A thin, sharp sliver of white light managed to pierce through the fractured stonework and cracked crevices along the chamber's ancient ceiling, illuminating the darkness with a blade of gold.
The ray struck just beneath Jinn's eye, forcing a slight twitch to ripple across his brow.
His eyelids, heavy from exhaustion, trembled before they slowly began to part—narrowed and cautious—as if trying to wake from a dream he wasn't quite sure had ended.
His head, resting against the cold and jagged stone wall, felt unusually unsteady.
There was something off—something beneath the surface.
A faint tremor pulsed through the walls, subtle yet rhythmic, like the quiet drum of a heart long dormant and now slowly reawakening.
It was as if something enormous was stirring beneath the facility itself.
Eyes still half-lidded, Jinn instinctively closed them again, trying to focus—trying to listen through the silence.
Beyond the thick walls and layers of metal, he could make out distant, muffled sounds.
They weren't screams.
They weren't orders.
They were... cheers.
Roars.
The voices of many.
The crowd—massive and eager.
A coliseum crowd.
Jinn's eyes shot open completely now.
His breath steadied, his face hardened, and his brows dipped with determination.
The moment had finally arrived.
The day he had feared—and prepared for in silence—was upon them.
The slave rituals were about to begin.
A flicker of motion at the edge of his vision pulled him out of his thoughts.
He turned his head slightly, his gaze narrowing on the source.
Across the chamber, the old man from the day before—the same one who had helped them—was performing a series of slow, deliberate movements.
*crack! *fwhip!
He rotated his shoulder backward, then forward, letting the joints pop with audible cracks.
His arms swung out in wide arcs, loosening his muscles.
He moved smoothly from one stretch to the next, each motion designed to activate the muscle beneath, to awaken a body that had endured countless battles.
He then pulled one arm across his chest, holding it firmly with the other hand while turning his torso the opposite way—his body language calm but braced for war.
Jinn's eyes lingered for a moment, silently studying the old warrior.
Their gazes met.
"Something bothering you, kid?" Biyo asked, his tone casual, but not unkind.
He bent forward, stretching his legs while keeping his back straight, muscles visibly tensing beneath his tattered clothes.
Jinn gave a quiet nod, dipping his head respectfully.
"I owe you, old man," he said with genuine sincerity, his voice low.
He turned to glance at his companion, Kain, who was still curled up asleep nearby, blissfully unaware of the dread rising beyond the walls.
"Thanks for helping us out with the food last night. Not many would've done that."
Biyo let out a hearty chuckle, the sound booming and deep.
He stood upright again and extended a large hand toward Jinn, his fingers thick, his palm rough and callused from a lifetime of survival.
"Name's Biyowolf. You can call me Biyo," he said, his grin wide.
Jinn took a step forward, then reached out and firmly grasped the man's hand.
"Jinn," he replied, nodding once.
Their hands locked with mutual respect.
For all his history of selfishness—for the walls he'd built around himself—Jinn recognized the weight of gratitude, the power of acknowledging someone who had helped when they didn't have to.
That wasn't weakness.
That was truth.
"You've seen battle," Jinn said softly, eyeing the countless scars covering Biyo's exposed arms and shoulders.
Biyo laughed even louder now, his voice reverberating off the chamber walls.
The echo jolted a few of the other sleeping slaves awake, who flinched at the sudden sound.
"Hah! That I have, boy," Biyo said with a proud smirk, turning around and lifting the back of his shirt to reveal his wide back—layered with old scars, both faded and fresh.
Deep, jagged gashes ran diagonally across the muscle, each one bearing its own story.
Some were wide enough to suggest he'd taken a direct hit from an axe.
Others were thin and razor-sharp—silent cuts from blades meant to kill quickly.
Jinn stared, wide-eyed.
The sight wasn't just grotesque—it was powerful.
These weren't wounds of weakness, but badges of honor.
"They're from raids," Biyo continued, his voice a touch more serious now.
"Raids led by the great Haldor of Skjöldheim himself."
Jinn's eyes widened even further, and he muttered almost instinctively, "That planet... that's where—"
*Thud! *Thud! *Thud!
But before he could finish, a thunderous sound erupted from the hallway—sharp stomps of marching boots.
The rhythm was cold, military, oppressive.
Biyo's grin faded, his face hardening like a blade just unsheathed.
"It's time," he said grimly. "Brace yourself, boy."
*Clang! *Clang! *Clang! *Clang!
A cacophony of metallic slams followed, as one by one, each of the cell doors along the corridor were thrown open.
Iron crashing against stone, again and again—louder with each echo.
The noise tore through the chamber like a storm.
Every slave jolted awake.
And though their reactions differed, one expression was universal: fear.
"Everyone—LINE UP!" barked a soldier,
*CRACK!
cracking a whip high into the air.
The sound exploded like lightning.
The force of the whip's snap made nearby slaves duck and flinch, covering their heads reflexively.
The moment had come.
Kain stirred, groggy, his eyes wide with confusion.
W-What's going on, Jinn?" he asked, his voice trembling.
Jinn scanned the area quickly, searching for his other friends, but the crowded cells and confusion made it impossible to see clearly.
"Stay close to me. No matter what happens," Jinn whispered. "Don't leave my side, alright?"
Kain swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "I'll stick to you like glue…"
The slaves were herded together like cattle, lined up row by row in the massive stone corridor.
A soft, sinister beeping began to fill the air—each sound coming from the metal collars fastened around their necks.
The devices blinked with a red glow now, pulsing with every beat.
Something dark was about to happen.
Something calculated.
Jinn's gaze shifted forward, and through the bodies of the soldiers, he saw her—the figure of the warden—or rather, Evakhell in disguise.
The assassin who had taken the warden's face.
She stood silently, her hands behind her back, speaking calmly to a few officers.
A practiced mask of authority rested over her face.
"Idiots," Jinn whispered to himself, eyes narrowed.
"They don't even know they're following a ghost."
And then it began.
A single hand gesture from Evakhell set it all in motion.
Whips cracked again as orders were shouted.
*MARCHING SOUNDS!
The slaves were marched forward, deeper through the facility, until they exited into a vast open area.
The shift in environment was immediate.
Stone gave way to machinery.
Darkness gave way to blinding artificial light.
Jinn's eyes adjusted quickly, darting across the new surroundings.
There, before them, sat a gigantic platform.
Easily the size of an entire fortress courtyard.
It was massive—spanning wide enough to carry thousands at once.
To its sides were towering, cylindrical machines.
Thick pipes and metallic arms extended from them, each one hissing violently as gears rotated and clicked in rhythm.
The sound—the distinct hiss-click—reminded Jinn of Amaron.
That same eerie mechanical cadence when the man spoke.
And beyond it all—beyond the platform and the machines—Jinn heard it again.
The crowd.
A wall of cheers.
Roars of excitement.
The kind of overwhelming sound that made the chest tighten.
The kind that made fear sink into the bones.
Jinn looked up.
Then back to the platform.
Then back again.
He saw it.
A raising platform.
"Damn it," he muttered.
"They're sending us up."
===
All of the slave groups, numbering in the tens of thousands, had now been corralled before the massive contraption.
The air was thick with dread.
Guards shouted, shoving the groups forward until they filled the platform's surface.
Metal bars locked around the perimeter with loud clangs, securing the slaves in place like livestock waiting to be judged.
"This is it! We're all gonna die!"
"W-What the hell is happening?! Someone tell me!"
Panic spread like wildfire.
Voices cracked.
Some cried.
Others screamed.
But all of them trembled.
Above it all, the thunderous cheer of the crowd remained a relentless storm—excited, uncaring, hungry.
"All slaves are accounted for, sir!" a soldier reported with urgency, his eyes darting across the data pad on his forearm.
"Total number: 15,611!"
Evakhell—still disguised as the warden—nodded.
Her face cold and composed.
"Very well," she declared.
Then, raising a hand high, she gave the final signal.
"Raise the platform."
Without hesitation, two teams of soldiers stationed at either side of the construct grabbed the long mechanical levers that protruded from control consoles.
*whirrrrr!
They shouted in unison as they cranked the levers down with all their strength.
"Heave! Heave! Heave!"
The chorus of strained grunts echoed.
*crack! *crack! *creak!
The gears of the platform whirled to life, and a red and gold glow pulsed along the metal surface.
*HISS!!!
Steam hissed from hidden vents.
Pistons locked.
Then, slowly, the platform began to rise.
The crowd above howled even louder as the slaves ascended into the light.
"Put your back into it—Ha!" Biyo barked mockingly toward the soldiers, his voice defiant.
He grinned at the angry looks cast his way.
"Damned slave," one of the guards hissed under his breath.
*HISSSSSSS!!!
The massive machinery roared louder, releasing thick bursts of steam as the platform lifted higher and higher.
*Vwooooooooom!!!
A sharp horn blared—a sound like a battle trumpet—shaking the platform and the slaves upon it.
Evakhell, watching from the platform's edge, tilted her head ever so slightly as her eyes found Jinn again.
She smirked.
"Let's see how you handle this, kid."
Then came the drums.
*THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD!
Powerful, booming percussion, like war drums in a battlefield, pounded rhythmically from somewhere unseen.
The sound reverberated through the bodies of every slave.
It stirred something primal.
A sense of doom.
A feeling that the gods themselves had turned their eyes upon them.
When the platform finally reached the top, the entire arena was revealed in breathtaking—and horrifying—detail.
It was enormous.
Unimaginably vast.
Every direction was filled with stands of people.
Thousands upon thousands of civilians—cheering, screaming, raising banners and flags.
Their faces glowed with excitement.
And in the center of their attention stood the slaves.
Them.
Some of the captives tried to call out, to scream in defiance or beg for mercy.
But their voices were swallowed instantly by the overwhelming roar of the crowd.
"This is what they're cheering for?" Jinn muttered, disgusted.
"This isn't a ritual. It's a slaughter."
He narrowed his eyes, scanning the crowd, until his gaze landed on an elevated platform—an opulent box adorned with flowing crimson banners and ornate golden runes.
There, seated above them all, was Venedix.
Her crimson hair flowed like silk, and her presence exuded both elegance and lethality.
She was surrounded by others—presumably family or other nobles—many of whom also bore the red hair and blades of the Sorellia bloodline.
Jinn's stomach twisted.
Venedix's eyes suddenly shifted.
She turned her head and met his gaze, as if she had felt the weight of his hatred.
Their eyes locked.
Jinn's brows furrowed with loathing.
Venedix didn't flinch.
She looked at him with no reaction
Apathetic, unapologetic, yet a certain spark of intrigue was present in her eyes.
As if she was expecting something from Jinn today.
"Will he awaken... or will he no—"
Then, as she was muttering to herself, she was interrupted.
A subtle tap on her shoulder.
Another red-haired noble leaned in.
"I hope someone interesting emerges from today's ceremony," the voice said softly.
"Would be a shame if it was another batch of disappointments."
"Mhm." Venedix crossed her arms, her gaze briefly shifting back toward Jinn.
"I hope so too."
Then a new sound erupted.
A booming voice—louder than any before—cut through the arena like a blade.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! Honored Citizens of Zerafhon!" the announcer roared, his voice magically amplified to echo across the coliseum.
"The moment you've all been waiting for has arrived!"
The crowd erupted again, jumping, stomping, waving their arms.
The arena shook with the magnitude of their excitement.
"From the frozen storms of Verikanya to the burning sands of Xerkzix, House Sorellia has gathered the finest, the fiercest, and the most desperate slaves from across the stars!" the announcer shouted, raising both arms high.
"All for THIS very moment!"
Suddenly, the lights across the arena dimmed, plunging everything into darkness.
Only one spotlight remained—shining directly upon the announcer, who stood at the highest peak of the arena, his cloak billowing behind him.
"Will a warrior rise from the ashes of despair and claim glory? Will someone defy fate and EARN their freedom?"
The spotlight expanded as lights flared across the arena again, revealing every face, every weapon, every chained soul.
"Or will their blood simply be spilled for your entertainment?"
He raised a hand, fingers spread wide.
"The SLAVE RITUALS—BEGIN!"
*THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD! *THUMP! *THUD!
The drums roared again.
The crowd screamed.
And the slaves—thousands of them—stood frozen, trapped on a platform that had become their stage, their prison, and their possible grave.
Jinn clenched his fists.
This was no longer just about survival.
This was war.