Third POV
Fifteen years.
The camp was still the camp — the same wooden walls, the same cracked watchtowers, the same stink of smoke and sweat that clung to the air. But the faces had changed.
Some were gone, swallowed by the mines or the cold or the whip. Others had simply… withered, their spirits worn to dull embers.
And some had endured.
First POV
I wasn't the same man who'd first woken up in this world — skin raw from the whip, eyes scanning for a way out. Fifteen years had carved lines into my face, put weight into my shoulders, and taught me the rhythm of this place better than any overseer.
The disciples still came and went, barking orders, handing out punishments. But the one who had once gripped Lydia's arm like a trophy? He'd never returned from a mission beyond the sect's borders.
When the news came back that he'd been torn apart by spirit beasts, Lydia hadn't smiled, but I'd seen her shoulders loosen just slightly.
Third POV
Lydia was 27 now. Her quiet beauty had hardened into something sharper — not the beauty of a flower, but of a well-kept blade. Sam, now 21, was wiry and quick, his boyhood clumsiness replaced by a restless energy that even the camp couldn't crush.
Garon had grown slower, his once massive arms now etched with deep lines, his hair more white than black. But his voice still carried the weight of a hammer's strike when he chose to speak.
And Elias… Elias had become something else entirely.
When disputes rose between slaves — over food, over work assignments, over insults — they came to him. When someone was caught between the anger of another slave and the notice of a guard, it was Elias who found a way to calm things down before blood was spilled.
He wasn't the biggest. He wasn't the oldest. But there was a steadiness in his gaze, a patience that drew people to him.
First POV
It happened without me realizing.
One day, I was the one asking Garon what to do. The next, people were asking me.
A fight broke out over a torn coat? They came to me.
Someone's work assignment was too much for them to handle? They came to me.
A disciple demanded more than a slave could give? They came to me.
I didn't have answers for everything, but I had learned how to buy time, how to give just enough to keep the overseers from looking too close.
Garon once called it "walking the line without losing your footing." I called it survival.
Third POV
The evening was cold, snow curling down in lazy flakes. Two slaves stood nose-to-nose by the woodpile — a lanky man named Korr and a stockier woman named Brina. Between them lay a split bag of grain.
"I was the one who carried it back," Brina snapped.
"You wouldn't have made it without me," Korr shot back.
Elias stepped between them before either could throw a punch.
"Enough," he said, his tone even. He knelt, scooped a handful of the spilled grain, and let it trickle through his fingers. "You fight over this, the overseers will take the rest and laugh while you starve. You want that?"
Neither spoke.
"Then split it. Half for her, half for you. And next time, tie the bag tighter."
They muttered but did as he said, the fight dissolving before it became something worse.
From the side, Garon watched with a faint smile, shaking his head like a man seeing his younger self in someone else.
First POV
Garon didn't have to say it, but I knew what he was thinking — I'd become him.
The protector. The one who takes the blows before anyone else does.
But I wasn't content with just keeping people alive inside these walls.
Every day, I still listened. Still learned. I picked up scraps of knowledge from the disciples when they forgot we were listening. Rumors of the sect's outer territory. Names of places I'd never seen. Whispers of other sects, other cities.
The world was still out there, vast and untouchable. And one day, somehow, I'd touch it.
Third POV
The night deepened. Snow gathered on the roofs, muffling the usual camp noises.
Inside the main barrack, the slaves lay in their places, warmth shared in the cramped space. Lydia slept with Sam curled at her back. Garon snored quietly in the corner.
Elias sat awake, staring at the dark rafters.
The years had not broken him. They had only honed the steel beneath the skin.
The boy who had once dreamed of walking the world was gone.
The man who would still find a way to do it… remained.