In the year 2 AD, a wave of terror sweeps over villages and forests surrounding the ancient sacred woods of the High Elves as the Bone Collector reappears, spreading death and haunting the land. Known for their magic and longevity, the High Elves have long shared a close bond with humans. When news of the Bone Collector's return reaches the High Elves, an alliance forms between the two peoples. They resolve to unite and defeat the monstrous creature responsible for taking countless lives and corrupting the souls of innocent beings.
The High Elves possess a legendary artifact, the Bloop Spear—an ancient weapon forged by elven sorcerers from a rare blend of Bloop Stone and Celestium steel, capable of piercing the mystical defenses of dark entities. Legends say the Bloop Spear is imbued with the light of the stars and the sacred waters of the holy forest, making it a weapon that can penetrate not only the hardened skin of demonic beings but also reach into their very souls.
However, the spear can only unleash its true power when wielded by warriors of pure and courageous hearts—those who bear no hatred or fear, only a steadfast will to protect life.
The hunt for the Bone Collector spans a hundred days and nights. Warriors from both races pursue his trail through gloomy forests and shadowed valleys. Though they face countless perils, cunning traps, and the Bone Collector's deceptions, they never falter, pressing onward in their determination to vanquish this dark creature. However, the Bone Collector is wily; each time he is cornered, he slips into the night, reappearing in unexpected places to tear apart and slaughter members of the hunting party.
The final hunt ends in disaster. Taking advantage of the darkness and the warriors' exhaustion, the Bone Collector launches a fierce attack. The warriors fall one by one, and in the horrifying chaos, Eldrin, the last remaining High Elf soldier, witnesses the Bone Collector transforming his fallen comrades. Eldrin sees his friends—mighty and valiant warriors—becoming grotesque creatures, bearing the monstrous, tormented forms of those whose souls have been stolen.
Realizing he is the sole survivor and unable to slay the Bone Collector in his weakened state, Eldrin surveys the blood-soaked battlefield, eyes filling with tears at the sight of his twisted, fallen comrades. Yet, instead of abandoning hope and faith, Eldrin vows that the Bloop Spear will not be lost or forgotten like his fallen friends. He decides to leave it behind as a promise to future generations that this hunt will not end until the wicked creature is utterly destroyed.
In the dim moonlight over the blood-stained forest, Eldrin draws blood from his wounds, creating a protective circle around a colossal ancient tree. Summoning his remaining strength, he drives the Bloop Spear deep into the tree's trunk until it seems to merge with its roots and lifeblood. Eldrin silently prays:
"To whoever lifts this spear, let the power of the fallen warriors and my vow become theirs. End our enemy and bring peace to the tortured souls."
With his final vow complete, Eldrin draws his sword and takes his own life, denying himself the fate of becoming one of the twisted creatures he had witnessed.
From that day on, the Bloop Spear embedded within the ancient tree becomes a sacred and legendary symbol in the cultures of both humans and High Elves. This tree, known as the Eternal Tree, becomes a revered site where villagers pass down tales that the spear still lies there, waiting for a new hero to take it up and fulfill Eldrin's and the fallen warriors' mission.
Every year, on the day marking the hundredth day of the fateful hunt, warriors and villagers gather by the Eternal Tree to honor those who perished and to hope that one day, a courageous warrior will rise, take up the spear, and finally vanquish the Bone Collector, freeing all the souls he has imprisoned.
At this moment...
"Veritas, Veritas!?" Helene tugs on my sleeve as I stand there, still bewildered by the view of room 232.
"VERITAS!" Helene shouts in my ear, snapping me out of it, and I finally turn to look at her. "Why are you complaining so much, you gender-bender? What's the issue?"
"Zihao said we should try going into room 232—there might be an important clue here!" I continue to look around before, almost unconsciously, I start exploring, ignoring Helene hesitating by the door.
As rumors have it, the room expands to a full hectare, even though it appears to be no more than 30 square meters from the outside, thanks to space-warping magic—a type of magic I know nothing about beyond its name.
Meanwhile, Helene is still standing hesitantly at the doorway.
"Twenty minutes have passed already? What is Veritas doing in there?" Helene mutters, biting her lip and leaning against the wall.
A figure steps out. Oh! It's Veritas! Helene smiles in relief, until she sees Veritas's expression—face pale, eyes wide with terror, as if he's seen something horrific.
Veritas looks at Helene with those wide eyes. "I think... I think you should..." He rubs his eyes, trying to stay calm, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "Experience it."
Without another word, Veritas pushes Helene inside room 232 of the Arabian-style hotel. The door slams shut. Helene tries to open it but fails. With no other options, she takes a moment to explore her surroundings. In front of her is the main hall, and next to it is a lavish room designated for noblewomen.
"For women only?" Helene mutters, curious, as she steps closer.
The heavy door shuts behind her. Helene takes a deep breath, nerves on edge, bracing herself for whatever might come next. A quiet calm fills the vast, luxurious room, stretching out endlessly, though from the outside it is just a small hotel room. Velvet curtains and golden patterns cover the walls, soft lanterns casting a warm glow that almost gives the room an alluring feel. It seems lavish, even inviting—if not for the uneasy sense of vulnerability hanging in the air.
As Helene's gaze moves deeper into the room, she notices strange garment racks lining the walls. She approaches them, almost entranced, her fingers grazing silks and velvets—dresses, shawls, and gleaming accessories under the dim light. Yet, something about these garments unsettles her, as though the very fabric itself feels alive.
Then she sees them. Small, trembling forms bound to the cloth—tiny bodies with their arms tightly fastened into the fabric, twisted and woven into intricate undergarments. Their faces are frozen in silent agony, eyes hollow but subtly shifting, tracking her every move. The realization crashes over her: these are not ordinary accessories. These are people—shrunken slaves forced into decorations for noblewomen.
"My God..." she whispers, stepping back, her mind grappling with the cruelty woven into these refined garments. Some of the slaves appear to have been trapped for years, bodies immobile but eyes still following her movements, filled with a haunting despair.
One tiny figure, no bigger than her finger, hangs from the lace edge of a brassiere, hollow eyes still alive. Helene leans in, and as he notices her stare, he attempts to open his mouth.
"Help me…" he whispers in a weak, faint voice.
Her instincts kick in, and she crouches down. "How... how are you still alive?" she asks, struggling to keep her voice steady, her stomach twisting as she looks into his gaunt, pained face.
"They... they use magic," he says, his voice weak and raspy. "We cannot die. We don't even need... food or movement. But we still feel... everything. The hunger, the pain..."
His words hang in the air, filled with loathing and exhaustion far beyond the limits of human endurance. Helene's hands tremble as she imagines the torment they must endure, cursed to exist in this frozen, suffering state, reduced to ornaments for women who view them as mere objects.
As she steps back in horror, she nearly bumps into a woman in a deep crimson dress who appears behind her, a faint smile on her lips. The woman's expression is one of amusement, as if Helene's reaction is part of the spectacle.
"Quite a fascinating sight, isn't it?" the woman says, her voice sweet yet icy. "We have an entire team here dedicated to crafting beautiful jewelry from these… little toys."
"Toys?" Helene exclaims, unable to hide her disgust. "These are human beings!"
The lady's smile doesn't waver. She bends down to adjust a bracelet—a bracelet that Helene now sees clearly has a shrunken man attached to the strap, his tiny body twisted into a position that displays him as an unwilling ornament.
"Human beings?" the lady replies, raising an eyebrow. "They're slaves, my dear. No different from animals. We give them purpose, something nobler than their wretched lives before. They should be grateful for this honor."
Her cold words cut through Helene, but the lady's gaze shifts away, clearly losing interest in the conversation. Helene feels anger rise within her, but she suppresses it, realizing she's in no position to challenge this woman without consequence. Instead, she tries to maintain a calm expression as the lady moves away, heading towards the center of the room where a small crowd is gathering.
Shortly after, as the lady returns to her group, Helene notices another tiny figure, trapped in the golden clasp of her shoe. Helene's heart sinks as she sees the blank face and hollow eyes of the little man, as if he's endured too much horror. She turns away, a wave of nausea rising in her throat.
"Please… don't go," a weak voice sounds nearby. Helene's eyes search around the clothing rack until she finds the source—a small man tightly bound to a strap, his limbs stretched painfully as he clings to the fabric.
"My name is Marlan," he whispers, his voice shaky. "Please… I beg you… save us."
Helene kneels down, her eyes filled with sympathy. "Marlan," she says softly, "I… I don't know what I can do… but I'll try to understand. How long have you been here?"
He shudders, his gaunt face showing dark memories too painful to share. "Many years… perhaps decades. They use magic to shrink us, to make us durable. We can't die of hunger, but the hunger gnaws at us endlessly, a torture that never ends. We survive… only by their sweat. When they… wear us… it's the only thing keeping us alive."
His voice trembles, and Helene feels her chest tighten at his suffering. A thought flashes through her mind, and she hesitates, unsure if she should ask. But the question keeps gnawing at her, and finally, she whispers, "They… use you for other purposes too, don't they?"
Marlan closes his eyes, his small body trembling. "Yes," he replies, his voice breaking. "They shrink some of us for… for their private pleasures. They make us endure things that are unimaginable."
Helene clenches her fists, struggling to control the surge of emotions within her. These nobles have crossed every boundary of dignity and humanity, treating people as mere tools, stripping them of their self-worth and autonomy. Every instinct in her wants to help them, to break the twisted magic that binds them. But she lacks the strength or knowledge to do so—at least not yet.
"I'll find a way, Marlan," she whispers fiercely. "I don't know how, but I swear I'll try."
Before he can answer, loud laughter echoes through the room, drawing Helene's attention back to the crowd. The nobles continue their revelry, immersed in their twisted amusements, oblivious or indifferent to the suffering they've inflicted on their victims. And in an instant, the noblewoman devours Marlan whole.
Helene watches the scene one last time, her heart resolved to never forget the faces, the small bodies forced into such degradation.
Outside the room, Veritas stands, his stomach churning as he thinks about what Helene is experiencing inside. The sounds of life outside seem to fade, giving way to a storm of emotions within him. Suddenly, a conversation from a hidden corner catches his attention. Two noblemen are speaking, and he moves closer, trying to listen.
"Did you know, I just returned from Sarthia," one voice says, full of smug pride. Veritas catches sight of a nobleman with a bright demeanor. The man, likely Lambert from Sarthia, famous for its apple orchards, nods in a light green outfit, embroidered with intricate patterns depicting ripe apples.
"Sir, I am Lambert, a noble of Sarthia," he introduces himself, his voice resonant like music. "My land is famed for bountiful harvests and the festivals we hold, where the taste of fresh apples always captivates the heart. Though we've had a bit of trouble with our… staff."
"Is that so? Those workers certainly keep us… entertained," the other noble replies, a hint of glee in his tone. He's Maina, from Lambda, a coastal land renowned for pearls and ocean products. His attire is a pristine white cloak with dark blue wave patterns. A natural pearl necklace glitters around his neck, like pearls from the sea. "I hear there have been some… recent changes in how we manage those lowly folk."
"Indeed," Lambert replies with a faint smile, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "That's why our esteemed Fuhrer has summoned the nobles of the empire to discuss the issue of enslaving minors, and perhaps it's time we reconsider our methods. For over a century, more than a hundred million have lived a life we call… different. It's worth a discussion."
"Exactly, and in fact, 90% will be sent to mines, lumberyards, or serve us, the nobility. They're likely accustomed to the slave life, and that's truly commendable," Maina says, his tone full of mock admiration.
"It's also true that a small number, around 8%, aren't chosen and meet unfortunate fates, being 'weeded out' from the list, unable to meet our standards," Lambert continues, his smile tinged with disdain. "We really don't need them in this society; they're not like us, not human as we are."
"And the remaining 2%? The ones they call Divergents?" Maina asks, curiosity sparking on his face. "They could be powerful tools if we had better ways to control them. But I hear the current magic slave tattoos are outdated and no longer as effective."
"That's right," Lambert nods, his expression growing serious. "The recent slave rebellion in the Heilop domain has proven it. They've found a way to escape our control at a surprisingly rapid pace."
Maina chuckles softly, shaking his head. "Perhaps it's time we need something newer, something stronger to address these issues. I've heard suggestions that we should add multi-layered magical shapes into the system, capable of controlling their minds entirely. A summoning circle from Earth to turn them into true slaves."
"That's an intriguing idea," Lambert says, his eyes shining. "If we could have complete control, rebellions would become nothing but distant memories. Let's have a serious discussion about this at the next Conference."
"Absolutely," Maina smiles broadly. "We'll be able to ensure that everything returns to its rightful order, and those beneath us will know their place."
Veritas can't listen any longer. Their words cut deep like knives into his mind. A surge of anger rises within his chest, and he is determined to find a way to rescue the team and others oppressed by this brutal regime.
...
Veritas holds his breath, deciding to stay and hear the rest of the conversation. The voices of Lambert and Maina continue, laced with an undisguised smugness and arrogance.
"You know, it's truly a remarkable achievement that we've managed to bring such a large number of young slaves into our possession," Lambert begins, pride evident in his tone. "These are children from ages 10 to 19, who likely can only see slave life as a part of the grand destiny they're destined to bear. In fact, working in agriculture, mining, or serving nobles like us is what they must learn to survive."
"Of course," Maina responds, satisfaction clear on his face. "They've become a valuable asset for us. These children are not only forced to work but must learn to live under the management of nobles like us. Quite the valuable lesson for them!"
Lambert smirks and continues. "Honestly, if they're beaten or starved, that's just a minor part of their training. That suffering helps them understand that their status will never change. Furthermore, those who can't endure naturally remove themselves from our production cycle."
"And we can't forget those with special fates," Maina adds, his eyes glinting. "I've heard of Aldo, the slave they call Heiloop's Maniac Operative. He's become a legend among slaves, capable of slaying most beasts. He's a prime example of how we can exploit the talents of these slaves. He was sent to the wilderness to complete missions and, regrettably, like others, had to endure the fate we had set for him. Heiloop really lost a gem with him."
"Indeed," Lambert laughs heartily, unable to hide his pride. "He served us excellently. That's truly the essence of the slaves we possess—they work until they're exhausted, like machines."
"Speaking of slaves, we mustn't overlook the females," Maina says, a gloating tone in his voice. "By age 20—actually, from 16—they're 'encouraged' to breed 'continuously,' so we can produce a new generation of slaves. These female slaves will never have a chance at freedom; they'll serve us until they turn 30."
"And let's not forget the larger slaves," Lambert continues, his tone almost praising. "Their fates are special. They often undergo cleansing. Their hair is used as fabric, their fat turned into candles, and their bodies…oh, nothing is wasted. Their remains are thrown to vultures, their bones crushed as fertilizer, and their souls… they're used as fighting assets by the Necromancers. What an efficient, economical system!"
"Yes, collecting and using every part of them is something we should take pride in," Maina agrees, his eyes shining with satisfaction. "Every slave, male or female, has a specific fate. Anyone at least 1.8 meters tall is forced to stand as an art piece for nobles to admire. It truly highlights our elegance and status. I still remember the time my son and I admired a tall, lanky boy who was enchanted so he couldn't move, painted to look like a palm tree. He looked absolutely pathetic!" Maina laughs out loud.
"Don't laugh just yet!" Lambert takes a sip of his wine. "They're excellent breeding material."
Maina nods thoughtfully. "When my son comes of age, I'll make sure to get him a female slave under 25 and at least 1.85 meters tall!"
Veritas feels as though their words stab straight into his heart. He can't believe there are people who take pride in the cruelty and suffering they cause. He knows he can't just stand there listening any longer—he can't wait any more. He has to act.
...
Helene leaves the blood-soaked room of transformed slaves, feeling as if a heavy stone crushes her chest. Everything blurs, as if she's lost in a nightmare with no way out. Each step echoes in the corridor, a haunting reminder of the unimaginable cruelty she has just witnessed.
As she enters the Shaping Chamber, the air feels weighed down by anguish. Sounds of laughter and lively conversations fill the space, mingling with the groans and muffled cries of the suffering slaves. The grand hall, illuminated by eerie lights, shimmers with unsettling beauty, cloaking everything in a somber, horrific hue. Helene feels as though she is stepping into a factory that mass-produces nightmares.
In the center of the room, a stone platform rises like an altar for the worship of evil. A bound slave lies upon it, writhing in agony. Magical light envelops their body, initiating a twisted transformation. With each flicker of light, the slave screams, a desperate cry that seems to tear through the air, reverberating painfully in Helene's mind.
"Look over here!" a noblewoman in an extravagant gown exclaims, pointing at the slave. "We're about to get a perfect new toy! Watch as a man transforms into a woman! Marvel at the wonders of magic!"
A chill runs down Helene's spine. The slave is a young man, now forced to endure this grotesque transformation. His body contorts, organs shift, and every part of him alters at the whim of those in power. Helene realizes this is not merely a physical change; it is an assault on his identity, an attack on his very soul.
"Truly a fitting punishment," another noble remarks, openly pleased. "Turning them into women, making them incapable of resistance, stripping them of the will to revolt."
The words feel like a knife stabbing into Helene's mind. Not only are these slaves forced to endure such cruelty, but even those above them seem utterly devoid of humanity. Anger surges within her, but she lacks the strength to do anything. Each noble, engrossed in the spectacle of torture, cloaks themselves in apathy and twisted delight.
Helene tries to step back, but the eyes of those around her seem to imprison her, forcing her to witness this horror. A soft voice echoes from the crowd, "If the rate of male slave rebellions increases, this will be their fate. It's the perfect way to suppress any rebellious spirit."
Disgust consumes Helene's mind. She knows this is a world where life and death hold no meaning, where people can be stripped of everything just for the amusement of the powerful. There isn't a single ray of light in this darkness.
As the mages continue their work, she feels like she is suffocating in this oppressive atmosphere. She can no longer bear it. But just as she is about to turn away, something else catches her attention.
In a corner of the room stands another slave, a young girl whose eyes hold a look of despair. She seems lifeless, merely standing there as her frail body trembles. Helene's gaze fixes on her, hoping to find some spark of hope, but all she sees is emptiness.
"Why aren't you afraid?" Helene asks, though her voice sounds like a hollow echo in the endless void.
The slave only sighs, her empty eyes staring into nothing. "Fear is something I can no longer feel. I've seen too much, endured too much to be afraid anymore." Her voice is like a faint shadow, devoid of emotion, as if everything has already been taken from her.
"You won't escape from here," the girl continues, "and you won't be able to save us. Everything has been predetermined. It's all just part of this cycle, where pain becomes normal."
Helene feels each word like a sharp blade piercing her heart. All the hope she has once nurtured lies trampled underfoot. She comes here with dreams of rescue, yet now she sees only a brutal and naked truth. Every effort feels meaningless, as if she is casting stones into an endless void.
"We live, but in pain," the girl continues, her eyes now clouded, as if resigned to her fate. "We are no longer human. We're nothing but toys, tools for the entertainment of the strong."
Helene quietly turns away, unable to bear any more. She lacks the strength to change anything. She is just an outsider, a witness to cruelty, powerless to do anything but watch it unfold. As she steps out of the Shaping Chamber, she feels as though a part of her dies.
There is no light, no hope left in this world. Each step she takes seems to pull her deeper into a bottomless abyss where all good things cease to exist. She is a lone, lost soul in a society that has abandoned all humanity. Not even the power of her team can save them now, and she has other urgent matters to attend to…
Helene finds a hidden corner in the chamber, away from the light, where laughter and sobs can't reach her mind. She leans against the cold wall, closes her eyes, and tries to steady her breathing. The horror of what she has just witnessed overwhelms her, as though she is being buried under a thick, dark sludge.
But in that moment of quiet, a snide laugh from a nearby corner catches her attention. Opening her eyes, she sees two noblewomen standing by the doorway, chatting merrily about things too vile for her to want to hear. They stand there, their eyes glinting with amusement, as though sharing amusing stories.
"I hear there are independent summoners operating outside the city," one of the women begins, her voice echoing in the space. "They aren't ours, but they summon young children from Earth."
"Wonderful! I hear they often sell them to nobles like us," replies the other, her excitement barely contained. "They're just merchandise, used for experiments or simply as tools, even pets. They're so easy to control!"
Disgust rises within Helene's chest. The cruelty of this world extends not only to the slaves she has seen but even to innocent children summoned from other realms, treated as mere toys for sadistic nobles.
"Did you know?" the first woman continues, her eyes gleaming with sinister delight. "We've been talking about buying one of 'them' to torment. Just imagine the suffering on their faces, watching the fear and despair in their eyes. Nothing compares to that!"
"Oh, despicable! But also, so delightful!" the other laughs shamelessly. "They're so easy to manipulate. A simple trap, and they're helpless. They wouldn't know what to do—just running and begging."
Helene feels a weight pressing down on her heart. She can't endure the cruelty and twisted pleasure on display before her. She turns away, unwilling to listen any longer. The shame and agony are not confined to the slaves she has seen, but now extend to innocent children, drawn into this horrific world to serve the depraved whims of people like them.
All hope, all meaning in life seems erased in the darkness. She wants to scream, but no sound comes from her lips. Her dreams, her hopes for a better world, now lie as shattered images, fragments broken like pieces of glass.
Despair envelops Helene. She no longer has the strength to fight. Everything she has witnessed makes her feel as though she is sinking into a pit with no light, no hope, no escape. She is a lone soul in a world filled with suffering and cruelty, a sidelined observer in a realm devoid of humanity.
From her secluded corner, Helene watches as the nobles continue their twisted entertainment, oblivious to the torment unfolding before them. She realizes that nothing can change this world, nothing can save the innocent lives caught in its grip.
Helene withdraws slightly, no longer wanting to linger there a moment longer. She no longer wishes to hear their mocking laughter, nor to witness humanity's cruelty. Her life has already been filled with suffering, and now, only emptiness remains.
Helene takes heavy steps, leaving room 232.
"Helene, are you done already? How are you feeling?" Veritas asks, his tone filled with concern.
"She must be in shock. Perhaps I shouldn't have pushed so hard," Veritas thinks to himself.
Helene looks at Veritas with eyes full of sadness and emptiness, saying nothing.
Seeing this, Veritas falls silent, quietly following Helene back to the room.