Deep in a sprawling, large forest—nowhere near the Amazon, but thick enough to make even that jungle nod in approval—a ragged line of people shuffled forward.
Their clothes hung in tattered scraps, barely clinging to bodies littered with burns, gashes, and angry red welts.
The metallic tang of blood and sweat clung to the air as they dragged their feet, chains clanking like morbid wind chimes with every step.
Guards in grimy imperial uniforms marched alongside them, spears glinting in the dappled sunlight that fought through the canopy.
Why treat them like slaves? you might ask.
Well… that's the neat part. They were slaves. 🤷♂️
"Work faster, goddamn it!" A soldier at the back of the line barked. His voice cracked like a whip as he drove his boot into the side of an elderly woman—easily in her 80s—sending her crumpling to the mossy forest floor.
She hit the ground with a thud, her bony shoulders trembling, but no sound escaped her lips.
Not that she could scream, of course. Deaf and mute, she could only glare silently as the soldier planted his mud-caked boot on her head, smirking like he'd just won a war. "That's what you barbarians deserve!"
The guy reeked of audacity for someone whose paycheck probably couldn't even cover a decent meal. But hey, when the imperial court's too broke to hire real demon slayers, even minimum-wage goons get to play hero.
Rage simmered in the eyes of the other slaves. A teenage boy ahead of her clenched his fists so tight his knuckles turned white; a woman with a scarred cheek bit her lip hard enough to bleed.
But nobody moved.
Nobody helped.
Let's be real—who'd risk a beating for a stranger? If you think someone would… congrats! You've officially entered Delusionville. Population: you.
This wasn't some anime heartwarming moment. No epic music swelled.
No hero leapt from the trees. Here, survival meant keeping your head down, your mouth shut, and your sweat dripping for someone else's profit. Desires? Morals? Please. Those were luxuries for folks who didn't wake up to the sound of chains.
The world wasn't cruel. It wasn't kind. It just… was.
And damn, was it depressing.
...
Soon, the line of slaves and their guards arrived at a mine that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a nightmare.
The entrance was a jagged maw of darkness, framed by crumbling rock and twisted, leafless trees that seemed to claw at the sky.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rusted metal, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed from somewhere deep within.
Standing near the entrance was an old, portly man dressed in the kind of lavish noble attire that screamed "I have too much money and no taste."
His outfit was made of deep purple silk—purple silk, for crying out loud—and it shimmered obnoxiously in the dim light.
A small army of personal guards surrounded him, their polished armor and stern expressions a stark contrast to the grimy, exhausted slaves shuffling into view.
The man was pacing in tight circles, his polished boots crunching against the gravel. His face lit up the moment he spotted the approaching group, a wide, almost manic grin spreading across his jowly cheeks.
"Finally! My new slaves are here!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with barely contained glee.
He clasped his hands together, fingers twitching as if he were physically restraining himself from clapping like a child on their birthday.
After a moment, he cleared his throat and straightened his posture, trying—and failing—to look dignified.
"Ahem. Imperial guards," he began, his tone shifting to one of mild annoyance.
"Why were you so late this time?" His beady eyes narrowed as he glanced at the ragged line of slaves, his expression a mix of curiosity and irritation. Seven hours for 200 slaves? Unacceptable.
Weren't these things supposed to be delivered in two, like clockwork?
"Apologies, Lord Shinhujiwara," the captain of the guards said, stepping forward from the front of the slave line. He dipped into a deep bow, his armor creaking as he bent low—far lower than necessary.
Better to be overly polite than risk offending the man. After all, the last thing he needed was a bounty on his head or a dagger in his back.
"We had to take a longer route to avoid the anti-slavery unit of the imperial army," the captain explained, his voice steady but laced with caution.
Meanwhile, Shinhujiwara tilted his head slightly, his chins wobbling as he rubbed one of them with a pudgy finger. He squinted, his face scrunching up in what looked like deep thought.
But here's the thing: Shinhujiwara didn't think. Not really. His brain was about as active as a rock, and even that might be giving him too much credit.
"Hmm… that makes sense," he muttered after a long pause, his voice dripping with faux wisdom. "I've heard the new emperor is quite strict about slavery."
He waved a hand dismissively, the silk of his sleeve fluttering like a flag of arrogance. "You may return now. Your payment will be sent in a few days, as usual."
The captain nodded, relief flickering in his eyes as he straightened up. Without another word, he signaled his men to leave, their boots crunching against the gravel as they retreated.
.....
Some months later....
Months had passed since the slaves were brought to the mine. The once-gloomy pit was now a hive of activity, with rows of emaciated figures hauling carts of gold and coal under the watchful eyes of armed overseers.
The air was thick with the clang of pickaxes, the rumble of carts on tracks, and the occasional cough or groan from the workers.
But there was something strange about this mine—something that didn't belong. Flowers. Everywhere. They sprouted from cracks in the rock, clung to the walls, and even dotted the floor.
Their vibrant colors—blues, purples, and yellows—were a stark contrast to the grime and sweat of the slaves. It was almost as if the mine itself was alive, stubbornly blooming despite the darkness and despair.
In a small corner, a group of slaves sat hunched on the ground, shoveling food into their mouths during their measly three-minute lunch break.
The meal? Flower-infused rice balls—pale blue and speckled with petals. It was barely enough to keep them going, but it was all they got.
Suddenly, one of the women slammed her rice ball onto the ground, her voice cracking like a whip. "I'm sick of eating this!" she yelled, her hands trembling with rage. The rice ball rolled away, its petals scattering across the dirt.
It wasn't hard to see why she'd snapped. The rice balls were made almost entirely from the flowers that grew in the mine—cheap, easy to gather, and, apparently, good enough for slaves.
After all, why waste money on proper food when you could just feed them whatever grew under their feet?
This was Shinhujiwara's grand plan: buy 200 slaves, work them to the bone mining gold and coal, and then cut costs by feeding them flowers.
It was efficient, heartless, and exactly the kind of thing a man like him would come up with.
But these weren't just ordinary flowers.
They were Blue Spider Lilies—and their cousins. Their delicate petals shimmered with an otherworldly hue, a deep, hypnotic blue that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light of the mine.
To the untrained eye, they were beautiful. But to those who knew better, they were something far more unsettling.
Unnoticed by anyone in the region, something strange was happening far above. Thousands of miles in the sky, an illusion began to form. It was subtle at first—a faint shimmer, like heat rising from desert sands.
But slowly, almost imperceptibly, it grew. The sky itself seemed to ripple, as if reality were bending under some unseen force.
{Image Here}
Time for a virgin mary.... HEHEHEHEHHEHEH!