The first thing was the pain.
Not the clean pain of a bullet or the familiar burn of shrapnel—Korath knew those like old friends. This was different. Deep. As if every bone in his body had been broken and reassembled by cruel hands.
His eyes opened to suffocating darkness, broken only by pale streaks of light filtering through cracks in the walls. Black, jagged rock, with blue veins pulsing like blood beneath the skin.
Kandahar. The memory hit him like a punch—Jenkins screaming, his leg destroyed, blood boiling in the sand. But no... That was years ago. Detroit. The little girl running into the street, the runaway truck, desperate reflexes—
Shit. Reality hit him like a burst of AK-47 fire. I died.
He tried to sit up and almost threw up. His body felt... strange. Smaller, more fragile. The hands he raised were pale, without the familiar scars, without marks from grenades or bullets. Nothing. Just new, strange, untouched skin.
"Hey, the rookie's awake."
The voice came from the shadows — rough, laden with an ancient accent, almost unrecognizable.
"It's about time," muttered another. "I thought he was going to drool forever."
People emerged from the gloom like ghosts. Twenty, maybe. All thin, covered in rags. But what made him swallow hard were the eyes: too old for young faces. He knew that look. Battlefield.
"Where... am I?" His voice came out hoarse, almost gone.
A thin boy laughed, humorlessly.
"Black Iron Mines. Welcome to hell."
A girl stood out from the group—about seventeen, dark hair matted with dirt, steel-gray eyes that pierced him.
"You're not from around here."
Korath assessed instinctively: exits—one, blocked. Guards—none in sight. Weapons—none.
"I'm from nowhere."
She snorted.
"Obvious. Too fair-skinned for the Lowlands, no noble Ashkarn markings." She pointed to a spiral tattooed on his arm. "And that accent..."
Ashkarn. Lowlands. Names that meant nothing.
"What year is it?"
Laughter echoed around him.
"You hit your head hard," said the skinny boy. "It's the year 847 after the Break."
Korath died in 2023.
The girl crouched down beside him.
"Listen carefully. You've been sold into slavery. You now belong to the Lord of the Mines." She pointed to an opening that cut through the wall like a hungry mouth. "Every day you go down there and dig crystals until your hands bleed. Find something good, you get food. Don't find anything..." She shrugged.
"What if I refuse?"
She smiled, humorlessly.
"See that chain?"
Korath looked down. An iron shackle on his ankle, attached to the wall by a thick chain that glowed with strange runes.
"Enchanted. It can stop your heart if you try to run away." She leaned in, her voice low.
"I've seen it happen."
Magic. Korath closed his eyes. Madness or Valdris? He was far from home, or perhaps he would never return.
"What is your name?"
"Korath."
"Nira." She pointed to the boy. "Tam. The others... you'll meet those who survive."
A gong echoed through the tunnels—a low sound that vibrated in the bones like a distant explosion.
"Time to work," Tam announced.
The slaves stirred, picking up makeshift tools. Korath stood up, staggering.
"Free tip," Nira said, grabbing his arm with unexpected strength.
"In the mines, keep your head down. Outside of them..." Her eyes narrowed.
"Don't trust anyone. Not even me."
She handed him a small, heavy pickaxe.
"Welcome to Valdris, Korath Crow. Hope you last longer than a week."
As he followed the others into the darkness, Korath felt anger rising in his chest. It wasn't the blind rage of PTSD—he knew that. This was something colder. Calculated. Focused.
Three war campaigns. Homemade bombs. Shootouts. His own demons. He had survived it all.
He wasn't going to die in a mine.
The darkness swallowed them, and Korath Crow took his first step toward the destiny that would transform Valdris.