"Agghh…! Where… am I?"
A young man with golden hair and sharp red eyes lay by his side. He wore fine black clothes that looked like something a noble would wear.
His head throbbed with pain, and his vision blurred as he slowly opened his eyes. The ground beneath him felt hard and cold. The air smelled of metal, sweat, and something rotten.
Before he could gather his thoughts, a sharp sound cut through the silence.
Whip!
"Ahhh!"
The lash struck his back with burning force. Pain shot through his whole body, hot and sharp, making him roll on the ground.
His fine clothes tore open, and red streaks appeared across his back. The whip was wet with his blood.
"Ahhh—damn it! " he shouted. "Who dares to touch me?!"
"Stop talking and work!" a soldier barked, standing over him with a grin on his lips. The whip hung loose in his hand, ready to strike again.
The young man looked around in confusion. The tunnel was dark and damp, lit only by a few weak torches on the walls.
People in ragged clothes were working silently with picks and shovels, hacking at glowing roots of magic ore.
Their faces looked thin, their eyes were empty. No one dared to look at him. They just swung their tools, the steady sound of metal striking rock echoing in the darkness.
Far away, someone coughed weakly. Another worker collapsed on the cold floor, but nobody date to move for help.
"Who are you?!" the young man shouted, trying to stand, pain twisting his voice. "How dare you touch me?! Do you know who I am?"
But as the words left his mouth, his voice trembled. His anger turned cold.
"Do you… know who I am?" he whispered again — this time with fear.
Because in that moment, he realized he didn't know.
His mind was empty. Completely black. No name. No home. No family. Nothing. He didn't know why he was here, or who had brought him.
He didn't even know his own face, beyond what his trembling hands could feel. The harder he tried to remember, the sharper the pain in his head grew, stabbing again and again until his knees buckled.
Who am I? Where am I? Why am I here?
No answers came. Only darkness.
The tunnel felt colder around him. The sound of picks and shovels striking stone rang louder in his ears. The smell of blood and metal burned his nose.
The soldier chuckled and raised the whip again. The young man's heart pounded in fear settling in deeper than the pain.
Then the soldier slammed his boot into the young man's stomach.
"Quiet, brat. You think I care who you are?" he sneered, pressing harder before stepping back. His grin held no warmth. "Pick up that axe and start mining. You're young — that means you'll last longer down here. Work until your body breaks. And when you finally die, we'll just throw you out like trash. Remember that."
The soldier leaned close, his shadow falling over the young man. His voice was low and cold.
"Down here, no one cares about your name, your blood, or your past. You're nothing. Just another tool to dig ore for the Emperor's glory."
With a short laugh, he turned and walked away, the whip trailing behind him.
The young man sat there, clutching his stomach. The pain was sharp and bitter.
Around him, the Pit of Death stretched like an endless maze. Countless tunnels twisted deep into the ground, glowing faintly with magic ore.
Every laborer here worked alone. No help. No voice but their own. If someone collapsed from hunger or exhaustion, another slave replaced them the next day.
Life was cheap here — cheaper than the ore they mined. The Pit itself was huge, as large as a small city, packed with slaves and prisoners who dug until they dropped.
All of it belonged to the Empire. All of it fed the Emperor, who would never even see their faces.
The young man had no choice but to grab the pickaxe. His hands shook as he held it, not just from fear but from confusion.
He didn't even know who he was. It felt like waking up as a newborn — trapped in a grown man's body.
His memory was empty, but something about his sharp gaze, the way he spoke, the way he carried himself — it all hinted at nobility.
Was he the son of a great noble family, cast into the Pit of Death to be forgotten?
Or the son of a conquered king, thrown here as punishment to dig ore until he died?
Even the soldiers didn't seem to recognize him. None of the slaves spared him a second glance. To them, he was nothing special. Just another body. Just another tool to work until death.