The cold of the metal gnawed at my skin. My body trembled, not from fear but from exhaustion. Hunger devoured me from the inside, more unbearable than the open wounds on my flanks and back.
My first instinct was to search for a way out. My eyes scanned the surroundings, sliding over the massive chains that threaded the forest like iron roots. Some hung from the dark sky, others plunged deep into the ground, emitting an almost organic metallic hum.
But soon I understood that any plan was futile. My legs already shook at the thought of standing. Blood had dried on my torn clothes, sticking to my half-healed wounds. My breath was short, painful.
"No. No running now."
I had to survive first. Tend to my wounds. Regain strength. Trying to flee in this state would be suicide in disguise.
So I lowered my eyes to my chained wrists, then raised my head toward the silhouettes moving between the colossal trunks.
"One… two… three," I murmured, counting how many there were.
They were five.
Five men dressed in tanned leather and tarnished iron armor. Not regular soldiers. Too dirty, too disorganized. Yet their movements betrayed brutal experience: they moved like predators used to the smell of blood.
I frowned for a moment, trying to place them, because I'd never seen their faces in the game.
After a few seconds of observation I came to a conclusion.
'Mercenaries.'
I was sure of it.
Normally mercenaries in The Ascension are hired by nobles to do the dirty work or settle unsavory affairs.
But it took me time to reach that conclusion because they didn't seem particularly strong compared to those I'd seen in the game.
The first wore leather armor reinforced with hammered metal plates. His dented helmet was adorned with black feathers stained with mud, a ridiculous remnant of some forgotten trophy. His square jaw opened into a carnivorous sneer.
The second, leaner, wore a dark, time-worn coat with a short sword at his belt. His gaze was that of a scavenger, constantly moving, sizing up each prisoner like a butcher appraises a carcass.
The third, massive, with a thick red beard, held a long axe with a split blade. His muscles bulged beneath a poorly fastened breastplate. He advanced like a bull, every step vibrating through the ground.
The fourth had greasy hair falling over his hollow face. His bloodshot eyes gleamed with contained madness. He carried a coiled whip at his waist and a rusty dagger whose handle was crudely carved with runes.
And finally, the last—red-haired—the one who had cold-bloodedly killed a man on the ship. He was also the reason I had concluded they were mercenaries.
He stood a bit back. His red hair flared under the faint torchlight. Unlike the others, his armor was more refined, his posture more assured. He seemed to be the leader, or at least the most disciplined of the group.
'Not awakened,' I thought. I was almost certain, because he didn't exude that oppressive sense of mana.
Wait a second.
How the fuck do I know that?
'This is completely absurd, I don't…'
I stopped myself for a moment before my eyes widened at the absurdity of my thoughts.
'How do I know what mana feels like… yet…'
Suddenly I felt something. A faint vibration in the air, a shiver along my skin. It wasn't visual or audible, but I felt it.
It was… mana.
'Mana… I can sense mana,' I said to myself with a small joy. It was something I hadn't dared hope for because in the game Elias couldn't manipulate mana.
'Could there be a chance that I…'
I didn't waste time—if I could sense mana, then maybe I was awakened.
I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate, to dive into that invisible flow. For a second I believed it. But when I examined my own body, my heart sank.
The small points I felt didn't enter my body. Instead, they just floated, never making contact.
Knowing the basic mechanics of the game, I knew mana should naturally enter the body and concentrate into a core.
But here there was nothing—no core. No center of gravity for that power. Just a cruel, mocking void.
Of course, I murmured.
Elias wasn't awakened in the game, and it seemed I wasn't either.
If I'd been awakened this situation would be less painful, but it looked like the gods wouldn't make it easy for me.
My gaze filled with bitterness. Humans could sense and manipulate mana, yes… but only to such a trivial degree that it didn't matter. A breath, a spark. Their physiology limited everything. That's why a human who awakened would form a mana core: to break that limit, to dive fully into the ocean of power.
With the core came a blessing that granted an individual ability.
This ability could be accompanied by an attribute giving bonuses and sometimes people were born with an attribute from the start.
But I had nothing—just a fragile hope that had been turned to dust.
I ground my teeth in frustration.
'Too bad. I'll make do with what I have.'
A sharp noise interrupted my thoughts.
"Hey, you."
One of the mercenaries approached—the one with the square jaw and dented helmet. His boots hammered the ground and his shadow stretched across my face.
I immediately shut my eyes, feigning sleep. But that decision cost me: I received a brutal blow to the temple that made me groan in pain.
"I saw you, vermin," the man growled. "Up."
I remained motionless, breath short. The pain throbbed in my skull, but my body refused to obey. Hunger, wounds, fatigue: all conspired against me.
I finally raised my eyes and spat through my teeth, "Easy to say."
The mercenary burst into a coarse, scornful laugh. "This little shit dares talk? I gave you an order—follow it. I don't give a damn how you do it."
A second man stepped up—the one in the dark coat with the scavenger's eyes. "Hurry and wake the other prisoners. We haven't all day."
The first shrugged. "This rat thinks he's clever. As if he has any right."
I sat up a little, trembling, and murmured, "Do you really think I'm capable of that? Look—I'm half dead."
The second mercenary stared at me for a long moment. Then a wicked smile spread across his face.
"And you want what? For us to feed you? This isn't the Cult of the Goddess of Light, so move."
He drew his sword, the blade scraping its sheath with a dry screech, and pressed it against my neck.
Silence fell. I stared him straight in the eyes. Then my lips curled into a cold smile.
"When I reach the abyss, I'll ask the God of Death to come welcome you personally, you miserable fool."
The insult snapped like a slap. The second mercenary grit his teeth, lifting his weapon to strike.
I observed patiently, waiting for him to bring his sword down so I could use the last of my strength to dodge and let him cut my chain.
But an authoritative voice cut through: "Enough."
I saw the red-haired mercenary step forward, laying a firm hand on his comrade's shoulder. His blazing eyes fixed me with distant coldness.
"We don't damage the merchandise," he said.
He was silent for a moment, studying me like one examines an intriguing insect. Then he declared: "Wounded or not, hungry or not—you follow orders. If you die, you die."
His tone was sharp, final.
Then, without waiting for a response, he nodded. "Wake the others."
The two mercenaries retreated reluctantly, and the group dispersed toward the other chained prisoners.
I collapsed back to the ground, gasping, my throat still stinging from the blade.
I closed my eyes, the bitter taste of blood on my tongue. In my mind, a promise took root.
I will make sure to send all of you in hell.