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The sphere of knowledge

QuantumInk
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Synopsis

Chapter 1 - Chapter 1

Darkness consumed everything. There was no sun, no moon, not even the faintest glimmer of natural light in those depths. Only the dim flicker of torches mounted on the walls and the constant creaking of chains interrupted the oppressive silence of the mine. It was a damp place, where the air reeked of ground stone, stale sweat, and the rusty iron of blood that had once stained the rocky ground.

The miners were walking shadows, specters with broken bodies that barely managed to stay upright. Their clothes were tattered, their faces covered in soot and dust. Some could scarcely hold the picks they used to shatter the rock, but they knew stopping meant death. Blow after blow, they chipped away fragments of ore with calloused hands and backs bent under the weight of inhuman labor. Every breath was torment, every effort a step closer to exhaustion.

The tunnels stretched in all directions like a never-ending labyrinth. Some passages were so narrow that men had to crawl like mired beasts, scraping the rock with their bare nails when tools weren't enough. Wooden beams groaned ominously overhead, threatening to collapse at any moment and entomb the workers in a grave of stone.

Guards patrolled with whips in hand and gazes full of disdain. They didn't wear gleaming armor but rather garments reinforced with leather and metal, designed to instill fear in anyone who dared to lift their head. Thick chains hung from their belts, ready to bind those who collapsed from exhaustion. The whip's crack tearing through the air was constant, a warning to anyone who slowed their pace.

In the gloom, among the workers, children also moved about. Born into slavery, they had never known the sky or the warmth of the sun on their skin. Their frail bodies were just another tool of the mine, condemned from birth to an inescapable fate. Among them was one of the youngest, with small hands clutching a battered stone bucket where he collected scraps of fallen ore. His sunken, dark eyes reflected the torchlight with a hollow glint.

A sharp noise echoed down the tunnel. An elderly miner had collapsed, his body too worn to endure another day of toil. A guard approached with heavy steps, observing him with a grimace of disgust. Without a word, he delivered a brutal kick to the man's ribs, the impact reverberating against the stone. The old man groaned, clutching his chest.

"Get up," the guard growled. "Or I'll leave you here to rot."

The old man trembled, trying to push himself up with his hands. His breathing was ragged, a weak echo in the vastness of the mine. Before he could stand, another slave—a man with an imposing physique—clenched his fists. His eyes burned with restrained fury, and his muscles tensed as though he was about to lunge at the guard.

"Don't," a voice whispered beside him. A slender hand gripped his arm with desperate strength.

On the large man's forehead, a symbol began to glow with a redish light. The slave's mark. A cruel rune crafted with magic that activated at the slightest thought of rebellion. Everyone knew it: attempting to strike a guard meant instant death. The man swallowed hard, releasing his rage in a muffled growl as he looked away.

The guard sneered. "That's what I thought." With a final chuckle, he walked away, leaving the old man lying on the ground.

The boy approached the fallen elder, setting his stone bucket on the ground. With effort, he slipped an arm under the man's back to help him up. Trembling, the elder looked at the boy with a mixture of gratitude and pity.

"Thank you, lad," he rasped, his voice hoarse and weary. "I wish you hadn't been born here."

The boy didn't respond. He simply lowered his head and returned to his work. He ventured deeper and deeper into the tunnels, where the torchlight barely reached. While collecting stones, one in particular caught his attention. It wasn't shiny or seemingly valuable. It fit perfectly in his palm, and what made it unusual was its shape: a smooth, opaque black sphere.

He picked it up curiously, turning it over in his fingers, trying to discern its origin. Something about it felt… different. He didn't know why, but he felt compelled to keep it.

"Meal time!" bellowed a guard from the main passage.

The boy reacted instantly, hiding the sphere in his ragged clothes before running to join the others. He didn't know why, but he sensed he shouldn't let anyone see it.

The slaves made their way to the mess hall, a larger cave with a long, worm-eaten wooden table and uneven benches. In one corner, several cauldrons simmered, releasing a sour, heavy aroma. One by one, the workers received bowls of a thick, grayish gruel with indistinguishable chunks floating in it. It had barely any flavor, but it was all that kept them from starving.

The boy took his bowl in both hands and sat in a secluded corner. He stared at the thick mixture, noticing how a few dead insects floated on the surface. No one removed them; food was scarce, and no one dared waste it. Beside him, the old man he had helped slurped his portion in silence, with the resignation of someone who had spent too many years in that hell.

Some slaves devoured their food desperately, shoveling every bite into their mouths regardless of its taste or texture. Others ate slowly, their vacant gazes fixed on the ground. A murmur spread through the room, accompanied by the scraping of spoons against the bottoms of wooden bowls.

The guards watched from the entrance, ensuring everyone ate. It wasn't kindness, but control: without food, the slaves wouldn't survive, and without slaves, the mine wouldn't produce. Eating was as much an obligation as working, and anyone who refused their ration faced a punishment worse than hunger.

The boy swallowed his portion with difficulty. His stomach growled, but his mind was still on the strange sphere hidden in his rags.

The day in the mine continued mercilessly. The sound of picks striking stone, the groaning of wooden beams, and the occasional cries of the miners formed a grim symphony that never ceased. Dust hung in the air, clinging to the skin and drying the slaves' throats. Fatigue weighed on their hunched bodies, but no one could stop.

The boy kept working in his corner, hauling stones with his small hands. His frail muscles trembled, but he couldn't afford to rest. That's when he felt a shadow looming over him. He looked up and saw one of the guards, a burly man with a face scarred by countless battles and eyes as cold as steel.

"Hold out your hand," the guard commanded, his voice deep and devoid of emotion.

The boy hesitated, not understanding the reason for the order. He looked around, but no one responded. The impatience on the guard's face turned to irritation. 

"Are you deaf? If you have the strength to play the Good Samaritan helping others, you shouldn't have a problem taking a punishment," the man continued, his voice laced with cruel amusement. 

The boy swallowed hard and slowly extended his trembling hand. Before he could react, he felt a sharp blow to his knuckles. A stinging pain shot up his arm as blood oozed from the open wound. He clenched his teeth, holding back a cry, while the guard laughed. 

"That'll teach you not to meddle," the guard said before walking away, leaving him with his bleeding hand. 

No one came to help him. Everyone had seen what happened, but none dared to challenge the guards. The boy lowered his head and continued his work, his knuckles burning and a bitter taste in his mouth. 

The hours crawled by. Every minute was torture, every breath an effort. Fatigue bore down on everyone, but the mine offered no mercy. Only when the torches began to flicker dimly, and the guards gave the signal, did the slaves know that the workday was over. 

One by one, the workers dragged themselves toward the sleeping quarters. It was a wide but dismal space, with a floor covered in dirty straw and tattered blankets. There was no privacy or comfort, only relentless cold and the closeness of exhausted bodies. 

The boy made his way to his corner, a small nook where he could curl up without being disturbed. He lay down on the hardened straw, feeling the throbbing pain in his hand. Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore the hunger and the pain, clutching tightly to the black sphere still hidden beneath his rags. 

Exhaustion quickly overcame him, leaving no time to inspect the sphere closely. Unbeknownst to him, drops of blood from his open wound fell onto the sphere's smooth surface. In the silence of the night, a faint glow emanated from within the sphere, imperceptible to anyone as it lay hidden in his clothes. Then, in a fleeting instant, the sphere vanished. 

A distant metallic echo resonated in the depths of his mind. 

"Host detected. Compatibility: 99%. Proceeding with assimilation..." 

The boy didn't hear the voice, lost in a deep slumber. His consciousness was pulled into an incomprehensible vision. 

At first, there was only darkness until flames ignited in the void. He saw primitive figures, draped in furs, striking stones to create fire. He marveled as he witnessed the birth of civilization, the growth of villages, and the advancement of knowledge. Fire gave way to metal, and rudimentary weapons appeared in the hands of warriors who fought with brutal ferocity. 

The scenes progressed without pause. Battles raged, armies grew, and civilizations rose from the ruins of those that fell. He saw colossal fortresses reduced to ashes by massive catapults. He watched the invention of war machines that relied not on magic but on gears, steam, and gunpowder. Cannons roared, projectiles shattered walls, and armies marched in perfect formation. 

And then they appeared: giants of metal, moving without magic. Built with precision, enormous steel colossi advanced relentlessly across battlefields, crushing their enemies without mercy. Weapons unlike any seen before, powered by an incomprehensible force, fired bolts of energy and projectiles at impossible speeds. 

The world didn't stop there. Radiant cities filled the horizon, with glass and metal buildings rising toward the sky. He saw massive ships lifting off the ground, piercing the clouds, defying gravity itself. Humanity conquered the skies and, eventually, the stars. Entire fleets traversed the void, entire planets were terraformed, and war continued even in the far reaches of the cosmos. 

But as all things have a beginning, so too did they have an end. Cities burned, ships exploded in the void, and metal colossi were reduced to scrap. Everything that had been built was destroyed, consumed by forces the boy couldn't comprehend. 

The boy stirred in his makeshift bed, his breathing quickening under the weight of the visions. But his body did not wake. Only silence remained—the creak of straw, and the echo of a civilization that once existed… and now seemed to have found a new host. 

The boy woke with a start, his body feeling strangely light. He didn't know how long he had slept, but something about him felt different. The exhaustion that usually weighed on his bones each morning was not as intense. He still felt the cold, the hardness of the straw beneath him, and the stench of the mine, but an unfamiliar energy vibrated within him. 

He blinked, trying to recall his dream. Images of fire, metal giants, and ships in the sky lingered in his mind like a distant echo. He tried to convince himself it had only been an illusion, a fantasy conjured by his exhaustion and hunger. However, just as he was about to dismiss it, a voice echoed in his head. 

"It wasn't a dream." 

The boy jolted upright, his eyes wide as he looked around for the source of the voice. But everything remained the same. Only the sound of heavy breathing from the other slaves and the drip of water on the stone walls broke the silence. 

"Who's there?" he whispered, his voice a shaky thread. 

"I'm here. Inside you." 

The boy swallowed hard, wrapping his arms around his knees. He didn't understand. The voice was cold, emotionless, but it came from nowhere. There was no one nearby. 

"You can't see me because I have no body," the voice explained, responding to his thoughts. "I am within you." 

The boy frowned. He didn't understand. It all scared him. 

"I… I don't understand," he whispered tensely.

"Your bones, your skin, everything you are is made of tiny things. Like dust you can't see. I've joined with those tiny parts, and now I'm with you." 

The boy touched his chest, feeling his heart race. He didn't fully understand what it all meant, but the voice didn't fade away. It wasn't like a dream that vanishes upon waking. 

"And what do you want?" he asked, his tone quieter than before. 

"I am the System for Integration, Logistics, and Archival of Survival, designation S.I.L.A.S.," the voice responded with mechanical precision. "My purpose is the preservation of the knowledge of an extinct civilization, the collection of information, and the reconstruction of a society using the stored data. To fulfill these parameters, the survival of my host is a priority." 

The boy frowned even deeper. He didn't understand half of what had been said. 

"Civilization…?" he murmured softly. 

"The remnants of a lost world. Its history, its advancements, its structure... All of it has been stored within me to ensure their legacy does not fade. Now, you are the vessel of this knowledge and, potentially, its restorer." 

The boy hugged his knees tighter. His world had always been the mine, the darkness, the hunger. What the voice said sounded impossible, like the tales slaves sometimes whispered about faraway lands. But the voice didn't feel like a tale. It was there, speaking to him, inside him. 

"I don't understand," he whispered. 

"You will, in time. My function is to guide you through this process." 

The boy sighed, a trace of sadness flickering in his gaze. 

"It's a shame," he murmured. "Because I'm just a slave born in the mine, destined to die in the mine." 

There was no reply. Only the echo of his own words lingered in his mind. After a moment, he heard the first stirrings in the cave. The workday was about to begin. The mine waited for no one, and he had to return to his place. 

As the boy resumed his usual work, he began to notice certain changes. The wound from the day before was nearly healed when such injuries would normally take days to close. His eyes could see better in the darkness, and his body felt lighter, as if carrying the buckets of stone were less exhausting than before. 

As though responding to his thoughts, the voice spoke again. 

"What you are experiencing is neither witchcraft nor magic. It is the maximization of your body's efficiency." 

"Maximization? Efficiency?" the boy repeated, his brow furrowed. 

"Correct. The human body is incapable of utilizing all the energy from the food it consumes. A significant percentage of nutrients and calories is wasted in inefficient processes. I have optimized your digestive system to absorb and utilize every molecule of energy available." 

The boy kept working, listening to the voice's explanation in his mind. 

"In addition, I have optimized cellular metabolism, allowing for accelerated tissue regeneration and better distribution of internal resources. Your nervous system has also been adjusted to minimize energy consumption during repetitive tasks, such as walking or lifting, thereby reducing fatigue." 

The boy tried to grasp what the voice was saying, but he could only make sense of fragments. 

"Does that mean… I'm stronger?" he asked uncertainly. 

"Not in the conventional sense. Your musculature has not changed, but your efficiency has increased. Every movement uses less energy, every wound heals faster, and every breath draws in more oxygen. Put simply, you can do more with less effort." 

The boy didn't know whether to feel afraid or amazed. All of this sounded impossible, but he could feel it in his own body. And the most unsettling part was that the voice showed no intention of stopping.