The great Arks, living ships of near-indestructible magical witchwood, made excellent time across the water, their massive bulk now pushed and pulled by the gigantic leviathans that made the deep places of the sea their home. Great cheers were raised when the ships made landfall on the western continent.
— On the Cataclysm by an unknown Quassian Scholar, circa 103 AC.
Half a day of grueling labor had been an exhausting—yet strangely relaxing—experience. There, in the mine, it was just my pick and I waging a never-ending war against the rock. It reminded me of the time when I had washed dishes for a summer job. The dirty plates piled high with leftover delectables, more arriving throughout the night until close. Muscle memory would take over, and the mind was free to think of other things.
The pull of the chain from the line snapped me from my reverie, and my hobbled feet almost stumbled as we were led to our next destination. The heavy ore-filled wicker basket’s straps cut painfully into my shoulders as we moved. Passing by a sorting area, we deposited the load as instructed before continuing our weary march.
We arrived at our final destination, a compound surrounded by tall walls of smoothly quarried stone. A single gate led into the place, and we were herded through like tired cattle after a long day of grazing. On our left, as we entered the walled slave pens, flowing water ran across a rough-cut line in the stone floor. It rushed fast, like a mountain stream, before disappearing into a large metal grate running into the ground.
As we passed by, elderly slaves of both sexes stooped and hunched, washing clothes and other miscellaneous items, their eyes held low. We were corralled into another area, where we handed over our tools to some official-looking Guards, who counted and recorded them on tablets. Another group of cruel-eyed Guards took us to an area with slaves in various states of undress, washing in the cool open air with cupped hands along the stream.
“Wash here. Relieve yourself down by the grate,” instructed a Guard with a large pole flail, his voice bestial in its promise of danger. It appeared my captors had some idea of the importance of hygiene, if nothing else.
Even here, at the bottom rung of society, a pecking order was established. Those who were more belligerent or stronger took a place near the water’s source, while others made do further downstream with the dirtier remnants. With my bladder painfully swollen, I made my way down to the grate to relieve myself.
After fulfilling my bodily needs, I moved back upstream to a place with cleaner water, but a huge block of a man shoved me back with a grunt. Tilting my neck upwards, I saw blond hair hanging in loose locks, dripping water. A chiseled jaw and aquiline nose were set in a face that looked carved from hard stone, and his cold, glacier-blue eyes dared me to try again.
“I am the first to wash,” he drawled in a low voice, almost like a warning growl from a bear. He raised a fist at me before turning away and going down to the water to bathe, cocky, slow, and sure in his arrogant stride.
The sudden threat of violence caused a spike of adrenaline, and my face flushed with anger. I checked my Status, preparing to reply in turn with violence, when a familiar gravelly voice piped behind me, “Don’t mind him, lad. Just wait your turn. We’ll all get there eventually. The Guards will beat you twice as hard if they see you fighting here.”
Turning around, I recognized the wide frame of Durhit, his eyes dull with exhaustion. I was in no shape to enter combat anyway, and the threat of punishment kept me in check for all but a split second.
I was about to thank him for his sage advice, but something gnawed at me—a seed of violence that had been born in the arena. Having faced bullies before, I felt it necessary to show at least some form of resistance. It wasn’t just about who got to clean themselves first anymore. If I accepted this treatment, I would be accepting it for the rest of my time here. I’d had enough of it in my old world.
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Absently, I also noticed my recent gain in Strength had led to a slight increase in my Health and Stamina, and I had gained a modest amount of experience from toiling in the mines. Would it be enough for what I had in mind?
I pushed past some of the waiting slaves and found my target washing himself. At first I only intended to prove that I was not easily cowed; however, his vulnerability as he lowered his face to the water inspired something darker. My sudden transportation, the constant smorgasbord of pain just to survive, the ever-present threat of death, and my recently awarded victory at the arena unlocked something I think all of us possess deep inside.
I threw a punch with all my weight as I splashed into the water, aiming for the space just above the nape of his neck. With a closed fist full of rage, I connected with a meaty wallop. By some stroke of luck, the titan of a man fell into the water, stunned. Falling on top of him, I grabbed his head and kept smashing it against the cold hard stone. The water began to turn crimson, and the slaves parted from me like Moses before the Red Sea, fear etched in their stupid bovine eyes. I got up quietly, walked a little further from the spreading crimson, then washed my face in cleaner water.
After splashing my face a few times, notifications flashed across my inner vision, and I could not help but laugh. It appeared my karate classes as a teenager had paid off, and a green belt equated to about skill level three.
Something inside of me probably broke then as I kept laughing at the sheer absurdity of my new reality. This was a world that rewarded violence and death. If this wasn’t a game, then what was it? The notifications confirmed it; I had killed a no-name human NPC and was rewarded for it.
The Guards came for me then, a cautious respect in their eyes, wielding long-poled man-catchers and wicked whips. I was mentally exhausted, my pent-up anger and frustration fully spent in my cathartic explosion of violence. Raising my hands, I accepted my fate, hurriedly increasing my Strength and my Heal spell.
They beat me.
Like good workmen, they went about their task diligently, going over me with effortless rhythm. I was dragged to another cell, raised high up on chains attached to my manacled wrists. With my Health already quite low, I was forced to endure the lash. Many times I thought the pain was too great and I felt myself sinking into the blessed refuge of unconsciousness, but they were experts in their craft and would not allow me to fall into insensibility, splashing me with water or targeting a particularly sensitive nerve with their cruel irons until finally, after what seemed like an eternity of suffering, my throat hoarse from long-running screams, they left me to welter in the dark.
It was then I received a new notification. A poor consolation prize.
