As if surfacing from the bottom of a frozen lake, Riven slowly opened his eyes.
For a long moment, he did not remember where he was.
All he saw was a broken wooden ceiling above him, cracked planks barely holding together. Thin strands of pale morning light slipped through the gaps, cutting across the dim room like blades. Dust and mist drifted in those beams, swirling in the cold air.
Then the cold returned.
It seeped into his bones.
His entire body felt impossibly heavy, as though something had been laid across his chest during the night. Breathing itself required effort.
His clothes clung damply to his skin, soaked through by the mist that never truly left this place. There was no blanket. No warmth. Only the smell of rot and wet wood.
He had inhaled too much mist.
Even without moving, his muscles trembled faintly.
Two days.
He had not eaten properly in two days.
The dull ache in his stomach was overshadowed by something worse, a crushing pressure inside his body. Ever since his qi core had been destroyed, he felt like a hollow vessel filled with lead. The world felt heavier. His limbs felt slow.
His existence… muted.
In this place, he now had to do menial tasks like mining in the ruins, cleaning, and others. He couldn't even run away from this place because there are arrays surrounding the ruins to keep the mist and the prisoners at bay.
He tried to sit up.
Pain answered immediately.
Before he could gather strength for another attempt.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
His door shook violently.
The aggressive pounding sent splinters raining from the old wood. The hinges groaned in protest.
Riven swallowed.
Reality returned with that sound.
He dragged himself across the cold floor, one hand gripping the ground, the other barely responding. Each inch felt like pulling a corpse behind him.
BOOM!
The door exploded inward.
Wood fragments shot through the room like shrapnel.
Several pieces tore across his face and arms, thin lines of blood appearing instantly. But one larger shard spun through the air and drove straight into his left hand.
A sickening crunch.
For a heartbeat, he did not feel it.
Then the pain erupted instantly.
It tore through his nerves like wildfire.
"ARGHHHH—!"
The scream ripped from his throat before he could stop it. His body convulsed, vision flashing white.
It felt the same.
The same emptiness.
The same violent severing.
Just like the day his qi core was crushed.
Back then, the flow of spiritual energy had vanished in an instant. Now, sensation vanished from his left hand.
His vision started to darken as his blood pooled beneath him.
Through the blurring vision, he saw a silhouette step through the ruined doorway.
"He's weaker than I thought," someone said with a dry chuckle. "Nearly dying from wood scraps."
Another voice replied lazily, "Don't let him die. If he dies early, they'll extend our punishment."
"Yeah. That'd be annoying."
Riven tried to focus on their faces.
He couldn't.
The darkness swallowed him whole.
...
When he woke again, pain was waiting.
It throbbed steadily, spreading from his left hand through his arm and into his chest like a poison.
He inhaled sharply.
"He's awake."
The voice was close.
Riven blinked, slowly bringing the blurry figures into focus. Two hulking men, clad in the same drab, grey tunics as he, stood over him. Their faces were hard, etched with the grime of the mines.
"Took you long enough," the first man, the one with the gruff voice, sneered. He had a thick scar that ran across his cheek, pulling his lip into a permanent snarl. "Get up, you lazy dog. You've got ruins to mine."
Riven tried to push himself up, but his left hand screamed in protest. He looked down to see it wrapped roughly in a soiled rag, the blood having soaked through in crimson stains.
"My… hand…" His voice came out cracked and hoarse.
The second man, who was slightly smaller but no less menacing, chuckled. "What about it? Still attached, isn't it? Then it works. Got a boo-boo? Suck it up. We all got aches and pains in this shithole." He kicked Riven lightly in the ribs. "Now get moving before I decide you need another 'accident.'"
Riven knew arguing would only cost him more.
He forced himself to his feet, ignoring the waves of dizziness that threatened to pull him back into unconsciousness. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, numb yet burning at the same time.
"Let's go," Scarface grunted, grabbing Riven roughly by the arm. "The overseer's already breathing down our necks."
They dragged him out of the shattered doorway and into the dimly lit corridor. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and stale sweat. As they walked, Riven could feel the eyes of the other prisoners on him, their faces gaunt and hollow, reflecting his own despair.
He knew what awaited him: hours of back-breaking labor in the rune mines, hacking away at the rock with a dull pickaxe, all for the benefit of some faceless master. And with a crippled hand, it would be even harder than before.
Can he endure?
Can he survive?
For what, he didn't know yet, but he had to. The instinct to live, to fight, burned fiercely within him. He has to find a way out of this hellhole.
He had to.
One of the men threw a pickaxe to him, which fell to the ground; Riven bent down to pick it up with his other hand.
Any movement he did just made his pain more unbearable, but he still picked up the equipment and started to move along with others.
After walking for a long time, the group came to a huge mountain, which had an entrance at the base.
Guards stood near the opening, expressions cold and bored. Crude lanterns lit the interior tunnel in dim orange light.
Inside, the air grew heavier.
Riven followed the way until he reached a narrow passage. The group split into smaller paths, each assigned a different section.
Riven reached the end of his narrow tunnel.
This was his section.
He stared at the rock wall before him.
Riven lifted the pickaxe just above his head and struck the rock with full force. Rather than breaking the rock, the impact injured his hand, and it started to bleed again.
Due to the force, Riven fell to the ground and clutched his shoulder, trying to ease the pain.
No one came to help.
No one cared.
After several minutes, the pain dulled slightly.
'It feels like everything is against me.'
He stared at the pickaxe lying a short distance away. A thought crept in.
It would not be hard.
A single blow in the wrong direction.
One slip.
No more mines.
No more mist.
No more humiliation.
His throat tightened.
"Have I fallen this far?" he whispered hoarsely.
He shook his head and then rested for some time and then started to mine.
Swing.
Rest.
Bleed.
Rest.
Swing.
Rest.
The cycle repeated for hours.
When the overseer's signal finally echoed through the tunnels, Riven could barely stand. The group returned to the settlement.
At the food distribution point, a line had already formed. Bowls of rice and some unidentifiable vegetable were ladled out without care.
When it was his turn, he accepted the plate silently and returned back to his shack.
There was no taste in the food.
But it kept him alive.
For now.
...
The days blurred.
Work.
Pain.
Mist.
Hunger.
Two more days passed.
By then, Riven could no longer feel his left arm at all.
The skin along that side of his body had darkened unnaturally, with veins faintly visible beneath the surface. A cold numbness had replaced his pain.
His steps faltered frequently.
His vision swayed.
The world seemed slightly distant, as though he were already fading from it.
On the third night, as he lay staring at the cracked ceiling once more, he felt it clearly.
His time was running out.