die. I should have let the knights hang me in Ahjin. It's all your fault, you bastards! I wanted to act tough and cool for my "audience," and now I'm bound for the auction block. I am terrified. There, I said it.
I was chained to a man so large he looked like he could swallow me whole. The air in the caravan stank of old sweat, excrement, and despair. My left wrist went numb hours ago; I can't even feel my hand anymore. Every step is a gamble with my spine. The Trader sits on his horse, lashing the slaves in front of me with a whip that cracks like thunder, while his muscle-bound goons spend their nights kicking my bruised back and hurling insults.
The only reason I'm still breathing is that the Trader wants a "prime price." He gave me two months of "recovery" so my injuries wouldn't lower my value at the auction.
In those two months, I had nothing but time. Time to think about why those "accidents" happened in Ahjin. I thought I might be a magic prodigy—wouldn't that be something? But no, it was simpler and far more dangerous. I compared the situations. In every instance, I had told a lie. And in every instance, when my life was on the line, that lie became a reality.
Magical Adaptation through Deception. It fits me like a glove. Stop calling me a rat!
I had to be sure. I turned to my cellmate, Darren. He's a bitter man, a former employee of Crown Prince Eather Asura. (Darren's the one who spread the rumor that the Prince cheated on his fiancée with the three Guardians of the Black Sun—the three most powerful, terrifying women in the south. He knows his gossip.)
I tried to convince Darren I was a Healer. He didn't buy it. He mocked me, asking why a Healer would stay broken in a cage. When he caught me in the lie, I felt it. Something deep inside my soul—if I even have one—shattered. It wasn't physical pain, but a void. It felt like the world was turning gray, like I was being hollowed out.
But I persisted. I manipulated him, fed him excuses about "saving mana for an escape," and slowly, his doubt turned into a flicker of belief. That was all it took. The moment he was uncertain, the magic took hold. My bones began to knit. My skin closed. It took two weeks of mental warfare to heal my body.
I spent the next four weeks pushing the boundaries. I lied to every slave who would listen, claiming I could control light, shadows, and frost. I learned the hard way that there is a steep price. My eyesight has faded—I'd say I've lost ten percent of my vision already. My soul feels like a tattered rag caught in a storm.
But the discovery was worth it: If I am surrounded by people who believe different lies about my power, I can use all of them at once. I can be a god of shadows and a master of light simultaneously, as long as the audience believes the act.
I've spent the last two weeks "befriending" the others. There's Ziole, a stuck-up Elf with a name as punchable as his face. Telodia, a rowdy Dwarf who smells of stale ale. And Zune, a Fox-kin girl who looks at me like I'm a puzzle she can't solve. And then there's Darren. I hate them all, but I need them. They are my mana pool. They are my keys.
The auction is tomorrow at 11:00 PM. My plan begins at 7:00 AM.
I need to sleep. I need to be ready. Next time you hear from me, I'll be free, or I'll be dead. Either way, I'm done being a victim.