Ah… I'm back again.
Different place, same circumstance.
Same slave… different title that chains it.
Azareal's melancholic whisper barely rose above the shuffle of feet and the clink of metal. His voice trembled — not from fear, but from the dull ache of repetition.
He lifted his dead eyes from the dirt beneath him and looked ahead.
A line of bodies stretched endlessly — tall, short, gaunt, twisted.
Men. Women. Even a few beastkin.
All shared the same feature — the emptiness in their eyes, the frailty in their steps, the quiet submission of the broken.
Chains clinked with each sluggish movement, the rusted links dragging across the ground like the sigh of the damned.
Azareal stared at his hands, filthy and scarred, trembling as tears traced paths down his haggard skin.
> "This cycle again?" he muttered under his breath. "What's the point…? Why can't I just end it already and be done with this?"
His voice was low, almost reverent — as if speaking to something that might finally answer.
Then—
> "Move faster!"
A harsh shout tore through the line. Before he could react, a heavy shove sent him stumbling forward. The chain around his neck jerked violently, cutting into his skin as it scraped across his throat. He winced, choking on the sting.
Behind him stood a man — average in height but sharper than the rest. His eyes were a deep, living red, flickering faintly in the dull light. His hair, a dirty haze of blonde, fell over a hardened expression.
Azareal blinked.
> He doesn't look dead…
That was odd. Everyone here was hollow, but not him. His eyes — they were awake.
> Is he from the temple? Or… somewhere else?
His thoughts were broken by a sharp, cutting voice.
> "Why are you staring at me, rat? Face forward!" the man snapped. "Save that empty gaze for when you start begging the taskmasters to spare your skin after the test. If you've got low-tier talent, you'll wish you'd stayed chained in the pits."
Azareal turned away slowly, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. His throat throbbed where the rusted metal bit deep.
He didn't answer.
The line of slaves moved forward again, step by step, dragging their fate behind them.