Chapter 7: First Encounters with Work
The morning air was damp, clinging to Elias's skin like a second layer of filth. Hunger sat heavy in his gut, a dull ache he had grown used to but never truly accepted. Every morning was the same—wake up, endure, survive. But today, Garrik had made it clear. Today, he would work.
Elias followed the old man through the winding paths of the slums, his steps slow but steady. Around him, the city pulsed with life in its own way—a grim, suffocating existence where every man, woman, and child fought for scraps. The slums did not sleep, nor did they allow weakness. Those who hesitated were swallowed whole.
The market square was no different. It stank of sweat, rotting food, and the acrid tang of desperation. Merchants barked at passersby, their voices hoarse from years of shouting. The goods on display were pitiful—overripe fruit covered in flies, stale bread hardened into near-stone, rusted tools barely fit for use. Children with sharp eyes and quick hands darted between the stalls, their movements too fluid to be innocent.
Elias barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere, trapped in the weight of his own reality.
Not long ago, he had been a man of knowledge, a scientist who pushed the boundaries of understanding. He had controlled his world through equations, through logic. Now, he was reduced to a beast of burden, another body toiling for the sake of survival. His hands, once steady with delicate instruments, now bore the beginnings of calluses, his fingertips raw. The contrast was unbearable.
Knowledge had once given him power. Here, it meant nothing.
His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to sketch out formulas, to solve, to create—but what use was a brilliant mind in a world that valued only strength?
Garrik led him to the blacksmith's forge, a decrepit workshop on the edge of the slums. The building's walls were charred with soot, its wooden beams warped from years of exposure to relentless heat. Inside, the air was thick, heavy, suffocating.
The blacksmith himself was a mountain of a man, his arms thick with muscle, his skin darkened by years of working the flames. His gaze swept over Elias once before a snort escaped his lips.
"You're joking, right?" the man grunted, looking at Garrik with mild amusement. "This one'll break in a day."
Garrik didn't react. "If he does, he's not my problem."
Elias forced himself to remain still, to keep his expression neutral. The humiliation burned worse than the heat of the forge, but he bit down on it. Words meant nothing here. Actions did.
The blacksmith let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Fine. Put him on coal duty. Let's see if he lasts till midday."
Elias stepped forward without hesitation.
The work was worse than he expected.
Heat pressed against him, relentless and all-consuming. Every breath was fire, the air itself turning against him, filling his lungs with soot and smoke. The weight of the coal sacks dragged at his arms, pressing down on him like iron shackles. His muscles screamed with every lift, his fingers cramping, his vision blurring—but he did not stop.
He couldn't stop.
The blacksmith watched from a distance, his smirk widening as Elias struggled to keep up. "You move like a corpse, boy," he called. "Maybe you should go back to digging through trash like the other rats."
Elias gritted his teeth. He would not respond. He would not give the man the satisfaction.
His body protested, every muscle burning, his throat parched from the heat. Sweat dripped down his face, mixing with the grime, blinding him for brief moments. He worked in silence, shoveling coal into the forge, feeding the ever-hungry flames.
But as he worked, he observed.
He memorized the way the blacksmith handled the metal, the rhythm of the hammer striking the heated iron. He noted the inefficiencies in the forge's structure—the uneven heat distribution, the poorly maintained bellows. Every wasted movement, every flaw in the process stood out to him like errors in an equation.
He calculated. He understood.
But he said nothing. Not yet.
By midday, his body had reached its limit. His hands, blistered and raw, trembled as he scooped the last pile of coal. His breath came in short, sharp bursts, his muscles barely responding to his will.
The blacksmith tossed him a chunk of stale bread. Elias caught it with reflexes he didn't know he still had.
"Did better than I thought," the man admitted, though his tone was still edged with mockery. "Didn't cry or collapse. Maybe you're not completely useless."
Elias bit into the bread, ignoring the way it scraped against the roof of his mouth. His body didn't care about the taste—it cared about sustenance, about survival.
Garrik, who had been watching from the doorway, finally spoke. "That's enough for today. Tomorrow, we find something else."
Elias swallowed, wiping his mouth. His hands shook from exhaustion, but he clenched them into fists, steadying himself.
"Why?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
Garrik smirked. "Because you're too weak for the forge."
The words struck harder than the day's labor.
Elias said nothing, but inside, something seethed.
He was weak.
And he hated it.
That night, as he lay on the rough wooden cot, every muscle in his body ached in protest. Sleep clawed at the edges of his mind, but his thoughts refused to quiet.
The blacksmith's taunts echoed in his head.
You move like a corpse, boy.
You should go back to digging through trash.
His pride burned hotter than the forge's fire.
He had always relied on knowledge. On understanding. But in this world, knowledge meant nothing without strength.
But he could learn.
He had memorized the layout of the forge, the blacksmith's routine, the weaknesses in every tool. He had seen how the bellows wasted energy, how the coal burned unevenly, how the forge could be better.
One day, he would not be the one shoveling coal.
One day, they would answer to him.
Elias stared at the ceiling, the cracked wood illuminated by moonlight seeping through the holes in the roof. The wind howled through the gaps, whispering against his skin like a cruel reminder of his place in this world.
He clenched his fists beneath the thin blanket.
He would not remain weak forever.
End of Chapter 7.