The Kingdom's logging camp.
A cage dressed up as a workplace.
It sat on the edge of the Forest of Darkness, and from a distance it looked no different from any other camp of saws and axes. But its guards weren't foremen, merchants, or guild men. They were officers, knights. Soldiers. The reason was obvious to anyone with a spine and eyes.
This place was dangerous.
They called it the Forest of Darkness for a reason. Rumor said somewhere in that heavy silence, an opening to the Demon World festered like a wound in the earth. Sometimes demons spilled out, and whenever they did, it was a massacre. Whole squads vanished. And even when demons stayed hidden, the monsters that prowled beneath those branches were threat enough on their own.
Every worker dragged his tools within striking distance of death. A single slip, and the entire camp could be erased.
Still, the pine forests here were valuable beyond measure. Stronger than ironwood, harder than stone, coveted for construction and war. The Kingdom couldn't afford to abandon such a prize, so they posted soldiers and knights to guard it and shoved everyone else into the pits of labor.
There was no line of volunteers. No fool ever stepped forward and said send me to die in the Forest of Darkness. The solution was obvious to those who never lifted an axe themselves: if no one walked in willingly, you drag them.
The beginning was simple. Prisoners. Murderers, thieves, debtors. Men whose loss cost nothing. Gather them, brand them, break them, and use them up in the forest. Kingdom leaders smiled at the idea. Prisons were expensive to maintain, prisoners were worth less than pigs, and the camp wanted fodder. Sell the bodies, collect the timber, watch the profits double.
And so it began.
The early years saw bodies pile higher than lumber. Men chewed up in machines or in jaws of beasts, vanishing like discarded insects. Enough corpses to line the edge of the forest itself. But where pity should have risen, profit shouted louder. And after the lumber flowed back steady and strong, even the rulers who hesitated lapsed into silence and offered full support.
By the time prisons began to empty, the camp was already too profitable to abandon. So the Kingdom widened its net. Not just criminals anymore. Why stop there?
Street vagrants disappeared, shivering beggars dragged out of alleys. Men without homes, without work, cut from the herd like diseased cattle. Add dissidents too, the ones who shouted in the wrong places or spoke truths no one wanted to hear. If they were deemed worthless to society, they were sent here.
And after a speech about sacrifice for "the good of the world," they were sealed into labor.
That was the truth of the Forest of Darkness camp. Shackled men treated worse than cattle. Shoved into rotten lodging at night, fed scraps only fit for beasts, and at the end of the day handed three copper coins as though this pittance was enough to anchor their sanity. Three coins that could buy nothing, yet served as bait. The dream of saving enough to earn release. Enough to walk out of this earthbound hell.
For most, it was the only reason they woke the next morning. That, and fear of the lash.
This was why they whispered it by name. Not camp. Not lumber site. But hell.
And now Alain was in the middle of it.
"Ridiculous."
The word tore from him as his fist slammed into a tree stump. His chest heaved with frustration until he forced air out in a ragged groan.
It was laughable. Worse than laughable. He couldn't stomach the thought of repeating this day after day, lining up for coins worthless even to rats. Waiting to die like an insect waiting for a boot.
No.
His pulse pounded against his ribs as resolve burned through him. He would escape. No matter how. Even if he had to claw through the dirt with his bare hands.
His gaze dropped to his hand, knuckles raw, blood drying across skin. Slowly, he opened and closed his fist. "Magic," he whispered.
The word felt heavy in the night.
Dark magic pulsed faintly in his body, a residue of what he used to channel. But compared to who he once was, it was a flicker. He counted carefully. Five, maybe six spells before he burned out. Then nothing. Less than nothing. A pitiful body waiting to be slaughtered.
No margin for mistakes.
Attack magic was worthless. This place had golems stationed with the knights. Scraps of offensive force wouldn't dent them. Suicide.
Body enhancement or stealth offered better odds, but not with his current reserves. Boosting speed might let him cross open ground, but traps would tear him apart before he made ten steps into the trees.
Illusion then. Or charm. Binding. The forbidden arts the church despised. Those could force another hand into play.
But those spells needed time. Preparation. A moment alone with a target long enough to sink claws into their mind. Time he didn't have. Where in this cage would a slave find privacy with the powerful? He didn't even know the ranks inside this army. Didn't know who pulled strings or unlocked doors.
It was impossible. On paper. In practice. Any way he twisted it.
Until a flicker of recognition floated through him.
"...Wait."
His mind turned back to the earlier exchange. The red-haired knight, Seria. The blonde one, Karen.
Their uniforms had stuck out. White and black threaded with gold. He remembered the old man's words well enough: the dress of a knight. Soldiers who piloted the Kingdom's weapons—the golems no one could touch. The highest military authority in this world.
And then Alain began to think.
Slowly, a smile touched his lips, sharp as a knife's edge.
If one of those knights were brought under his sway, then dragging someone like him, a nameless laborer, out of this pit would be effortless. A knight's word or action could cover everything.
His mind sharpened, sorting spells, weighing options, building strategies in the dark. For the first time since waking here, his pulse steadied in something close to calm.
It could work. Yes. This wasn't a fantasy. No brute force through golems. No desperate charges through traps. But charm, or a carefully woven bind laid over the right knight, could make escape a certainty.
And between the two knights he had met, one was obvious. Seria.
Karen's icy stare had already condemned him. She looked at him like a pathetic insect. She would never be lured close enough. But Seria—Seria had been warm. Friendly. Annoyingly so, but genuine enough to lean close without suspicion. She had even promised she'd return.
That was the crack. That was his chance.
Alain licked his lips, his face hardening into thought. He could endure her cheer a little longer if it meant turning that smile into chains.
For now, he would wait. She had promised, after all, with that infuriating grin. She would come again.
And when she did, Alain would be ready.
A low laugh escaped his throat. By the time it faded into the dark, his smile had sharpened into something cruel.