In the high sky during the dark night, the moon hid behind dense clouds, casting only a pale glow over the vast expanse of land. The air was heavy and humid, laden with the unmistakable stench of sweat, dust, and despair. A cold wind swept through the ravines and gorges, whistling among the rocks like an eternal lament.
Beneath the surface, in the bowels of the earth, a mine sprawled like a labyrinth of narrow tunnels and treacherous passageways. The dark stone walls rose on either side, covered with marks from picks and rusted tools, scars of endless labor. The slaves moved like shadows, hunched figures with skin hardened by toil and bones jutting out beneath emaciated flesh.
The incessant clanging of picks against rock echoed in the depths, a constant rhythm marking their condemnation. Every strike, every fragment chipped away, was another testament to their misery. Oil lanterns hung from rusted hooks, casting a flickering light that barely illuminated their surroundings. The mine stretched across multiple levels, with crumbling wooden walkways and beams on the verge of collapse. The ground was littered with debris, and the air was thick with dust that rose with every movement.
The slaves worked in silence, their faces blackened with soot, their breaths ragged from exertion. No one dared to speak, not with the whips and batons of the guards lurking in every corner. The sentinels patrolled with heavy steps, armed with clubs and braided leather whips, watching with cold, unyielding eyes. To them, the slaves were nothing more than disposable tools, replaceable with each new batch of captives.
"Faster, dogs!" bellowed a guard, his voice echoing through the cavern.
A younger slave, barely a teenager, staggered under the weight of a sack of stones. His legs trembled, his muscles exhausted from relentless labor. He tripped over a loose rock and fell to his knees, spilling the sack's contents across the ground.
For a brief moment, silence fell.
The guard approached with slow, deliberate steps, savoring the anticipation. The other slaves avoided looking, pretending they hadn't seen anything. They knew what was coming.
"Can't handle it anymore? Too heavy for you?" the guard's voice dripped with venom. Without waiting for a reply, he raised his baton and struck hard across the boy's back. A dry sound and a muffled cry mingled with the echo of the picks. "Get up! There's no rest for garbage like you!"
The boy curled into himself, trembling, but didn't get up. Another blow. And another. His breathing grew labored, his body shaking from the pain.
"Enough!" a voice interrupted the beating.
All the slaves tensed. The guard turned slowly, scanning for the one who had dared to speak. A man with a face hardened by years of suffering met his gaze, fists clenched tightly.
The guard smiled cruelly. "Do you want to take his place?"
The man didn't answer, but his gaze didn't waver. He knew what was coming. He knew the punishment was inevitable. And yet, he stood firm.
The other slaves looked away. They knew compassion had no place in this mine, that every act of defiance was paid for in blood. The whips cracked through the air, and soon the sound of flesh being struck filled the tunnel. The man didn't scream, didn't utter a single groan. His teeth clenched with every impact, his knees buckled, but he didn't fall. When the guard finally stopped, panting and with his whip stained with blood, the slaves returned to their work. There was nothing else to do.
The boy, still on the ground, watched with glassy eyes the man who had intervened for him. He said nothing. He couldn't say anything.
The guard spat on the ground and stepped back. "Now move. Or next time, it won't just be lashes."
With the strength he had left, the boy got to his feet, staggering. He hoisted the sack again and began to walk, its weight crushing him even more than before. The man who had defended him remained standing, his wounds open and bleeding, but his expression showed no regret. Only determination.
Hours passed slowly. The rhythm of the picks against the rock never ceased. For the slaves, time was a useless concept. There was no difference between day and night. Only work, hunger, and exhaustion. Only the certainty that any day could be the last.
At the far end of the tunnel, an elderly man worked with trembling hands. His bony fingers could barely hold the pick, and each strike was weaker than the last. One of the guards watched him with disdain before approaching and shoving him aside.
"You're useless."
The old man fell on his back, gasping. His tired eyes met the cold stone floor. He didn't try to get up. He didn't try to defend himself. His gaze drifted into the cavern's darkness, as if he already knew what was coming.
The slaves continued working. No one stopped. No one could stop.
As the inferno of the mine roared with the grinding of steel against stone, a group of warriors stood guard at the mine's entrance.
A campfire crackled in the center of a clearing surrounded by trees. The flames cast uneven shadows on the faces of the guards who, sitting on logs or leaning on their weapons, passed the time with conversations filled with boredom and resignation.
"This place stinks," grumbled one of the younger guards, throwing a piece of wood into the fire. "I can't believe they sent me here right after graduating from the academy. All because I didn't master aura perfectly."
"Bah," spat another, an older man with a scar on his cheek. "What did you expect? To be sent to the capital to guard nobles? This is where they send the useless and the unwanted."
"Damn our luck," another muttered, digging at the dirt with the tip of his boot. "At least if there were some fun... but no. Just dirty work and those stinking slaves. Not even a single damn woman to pass the time with."
Some laughed; others merely nodded wearily. They knew they were trapped in the worst fate for a soldier. The mine had no glorious wars or formidable enemies to face. Only slaves, dirty and weak, chained and without a chance of resistance.
"The worst is the cold," complained one of the burliest guards, bringing his hands closer to the fire. "Damn it, why does the temperature drop so much at this hour? I don't understand how the slaves survive in those caves without freezing."
"They have no choice," said another with a crooked smile. "When you have no other option, your body adapts. And if not... well, you know."
Silence fell for a moment over the group. Everyone knew what happened to the slaves who couldn't endure the cold, lack of food, or extreme labor. The bodies were dragged out of the mine before dawn, and the next day, new slaves took their place. It was an unbreakable cycle, one no one dared to question.
"We should get paid more for this misery," the youngest muttered again. "I didn't go to the academy to end up here, watching walking rags."
"And without women," added another mockingly, prompting tired laughter.
As the laughter spread through the darkness of the night, a faint whistle, almost imperceptible, cut through the air. It was a whisper in the breeze, a sound so subtle that none of the guards noticed it.
A moment later, the youngest among them stopped laughing. His body froze, his mocking grin locked on his face as his eyes widened in surprise. An arrow had pierced his right eye, the tip emerging from the back of his skull. His mouth quivered as if trying to say something, but no voice came. Without a sound, he collapsed sideways, his life extinguished in an instant.
None of the others had time to react.
In a fleeting second, seven shadows moved through the night, and with deadly precision, seven more arrows whistled in the gloom. They struck with ruthless accuracy, piercing throats, eyes, and hearts. There were no screams, no warnings, no alarms. Just a brief instant of absolute silence before the bodies collapsed one by one onto the cold earth, their weapons slipping from their lifeless fingers.
The campfire crackled, indifferent to the massacre, casting dancing shadows over the motionless bodies of the guards. The crackling of wood and the whisper of the wind were the only witnesses to the perfect kill.
Then, from the depths of the night, 46 hooded figures emerged with silent steps, like haunting specters. Their faces were completely covered with dark fabrics, concealing any features or identities. Their movements were calculated, precise, their bodies wrapped in shadows that obscured any details about them. They exchanged no words; there was no need for orders. Each of them knew exactly what to do.
The leader of the group stopped at the entrance of the mine. Their eyes calmly surveyed the scene, taking in the bodies of the fallen with the cold detachment of someone who had planned every detail. Then, with a slight nod, they gave the signal.
Without hesitation, the hooded figures entered the mine, slipping into the darkness like living shadows. The night swallowed their presence, leaving only the reigning silence in their wake.
The mine's tunnels were intricate, narrow, and labyrinthine, branching into multiple corridors that seemed endless. The darkness was almost absolute, barely broken by the faint light of flickering torches in the distance. The group of hooded figures couldn't stay together for long; they were soon forced to split into small groups of five. Only one figure moved alone, gliding like a shadow through the stone tunnels.
After several turns and descents through dimly lit passages, the first group reached their destination.
Before them lay a chamber larger than the rest of the tunnels. Inside, several wooden beds were lined against the rock walls, occupied by motionless shapes. It was the guards' dormitory, the only place where they could rest away from the stench of the slaves and the mine's relentless toil.
No voices or heavy breaths could be heard. There was no movement at all. Only the sound of water dripping from the ceiling and the distant crackling of a torch.
The hooded figures approached the entrance in complete silence. Despite the gloom, their trained eyes discerned the forms of the sleeping guards. At first glance, the room seemed peaceful, but within each of them burned restrained rage. While the slaves slept on piles of damp straw and dirt, these men rested on thick mattresses and decent blankets, enjoying a comfort none of the mine's prisoners would ever know.
One of the figures seemed to tense at the sight. Their breathing grew heavier, and their hand slid slowly to the hilt of their weapon. What they held was a short sword of unusual design; its blade appeared to be forged from metal but had sections of an opaque, rough material with the texture of wood. It was not a common weapon.
Before their companions could stop them, the figure moved forward, advancing quickly but without making a sound. Their body moved with precision, with the skill of someone trained for the hunt.
But even the most skilled hunters can make mistakes.
Just as they crossed the room's threshold, their foot brushed against a thin cord, nearly invisible in the dim light. A mechanism creaked, triggering a hidden lever in the shadows. A metallic sound rose through the room.
A bell rang in the silence.
The enemy was waking up.
The hooded figure who had accidentally triggered the alarm silently cursed as they recalled their training.
A year ago, their life had drastically changed. They had gone from despair and slavery to training under their savior's leadership. The days weren't easy. Every morning began before dawn with grueling exercises that pushed their body to its limits. At first, they could barely stand, but over time, their endurance grew. After physical training came food. It wasn't bad; in fact, it was the best they had ever tasted, but it brought with it a strange pain, a burning sensation that coursed through their body, forcing it to adapt. However, to them, that pain was insignificant. A whip lash hurt far more than that.
After eating came the part they struggled to understand the most: studying. At first, they didn't grasp why their savior insisted so much on it. Why did they need to learn about tactics, history, and combat strategies? However, one phrase stayed with them: "Not all battles are won with strength." Over time, it became clear. Strength without direction was useless. Knowledge was as lethal a weapon as any sword.
Initially, despair had overwhelmed them more than once. They doubted whether all the effort would be worth it. But then they saw the results. Their body changed, becoming stronger and more agile. Their reflexes improved. They learned to move undetected, to read the flow of a fight, to strike with deadly precision. Their mind evolved as well. They now understood strategies and could anticipate an enemy's moves before they happened. With each passing month, the fear they had felt as a slave faded, replaced by an unyielding determination.
One day, after months of training, he was allowed to hunt wild beasts alongside his companions. It was the first time he felt true freedom. He no longer depended on others to survive. He didn't have to wait for a scrap of bread to be tossed into a dirty bowl. He could now find his own food; he could now defend himself.
But that wasn't enough.
His ultimate purpose wasn't just to survive. His heart cried out for vengeance. Vengeance against those who had denied him the right to exist as a free being. And tonight, he was so close to achieving it. So close to embarking on the path he had long yearned to tread.
And he had made a mistake.
A simple mistake of impatience.
And now, that mistake not only endangered his life but the lives of all his companions.
But this was no time for regrets. He knew it. And his companions understood it too.
The sound of the bell still reverberated through the mine's walls, like a mocking echo announcing imminent danger. Cold sweat ran down his back, his breathing quickened for an instant. What if it all ended here? What if his revenge was cut short before it could even begin? No. He couldn't allow that.
Before the echo could stretch too far, the other four hooded figures quickly entered the room. Their movements were fluid, precise, lethal. The swords slid silently from their sheaths, reflecting only the faint torchlight. The room's calm vanished in an instant, replaced by the certainty of the inevitable.
The guards began stirring in their beds, some murmuring, still trapped between sleep and reality. But before they could react, before they could even grasp what was happening, death descended upon them with the swiftness of lightning.
The sharp blades slashed throats, pierced hearts, and cut off the breath of those who had once been masters of others' despair. There was no time for screams, only the muffled sound of bodies being cut down, the bubbling of blood escaping the lips of the dying, the final gasp of lives snuffed out without understanding their end.
The soft, comfortable beds that had once served as the guards' rest soon became their graves. Dark red blood stained the sheets, permeating the air with its metallic stench. The difference between life and death had been a matter of seconds.
The hooded figure who had made the mistake stood still, sword firmly gripped in hand. His eyes scanned the scene, his mind recording every detail of what they had done. He felt no compassion. He felt no remorse. Only a cold, controlled sense of satisfaction.
They had waited so long for this moment, for this opportunity to return the suffering. And they had succeeded.
But this was just the beginning.