Noah gripped the pickaxe beside him and began striking the stone. By watching the other slaves, he understood the goal: extract the blue crystals without scratching them. He hit a nearby rock to dig one out, but carelessly scratched its surface. Ignoring it, he shoved the crystal into the cloth bag each slave was given.
He kept working in silence, just like the others, despite the hunger and pain gnawing at his body. Hours passed until the pounding of drums echoed through the caverns. The slaves dropped their tools and lined up in chains. Noah hesitated for a moment, until the chain pulled tight around his wrist. The old man chained to him—a hulking figure with a missing hand—shot him a threatening glare. Noah muttered an apology and began walking.
There were no clocks in the Crystal Caves. Time was measured by the drum.
The slaves marched in lines, each group trailing another. Dim torches lit the tunnels, the only relief in the suffocating dark. After what felt like hours, sunlight brushed Noah's face as he stepped out of the cave.
Before him stretched a strange sight: hundreds of slaves gathered in a wide yard, enclosed by a stone wall twenty meters high. Dozens of guards patrolled the top, clad in light armor and wielding weapons that looked straight out of the Middle Ages. The air reeked of sweat, mud, and something heavier—like old blood.
His group suddenly halted. Noah nearly bumped into the old man beside him but caught himself in time. Another line of slaves approached—bigger, stronger men with bulging muscles. Bullies. Each of them forced Noah's group to hand over a crystal from their bags. It seemed there was already an arrangement in place.
When Noah's turn came, he handed over his scratched crystal. The fat brute who received it bellowed,"A scratched crystal? You bastard!"
The punch landed before Noah could react, knocking him to the ground. His nose gushed blood as pain exploded across his face. The guards looked on but did nothing. The brute snatched Noah's bag, taking nearly everything and stuffing it into his own. Only three crystals remained with Noah—along with the ruined one.
The fat man smirked. "Next time, bring me more than this garbage. Or I'll make sure you regret it." Then he left with his gang.
Noah staggered to his feet. He didn't resist. He understood: this place had no law, no rights—only the rule of the jungle.
At the ration tables, the slaves exchanged crystals for food and water. Noah read the price list in disbelief:
Water – 1 crystal
Clean water – 3 crystals
Small bread – 2 crystals
Regular bread – 5 crystals
Large bread – 7 crystals
Chicken soup – 10 crystals
Guard's meal – 20 crystals
Shoes – 15 crystals
Shirt – 20 crystals
Pants – 25 crystals
Mining pickaxe (high quality) – 50 crystals
Wine – 500 crystals
Healing potion – 1000 crystals
Slave – 1500 crystals
Opium – 2000 crystals
Growth potion – 3000 crystals
Strength potion – 5000 crystals
Vitality potion – 6000 crystals
Freedom – 25,000 crystals
Guard Class – 50,000 crystals
Confusion hit Noah like a hammer. Classes? How do people obtain them in this world? How do stats rise?
He quickly bought a sip of water and a small piece of bread. The guard tossed his scratched crystal aside without giving him anything in return.
The group sat near the wall to eat. Most had nothing but bread and water. A few bought soup. Only the one-handed old man ate rice and chicken—the "Guard's meal."
Around him, silence ruled. The slaves rose one by one, dragging their pickaxes, awaiting the officer.
They called him "the officer," but he was nothing more than a faceless authority. His armor was patched together from strange metallic shards, and his whip glowed with cold blue sparks. Every lash burned the skin but left no wound—only pain.
Noah clenched his fists. I'll do anything to make sure that whip never touches me again.
The officer led them into another cave. Noah labored until exhaustion hollowed him out, gathering only five crystals. Meanwhile, the old man with one hand extracted twenty with terrifying ease. When a rockslide trapped one of Noah's group members, Noah rushed to help—only to watch another slave slam a pickaxe into the man's skull and steal his bag.
Terror seized Noah. This world… it's not just cruel. It's madness. Human life here is worth less than a meal.
The guards didn't care. The corpse was dragged away like broken equipment. The drum sounded again, signaling the end of labor.
At night, the slaves huddled together in the cavern. Noah listened quietly. He learned they were in the White Kingdom, in the eastern duchy. Most of the slaves were criminals—murderers, bandits, thieves. Everyone here had a Class, but hunger and suffering had withered their stats.
When Noah tried to talk, most ignored him. Only the old man eventually spoke, his voice calm but cold:"Never look the officer in the eye.Never talk to new slaves—they may be insane or spies.Never interfere in what doesn't concern you.And never, ever scream. Screams draw attention. And attention brings death.
And in the darkness… other rules are born."
On the third night, Noah woke to rough hands trying to rip his bag away. The fat man's gang. They pinned him down, covering his mouth. Panic surged—until the old man opened his eyes.
One word escaped his lips:"Leave."
The bullies froze, then backed away. Noah sat trembling. He didn't know what frightened him more—the gang, or the old man himself.
He finally understood. This wasn't a nightmare. This was reality. Tears stung his eyes as he whispered a prayer into the void.
By morning, the drumbeat returned. Another day in the darkness of crystals had begun.