The train ride was peaceful, with no riots to disturb the delicate peace of the Ignian countryside. The scenery of violet flowers blurred past the windows, giving the fleeting impression that all was right in the world. Mountains adorned with snow-capped peaks towered over the lush greenery, their sheer scale rendering everything else inconsequential in comparison.
The Gnatia Mountains had that effect on people. Their beauty was hypnotizing—like an inferno that demanded your gaze, daring you to witness the destruction it might unleash. Just like the country that held them.
It was peaceful, much like the lives of the unblooded who diligently followed every command down to the syllable, spoken from the mouths of their oppressors. They lived in constant fear of being cut down for even the slightest mistake—a fear that ironically gave the proud nobles of Ignis more reason to impose harsher and harsher punishments for any perceived failure.
In stark contrast, the world of the rebels was utterly different. Their refusal to work, their refusal to pay taxes—acts of defiance that condemned them to a fate where all their rights were stripped away. They were no longer seen as human, no longer afforded the rights once so benevolently "gifted" to them by the Blooded, the wielders of fire and dominion.
I sat in a luxurious cabin filled with every conceivable comfort. This was customary for captains—who were almost always born into powerful noble Blooded families. From the golden-plated seats to the chocolate fountain, everything in this space screamed opulence. The fountain, obnoxiously displayed in the middle of the train car, served no real purpose other than as a decoration. Its cascading streams of chocolate were never touched, yet it's worth likely surpassed the entire value of the village where the rebels had once sought refuge.
This only served to amplify the stark divide in status between the "slaves" confined to the metal carts at the back—carts typically reserved for cattle and pigs—and the ambiguous chrome-plated compartments transporting high-class nobles. These nobles, puppets of the system, facilitated the capture of unblooded individuals to serve as manual labor, bolstering the country's national strength and protecting its borders from the "ethically responsible" nations that landlocked the Ignis Republic.
The irony was palpable. The very practice meant to strengthen the republic's military and defenses—enslaving the unblooded—simultaneously worsened its already strained relations with the rest of the continent. It was contradictory, and yet they did it anyway. It was as if the republic craved an excuse to bully someone into submission, no matter how absurd the justification.
As a captain, someone closer to the bottom than the top, I was often tasked with grunt work, so to speak. My job was to keep the rebels in check, ensuring they couldn't use their mere mortal abilities—abilities that paled in comparison to the firepower of the proud nobles comfortably seated at the front of the train.
It made no sense at first glance. Either the supposedly logical top brass had made an error, or the reason ran deeper. Perhaps it was psychological, a deliberate strategy meant to instill fear within the rebels. To show them that any spark of defiance would be swiftly snuffed out, much like the flames of a still-training noble soldier struggling to control their power.
And so, once every hour, I had to rise and make the long trek from the padded carts to the cold, sheer metal walls of the transport carts at the back.
"Good evening, men," I bellowed, deliberately giving them a sense of time since they had no way to tell for themselves. "We are drawing close to your fate—a fate carved out by none but you. As a group and as individuals, you have committed a grave crime: the crime of rebellion against our powerful nation. And as a result, you will give everything for this country. Your rights as humans are stripped away, and you will surrender to your fate, comparable to cattle.
You will bolster this nation in any way you are ordered. If you are told to die, you die. If you are told to run into an inferno, you do so. Once you step off this transport, you will be split up—family, age, friendships—it matters not."
Once we reached the station, the "cattle" were unloaded and fed with the leftover hay, so generously provided by the farmers trying to sell the last of their product. They were then introduced to their "sheepdogs"—the Flaama, the police specifically trained to handle the slaves resulting from the capture of rebellious unblooded.
The Flaama efficiently guided them to their various trucks, each one carefully organized to evenly distribute the slaves where they were needed. In the end, all of them would serve the prideful Ignian nobles—a fate that awaited anyone with the gall to rebel against a nation that existed solely to serve the Blooded.
I, too, was guided, though not by the Flaama, but by my house servant, whose purpose was to force me back into the confines of my own home—a home that housed my father. A father who cared little for his three children, seeing us only as tools to expand his dominance over the unblooded. He owned a great majority of them; in fact, he was the head of one of the leading houses in "unblooded" labor, using them to further his own ambitions: to tear down rival houses, amass wealth unmatched by any other, and, most importantly, to feed his insatiable ego.
The rebellion was new, and so was the concept of unblooded labor. Whoever pounced first caught the mouse, and my father had been the one to do it. In fact, he was the first to stoop to the level of slavery, the one who suggested it as a punishment. This truly encapsulates his personality: a cold, logical, unsympathetic opportunist.
Stepping out of my carriage, adorned with the finest gold-infused wood sourced from the Incendium Silvae—a forest of rare Baobab trees, known as the "Tree of Life" for their massive, thick trunks and distinctive shapes—I couldn't help but reflect on its rarity. Even high-class nobles found it nearly impossible to acquire, despite their vast information networks spanning the entire continent and occasionally extending into other nations in search of anything valuable. This truly showcased the depth of my father's wealth and power—wealth built on the backs of slaves.
Heading up the paved road, glittering with precious stones and gems, I approached the massive mansion—a sprawling estate that dominated the vast countryside, boasting an area of 1,000 acres. It was larger than any other family estate, save for that of the imperial family, who narrowly surpassed us in power and wealth.
The mansion's towering walls, standing 20 meters high, were carved from sandstone and reinforced with the blood of the noble family that resided within. Noble blood, infused with magic, had the unique ability to manipulate everything it touched. Depending on the user's intention, it could either strengthen or crumble as they saw fit.
towers that surpassed the walls in height stood as archer posts, ready to defend the mansion with a hail of noble fire. Once again, they were second only to the imperial family, whose defensive capabilities just edged out those of this estate. These towers, however, were crafted from pure steel, admired both for their stunning metalwork and their remarkable sturdiness.
The gargantuan door, reinforced with the same magic that fortified the 300-year-old walls, had stood the test of time with unwavering resilience. It was so incomprehensibly massive that one of the fabled dragons of old—said to span 150 meters in length and 10 meters in girth—could have passed through it without so much as scratching the paint. These legendary dragons, adorned with spikes that even the greatest blacksmiths in Ignis's history had failed to melt, were a testament to the sheer scale and grandeur of the mansion's design.
The windows, tinted black to match the matte finish of the walls, were reinforced with titanium bars to provide additional support to the already fortified glass. It was rumored—likely an exaggeration born of my father's propaganda—that even if the entire Ignis army focused their fire on a single window, they would fail to break it.
Hesitating, I stepped through the doors, which were opened for me by one of the many servants my father employed to flaunt his power. Inside, a chandelier made entirely of flames hung proudly within the vast reception room, casting flickering light across the space. The red carpets beneath my feet seemed both welcoming and ominous, their deep crimson evoking the color of blood.
At the center of the room, a grand staircase—spanning the width of ten houses from the village I had burned—commanded attention. Its placement was deliberate, drawing the eye upward to the many rooms above, displayed not for practicality but as a statement of the Voryn family's wealth and influence. The banister handles, crafted from pure rose gold, served as yet another symbol of Ignis's fiery dominion and the pride of my father's name.
"Ah, son, you have arrived," my father greeted me with a cheery smile, as if I hadn't just committed an unforgivable atrocity.