Rargnes woke up on a hard wooden bed, weary. The pain in his back kept him pinned to the bed, but the impending arrival of the goblin forced him to rise from the bed, surveying his master's plantations before dragging himself to work, his limbs burning with pain.
He tended to the crops while his gaze noticeably darkened. He no longer had the strength to hate his master or the men from the Middle Ages who had captured him. At least he hadn't died in the apocalypse. He stooped and tended to the crops under the malevolent gaze of the goblin overseer. They were a group of slaves, all crouched, a scythe in hand.
Rargnes painfully mowed down the yellow sea of plantation around him. His arm grew numb as he hurried to reap while walking towards other areas, disregarding the grain at his feet. He had stopped caring about doing well about a month after he entered the plantation, on his selling day two months ago.
In any case, he only had to worry about pleasing the goblin. The whip whistled through the air and struck his back. Rargnes screamed in pain and fell, the goblin giving him several sharp lashes until he got up again. He dared not shoot him a dark look but hastened to mow even faster.
Each blow revived the hatred in him that he thought was lost with his other senses. No! This pain! One day! One day! He would make him pay! He promised himself! This hatred would remain etched in his body forever! With each stroke, the swing of his arms awakened the pain in his back. His arms, also covered in bruises, itched every moment while his stomach growled in protest of his forced starvation.
They did not like the uprooted-from-their-soil ones - they were not trustworthy men, according to them. Who could imagine the resentment and despair caused by three long years of suffering? Fortunately - and even if he would have surely regretted it - the world suddenly returned before the apocalypse. His sufferings were over.
"It was his destiny!" Said his little demonic voice. "You can't change the past, no matter how tempting it may seem! He has at least served as a scout. He would have suffered less without expectations. You're still alive, so fight. Fight! And even if you fall, we'll make your life valuable."
The demonic voice sounded like a part of a national anthem translated into English. He wondered how he still remembered such things. But apparently, the music never really faded away: "If our young heroes fall, the earth will bear new ones [...] Much less jealous of surviving them, than of sharing their coffins, we shall have the sublime pride of avenging or following them!"
Exciting, certainly, and even more dangerous. He wasn't like this. He wouldn't jeopardize himself. He frowned, slowly emerging as he opened his eyes.
Darkness.
He felt a thin piece of fabric on his eyes. As he tried to move his arms, he realized they were tightly tied together, same for his legs.
'Where am I?' Then he remembered the expedition, the attack, and his falling on the ground. Stress built up, and he tried to wander in his mind to run away from the pain, waiting for his opponents to come. The good thing was that if they still didn't kill him, he still had a chance.
But what could be his usefulness alive more than dead? Torture? He suppressed a head's shaking.
'I really need to think about other things.'
He once asked himself if he ever found the first Rargnes' owner, would he kill him to avenge the first Rargnes? Not only had that man not bothered him in his life - if only for his memories - but Rargnes felt he did far worse. That master had just used society. And the king did allow it.
He just didn't have the feeling that motivated such an illogical act as attacking someone who hadn't done him anything. He felt like an insect, doing everything to have the greatest efficiency to live.
What was he capable of doing to survive? Rationally, he thought of himself preferring the death of all humans but him as his own death. Emotionally, he didn't feel capable of it. Wouldn't he stumble by the genetic link once he saw his family?
In fact, if it was a question of body, he realized those who might inherit his memories would probably not care whether he remained alive. They might even want him dead - for they would exist only if he failed. His role might be eternal, but not his life. This was his one and only life. A Rargnes with feelings other Rargnes wouldn't have - those would only inherit his mind, his logic. They'd get the knowledge, not his link to this world.
If one day he was to die again, he hoped his dear ones would survive.
As he thought about this, he sometimes wondered if his knowledge from the first life and the few days of the second life would integrate into his memories like false memories. If, at one point, he would actively believe he was that first Rargnes who suffered first from that apocalypse. But that man was long dead.
Rargnes hardened himself and waited for dozens of minutes. He sometimes heard the sound of objects dragged on the ground. Then, footsteps stopped before him.
"Move! Hurry up!" A snap voice said. "The chief wants to see you!"
An arm grabbed him by the hair, cutting with a knife his ankle bounds, rising and pushing him through a corridor into a room. If he didn't move quickly enough, or if they wanted to, they kicked him in the ass.
"Scum, move!"
They lay him on the floor, hands tied before him, where he couldn't get up. Only then.
'I'd avenge him.' he said with gritted teeth as he took on unnecessary blows.
Only then did he feel the hatred brewed within him. Nobody had the right to touch his body!
They took off his blindfold, and as his eyes slit, he saw military boots before him. He glanced upward. A sturdy man stood, cigar fuming on the ceiling, scrutinizing him.
"Have we met before?" asked the commander in military attire. Blood had splattered on his military uniform.
"I have no memory of it, sir," said Rargnes, careful to appear as submissive as possible. When one couldn't win, it was better to surrender entirely and try to disarm the enemy.
The man smoked a few puffs of cigar, then exhaled. "Well, well, well..." He was reading a stack of stapled documents. His neck hurt as this situation lasted a few minutes, and he did not dare to utter a single sound or exert any pressure on his bounds - he had no chance to escape anyway.
"I don't usually do this, but... there are positions in my army, and I see that you roughly fit the requirements. What do you say? I heard you're someone who knows how to align with the victors." Rargnes unconsciously furrowed his brow, and the man explained: "Oh, you know, we're not the biggest fans of torture, but the situation sometimes requires breaking a few eggs to make an omelet. They sacrificed themselves for Tir'Heza, but it would surely be too great an honor to offer you, so submission or death?"
"I would do anything to serve you," he said, crashing his forehead on the cold ground, not daring to rise. He imagined the man looking at him coldly, waiting several tens of seconds in this position.
"I see... Xezth will show you the way. Go with him."
He excused himself, showing the utmost servility, and followed Xezth, who seemed of medieval origin. The man walked straight, his face cold and expressionless, leading him through the twists and turns of a giant military base. He followed, limping, a supporting hand edging the walls. He stopped before a reinforced door and signaled to the two guards to open it, which they did.
The door creaked open, a thread of light penetrating it, revealing bloodstains on the floor.
The man tossed a knife to Rargnes, which fell to the floor loudly. The steel blade was specially sharpened but not a magical weapon. "You need a little proof, the commander ordered."
Rargnes was startled to see the macabre scene as the door opened wide.