Denzel sat at the base of the gate, legs stretched out before him and his warhammer resting at his side. The sun dipped below the horizon, its final rays casting the ziggurat in hues of gold and shadow. Night came quickly, the air turning sharp and cool. He watched as the stars emerged one by one, filling the sky with cold light.
Morning followed, and the gate remained silent. No hum, no light, no movement. He frowned at the key, its intricate carvings catching the early sun as it hung around his neck. “Figures,” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. His stomach growled—a reminder that patience wasn’t the only thing he’d need to survive this trial.
Mewlissa had vanished sometime during the night, but by mid-morning, she returned with a scaled rabbit hanging limply from her jaws. She dropped it at his feet, chirping proudly before padding off to curl up in the shade. Denzel stared at the creature, his freckled face twisted in mild disgust.
“Well,” he said, scratching his beard, “can’t be worse than those lizard jerky rations.”
He set to work, building a small fire near the gate, the scent of roasting meat mingling with the sharp, earthy tang of the surrounding ruins. He ate in silence, his gaze fixed on the massive stone door as though his attention alone might force it to act. But it didn’t.
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Denzel paced in front of the gate, his eyes darting between the massive stone structure and the faintly glowing key hanging from his neck. The carvings on the gate seemed deliberate—symbols etched deep into the surface, their edges worn but still sharp enough to suggest purpose. He ran his fingers over one, tracing its jagged pattern.
“Alright, big guy,” he muttered, stepping back to take in the full scene. “You’re a puzzle. Puzzles can be solved.”
The ziggurat stood silent, imposing. Its edges gleamed faintly in the sunlight, the smooth stone reflecting the golden glow of the afternoon. Denzel squinted, noticing how the light caught certain symbols while leaving others in shadow.
“Hmm.”
He grabbed a stick and began sketching the scene on the dusty ground. The gate loomed large in his crude drawing, with the key hanging at its center. Around it, he marked the shadows cast by the carvings and the positions of the fading sunlight. His brow furrowed as he knelt closer, sketching in the larger symbols etched into the surrounding stones.
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Hours passed. The sun shifted, and the shadows moved with it, stretching and bending across the ground. Denzel watched, his stick poised over the dirt as he marked each new position. By dusk, his diagram had evolved into a messy lattice of lines and shapes, but it told him one thing: the shadows didn’t fall randomly.
“They’re pointing to something,” he muttered. His eyes followed the lines toward the gate, where a single symbol caught his attention—a spiral, faintly glowing as the last rays of sunlight struck it.
Denzel’s heart raced. He scrambled to his feet, gripping the key tightly as he approached the gate. “Is this it?” he whispered, holding the key toward the glowing symbol. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the light faded, leaving the spiral dark and unresponsive.
“No, no, no,” he growled, stepping back to his drawing. “What am I missing?”
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The nights brought new revelations. The stars above seemed oddly arranged, their patterns mirroring some of the symbols on the ziggurat. Denzel spent hours lying on the ground, staring upward and sketching constellations into the dirt. He noticed how certain stars aligned with the carvings, their faint light making the stones shimmer.
He tried everything: reflecting the starlight with shards of polished stone, aligning his body with the constellations, even pressing the key against each glowing symbol in turn. Each attempt ended the same way—the gate remained impassive, its carvings cold and silent by morning.
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Denzel’s experiments grew more elaborate. He dragged stones into place, arranging them to mimic the ziggurat’s symbols, hoping to trigger some hidden mechanism. He created a crude sundial from a broken spear and marked the hours meticulously, trying to divine some rhythm or purpose in the sun’s movements.
Still, the gate refused him. It loomed above, silent and eternal, as though mocking his efforts.
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One night, as Denzel sat by the fire, he stared at the ziggurat, the key heavy around his neck. “It’s got to be something I’m missing,” he muttered, his voice low and tired. He glanced at Mewlissa, who lounged lazily beside the flames, her striped tail flicking idly.
“You don’t know anything about star patterns, do you?” he asked. She chirped in response, her eyes narrowing as she rolled onto her back.
Denzel sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. His diagrams lay scattered around the camp, lines and symbols etched into the dirt like the ramblings of a madman. And yet, despite everything, he felt no closer to understanding the gate’s secrets.
“Maybe,” he murmured, his voice soft, “it’s not about what I’m doing. Maybe it’s about what I’m not seeing.”
The ziggurat stood silent in the distance, its carvings faintly glowing under the light of the stars. The patterns were there. He just had to stop trying so hard to force them.
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Denzel woke to the soft chirp of Mewlissa nosing at his side, her striped tail brushing his arm. The fire had long since burned out, leaving the faint scent of ash mingling with the morning air. The ziggurat loomed in the distance, untouched and indifferent, as always.
He sighed, stretching stiff muscles as he glanced at the gate. The symbols etched into its surface seemed more mocking now than mysterious. His diagrams, scrawled into the dirt the night before, had been smudged by Mewlissa’s playful prancing, their meaning further obscured.
“Alright,” he muttered, sitting up and rubbing his face. “Fine. You win. For now.”
That morning, Denzel turned his attention elsewhere. The ziggurat wasn’t going anywhere, and he wasn’t about to waste another day trying to crack its secrets. Instead, he walked the grounds, his warhammer resting against his shoulder as he scouted for anything useful.
The ruins offered plenty: scattered stones, overgrown vegetation, and what might have once been tools. He found a jagged blade among the rubble, its edge rusted but serviceable after some sharpening. With it, he hacked through the dense underbrush to gather wood.
Among the broken stones and moss-covered statues, he found the remnants of a small structure—barely four walls and a collapsed roof.
“It’ll do,” he said to no one in particular.
Mewlissa padded along beside him, darting ahead to chase a scaly rabbit that darted through the undergrowth. She pounced and missed, tumbling into the dirt with an indignant chirp before trotting back to his side.
“Close one, kid,” Denzel said, chuckling as he hauled a bundle of branches over his shoulder. “You’ll get the next one.”
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By midday, Denzel had repurposed the ruins near the ziggurat into something resembling a shelter. He cleared the debris from the collapsed walls, stacking stones to create a stable foundation. With the wood he’d gathered, he fashioned a crude chair and table, their surfaces rough but sturdy.
The work was grueling, but it kept his hands busy and his mind quieter. He focused on the rhythm of his hammer strikes, the weight of the wood in his arms, the satisfying crack of a branch snapping under his boot. The gate loomed in the distance, but he barely glanced at it.
Mewlissa watched his progress from atop the ziggurat’s broken spire, her striped body stretched lazily in the sun. She chirped occasionally, her tail flicking as if offering unsolicited advice. When the workday ended, she returned to his side, curling up by the fire while he worked at sharpening his tools or inspecting the stubborn key.
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The days fell into a rhythm. Denzel built. He hunted. He waited. The ziggurat’s gate remained unyielding, a silent monument to his growing impatience.
The shelter grew more elaborate: a makeshift roof fashioned from woven branches, a bed of scavenged furs, and a small firepit dug into the ground. Denzel’s one-room home was far from luxurious, but it was his.
Mewlissa provided a constant, if unpredictable, companionship. One evening, as he whittled a crude figure from a scrap of wood, she returned from a hunt with a bird-like creature dangling from her mouth. Its six wings fluttered faintly, a bioluminescent shimmer fading as she dropped it onto the table.
“I think it’s looking at me,” Denzel muttered, squinting at the creature. Mewlissa batted at it once, chirped in disinterest, and stalked off to her perch.
Another evening, she climbed the ruins, her agile frame leaping effortlessly from ledge to ledge. At least until she misjudged a jump, her claws scrabbling for purchase on a broken branch. Denzel rushed forward, his heart leaping into his throat, but she caught herself, dangling precariously before swinging up with a triumphant chirp.
“Show-off,” he muttered, relief washing over him as she bounded back to safety.
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Seasons shifted subtly. The air grew cooler, and Denzel’s once-clean-shaven face was now framed by a rough beard, its red hue streaked with the grime of long days. His one-room cabin had become a home of sorts, with a makeshift bed fashioned from scavenged furs and a shelf holding the odd trinkets he’d found among the ruins.
The nights were his favorite. Fireflies—creatures that glowed faintly green and blue—drifted lazily around the cabin. Mewlissa chased them, her tail flicking as she leaped and spun, her movements a blur of fur and determination.
“Careful,” Denzel called after her, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. She batted at the air, huffing in frustration as the fireflies danced just out of reach.
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Time pressed on, the ziggurat’s silence a constant companion. Denzel grew used to the stillness, his frustration dulled into something softer. Each day brought its own quiet victories—a sturdier wall, a successful hunt, a moment of peace shared with Mewlissa under the stars.
And still, he waited.
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Evenings brought their own quiet joys. Denzel would sit by the fire, watching the embers glow as Mewlissa chased fireflies in the gathering dark. The strange, bioluminescent insects hovered around the camp, their faint blue and green lights dancing like will-o’-the-wisps.
Mewlissa leapt and swatted at them, her movements a blur of fur and determination. She missed more often than not, her frustrated chirps drawing a rare laugh from Denzel.
“You’ll get one eventually,” he said, leaning back against a log. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across his beard, now longer and streaked with the dust of long days. His hands were calloused from weeks of work, his muscles leaner, harder.
The ziggurat remained ever-present in the background, its gate silent and unmoving. But Denzel no longer felt its weight pressing on him. He’d stopped expecting answers, stopped chasing meaning in every shadow and symbol. The gate would open—or it wouldn’t. Either way, he’d built a life around it.
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One night, as he lay in his makeshift bed, Denzel found himself staring at the stars through a gap in the roof. The constellations above seemed familiar now, their patterns etched into his memory from countless nights of observation. He no longer tried to force their meaning, no longer sought to bend them to his will.
Instead, he let himself simply watch, his thoughts drifting like the slow arc of the stars across the sky. Mewlissa curled beside him, her small body warm against his side, and the night stretched on in quiet peace.
For the first time since arriving at the ziggurat, Denzel felt no urgency. The gate, the trial, the unanswered questions—they were still there, but they no longer consumed him.
He exhaled, the breath soft and steady. “Maybe that’s the trick,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the whisper of the wind. “Just... letting it be.”
The stars above glimmered faintly, their light unchanged. But Denzel no longer needed them to speak. He had learned to listen to the silence.
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The sun hung high overhead, casting sharp shadows across the jagged ruins as Denzel leaned against the edge of his cabin, sharpening his warhammer. The rhythmic rasp of stone against steel was a familiar comfort, one that grounded him in the silence of the ziggurat’s grounds. Mewlissa dozed nearby, her tail flicking lazily in the shade of a crumbling wall.
Then he heard it.
A faint, rhythmic clatter echoed in the distance—hooves striking hard ground, the occasional metallic jingle of harnesses. It wasn’t the wild, scattered noise of scavenging animals. No, this was deliberate, organized. People.
Denzel froze, his hand stilling on the hammer’s edge. His green eyes narrowed as he rose slowly, moving toward the nearest vantage point. The sound grew louder, more distinct, accompanied by the faint murmur of voices carried on the breeze.
From the shadows of a crumbled spire, he saw them.
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The group emerged from the dunes like shadows, their forms blurred by the soft haze of dust stirred by the autumn winds. The air was crisp, carrying the faint bite of the changing season, and the muted sunlight bathed the ruins in a pale, golden glow. The chill had settled in just enough to make the travelers’ breath visible as faint puffs, ghostlike against the stark landscape.
As they drew closer, Denzel counted six—no, ten—figures on horseback, their mounts lean and scarred from long travels. The riders themselves were a rough-looking lot, clad in patched leathers and mismatched armor. Weapons bristled from their saddles—spears, machetes, and the occasional rifle slung casually over a shoulder.
Behind them trailed a small group of figures on foot, bound together with rough ropes tied to the saddles of their captors. Slaves.
Denzel’s stomach tightened at the sight. There were four of them, their bodies hunched and battered, their clothing little more than rags. One stumbled, barely catching themselves before the rope yanked them forward. A rider barked something unintelligible, spurring their horse closer to the struggling figure.
The rider didn’t strike them, but the threat hung heavy in the air.
“Slavers,” Denzel muttered under his breath. His grip on the warhammer tightened instinctively, but he didn’t move. Not yet.
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The slavers guided their column toward the ziggurat, their attention divided between their mounts and the shifting terrain. Denzel watched as they stopped near the outer edge of the ruins, the riders dismounting one by one. The slaves sank to their knees, their shoulders slumping with exhaustion.
Denzel’s jaw clenched. He’d seen this kind of thing before, back when his world was all blades and blood. But this wasn’t his fight. Not yet.
He retreated from the vantage point, his movements quick and quiet. Mewlissa chirped softly as he approached, sensing his tension. “Not now,” he whispered, brushing her side briefly before grabbing his pack and slinging it over his shoulder.
The firepit was cold—he hadn’t lit it yet today, a small mercy—but he still gathered his tools and slipped deeper into the complex. The cabin was left as it was; if the slavers found it, they’d know someone was here. Better that than revealing himself outright.
From the shadows of a crumbling corridor, he watched and waited.
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The slavers spread out, their voices rising as they barked orders to one another. Two of them seemed to stand guard near the slaves, while the others fanned out to explore the ruins. They moved with purpose, their weapons at the ready, but there was a tension to their movements. This wasn’t a planned stop. They were off course, likely pushed here by some storm or danger in the sands beyond.
One of them—a tall man with a bandolier of knives across his chest—stalked closer to the ziggurat itself, his eyes scanning the ancient carvings. He gestured to another, a wiry woman with a scar running down her cheek, who approached cautiously. They exchanged a few words, too quiet for Denzel to hear.
The slaves remained huddled in the dust, their heads bowed. One—a boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen—shifted slightly, his gaze darting toward the slavers before quickly dropping back to the ground. Denzel’s chest tightened. He could feel the tension building, the way the slavers moved like wolves circling prey.
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Denzel’s mind raced as he assessed the situation. An open fight would be suicide—ten slavers, all armed, against him? No chance. But he couldn’t just leave those people. Not if there was something he could do.
He crouched low, his fingers brushing against the cool stone of the ruins as he mapped out the paths in his mind. The ziggurat’s labyrinthine corridors and crumbling walls gave him the advantage of stealth. If he could take out one or two quietly, the odds might shift in his favor.
Mewlissa pressed against his side, her ears flicking toward the voices outside. She chirped softly, her golden eyes meeting his as if to say, What now?
“Stay close,” Denzel murmured. His grip on the warhammer tightened as he slipped deeper into the ruins, his mind focused and his heart pounding.
This wasn’t about patience anymore. This was about survival—and a choice that might just decide the fate of everyone in the ziggurat’s shadow.
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Denzel crouched low behind a crumbling wall, his warhammer resting silently at his side. From his hidden vantage point, he watched the slavers set up near the edge of the ziggurat grounds. The faint rustle of their movements carried through the still air, punctuated by sharp voices.
The leader—a tall, broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and sharp eyes—seemed to command the group with practiced authority. His posture exuded control, but there was tension in the way he held himself. As he barked orders, his second in command, a wiry man with a sharp jawline and dark, calculating eyes, stayed close by, muttering quiet replies. Denzel caught the name Victor as one of the others addressed him, and the second’s name—Dmitriy—was soon dropped into the fray of conversation.
Two of the women stood out immediately. The first, Claudia, had a prominent scar running across her left eye, the damaged orb now a milky white. Her tone was sharp, cutting through the din with biting sarcasm as she argued with the others. The second, Sima, was a striking contrast—skinny, with wild hair and a punkish aesthetic that stood out even among the rough-looking group. She leaned on a staff with jagged, barbed edges, twirling it lazily as she spoke in a high, mocking tone.
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The conversation quickly turned heated.
“What the hell were you thinking, grabbing a damn kid?” Claudia spat, her milky eye fixed on Sima. The scar on her face twisted as she sneered. “You know Warren doesn’t want ‘em. He won’t even look twice at a boy.”
Sima shrugged, twirling her staff idly. “He was there, wasn’t he? What do you want me to do? Leave him? He’s just extra weight anyway.”
Claudia took a step closer, her voice dropping to a venomous growl. “Extra weight we don’t need. You want to explain to Victor why we’re dragging useless cargo all the way to Wormwood?”
“Like I care what Victor thinks,” Sima shot back, her voice light but her eyes narrowing with defiance. “Let the kid slow us down if he wants. Maybe he can keep up, maybe he can’t. Either way, it’s not my problem.”
Dmitriy stepped in, his voice calm but firm. “That’s enough,” he said, his sharp gaze flicking between the two women. “We’ve already got enough to deal with without you two snapping at each other like ferals.”
Claudia opened her mouth to argue, but Victor’s voice cut through the noise like a blade. “Enough,” he said simply, his tone leaving no room for debate. “We’re stopping here for the night.”
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From his hiding place, Denzel tensed, his breath catching as he processed the exchange. The slavers were setting up camp—half the group scouting the ruins while the others worked to tie down their mounts and prepare the slaves for the night. The boy, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, sat slumped against a rock, his thin frame shaking as he tried to pull his torn shirt tighter against the autumn chill.
Denzel’s fingers tightened on his warhammer. He knew better than to rush in now. With ten slavers, all armed, an open fight would be a death sentence. Instead, he settled further into the shadows, straining to catch more of their conversation.
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Bits and pieces filtered through as the group bickered.
“They won’t make it to Wormwood if they drop dead on the way,” Dmitriy said to Victor, his tone low but insistent. “The product has to be alive, or it’s worthless.”
Victor sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We stop here. They’ll rest tonight. We move at first light. No more arguments.”
“Warren’s not gonna like this,” Claudia muttered.
Victor’s sharp gaze silenced her. “I don’t care what Warren likes,” he said. “We’re getting paid. End of story.”
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Denzel leaned back against the wall, exhaling softly. The slavers’ camp was close enough that he could smell the faint tang of sweat and leather carried on the breeze. The sharp clang of a pot being set over a fire made him wince, but he stayed perfectly still.
They might leave in the morning, he thought. Best to wait. Watch. Don’t do anything stupid.
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Mewlissa crept up beside him, her golden eyes flicking toward the distant firelight. She chirped softly, her tail twitching with curiosity, but Denzel laid a hand on her back, keeping her still. “Not now, girl,” he whispered. “We stay quiet.”
As night fell, the slavers’ voices softened, replaced by the low murmur of conversation and the occasional bark of laughter. The slaves huddled together near the fire, their forms barely visible in the flickering light. Denzel’s heart clenched at the sight of the boy, his shoulders hunched in silent misery.
But he held his ground. Morning would come, and with it, the slavers might be gone. Until then, he would wait.
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The slavers’ camp settled into uneasy quiet as the night deepened. The fire crackled softly, casting shifting shadows across the jagged ruins. Most of the group had succumbed to sleep or drunken stupor, sprawled in uneven piles around their makeshift camp. Victor, the leader, had taken Claudia—White-Eye—to a secluded spot behind a broken wall, his intentions unmistakable. Dmitriy remained awake, his eyes sharp as he polished a knife by the fire, but even his focus waned as the night dragged on.
Denzel waited in the cover of the ruins, his warhammer resting at his side. He watched the camp closely, studying the slavers’ patterns. The two tasked with guarding the slaves were slumped by the fire, a bottle passing lazily between them. One muttered something unintelligible, his head drooping as sleep threatened to claim him.
The slaves were bound together in a loose circle, their hands tied and their feet bound just enough to keep them from running. They huddled close for warmth, their forms barely illuminated by the dying firelight. Denzel squinted, his eyes adjusting to the dim glow.
The group was striking in contrast—three women and the boy, all battered but unmistakably valuable in the slavers’ twisted economy.
The First Woman: A redhead like Denzel, her hair a cascade of fiery curls even in its tangled state. Her sharp green eyes darted between the slavers, watching their movements with a wary, calculating gaze. Her tattered clothing clung to her figure, the remnants of fabric doing little to cover her curvy frame.
The Second Woman: Tall and statuesque, with dark, honey-toned skin that seemed to glow faintly in the firelight. Her shoulders were broad, her curves commanding, but her expression was hollow, her gaze fixed somewhere far away.
The Third Woman: Petite but undeniably voluptuous, with chestnut hair that fell in messy waves around her face. Her hazel eyes flickered nervously, her hands tugging at the ropes that bound her wrists. She seemed the youngest of the group, her face still soft despite the hardness of her surroundings.
The Boy: Barely sixteen, his thin frame was marked by bruises and exhaustion. His dark hair hung limp over his pale face, and his wide, hollow eyes stared at the ground as if afraid to look anywhere else.
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Denzel’s jaw clenched as he took it all in. The slavers were distracted, and the guards were nearly out. This was his chance.
He moved silently through the ruins, his boots finding purchase on the uneven ground without a sound. Mewlissa padded behind him, her movements just as quiet, her golden eyes glowing faintly. As he crept closer to the slaves, his hand brushed the hilt of his knife.
The redhead noticed him first. Her sharp green eyes widened, her lips parting as if to cry out. Denzel moved quickly, clamping a hand over her mouth before the sound escaped. Her muffled gasp was warm against his palm as he leaned in close.
“Easy,” he whispered, his voice low and steady. “I’m here to free you. Don’t worry.”
Her body tensed for a moment, then relaxed slightly as his words sank in. When he released her, she shook her head vehemently, her eyes burning with frustration.
“And then what?” she whispered back, her voice a razor’s edge.
Denzel paused, his knife halfway through the rope binding her ankles. “What do you mean ‘what’? You just run away.”
Her gaze turned incredulous, her expression the kind a teacher might give a particularly slow student. “Run away? Even if we take their horses, they’ll track us down by morning. We’ll get beaten, and nothing will change.”
The rope snapped under his knife, but he froze, her words grinding against his thoughts like sandpaper. His brow furrowed as her logic sank in. She was right. Of course she was right. He cursed under his breath, lowering his head.
“For fuck’s sake...” he muttered, sliding the knife back into its sheath. He glanced at her again, taking in the defiance in her eyes, the way her battered body still carried an undeniable strength. Her torn clothing barely covered her curves, but there was no shame in her gaze, only determination.
“Fine,” he said, his voice quiet but resigned. “I’ll think of something else.”
Her eyes lit up, a spark of hope piercing the gloom. “So you’ll help us?” she pressed, her voice soft but insistent.
Denzel hesitated, then answered a different question entirely. “All I know is that I’m here for a reason,” he said. His green eyes locked with hers, his voice steady despite the uncertainty swirling in his chest. “That reason might as well be you.”
He rose silently, his movements fluid as he melted back into the shadows. The slaver nearest to the fire muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, his head lolling to one side. Denzel didn’t spare him a second glance.
From the darkness, he watched the redhead as she shifted back into her place among the slaves, her posture calmer now. She glanced toward where he had disappeared, a faint smile touching her lips.
Denzel slipped further into the ruins, his mind already racing with possibilities. He had no plan, not yet. But one thing was certain: he wasn’t leaving without them.
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The campfire crackled softly as the slavers sprawled around it, oblivious to the quiet tension brewing in the shadows. The guards were half-asleep, the slaves huddled in their tired silence. Denzel lingered in the ruins, his body pressed against the cool stone, ears attuned to every noise.
Then, cutting through the low hum of the night, came a sharp, unmistakable slap.
The sound echoed briefly across the camp, drawing a few half-curious glances from the slavers who hadn’t already succumbed to drink or exhaustion. A moment later, Claudia stormed out from behind a broken wall, her movements sharp and angry. She was yanking her top into place, her scarred face twisted in an expression of cold fury.
Victor emerged a second later, his shirt still undone, his smug demeanor only slightly ruffled. “What?” he called after her, his voice laced with mocking amusement. “Can’t handle a little fun?”
Claudia didn’t bother to reply, her booted feet striking the ground hard as she marched back toward the fire. She muttered something under her breath, her hands jerking to fasten the straps of her armor. One of the slavers chuckled lazily, earning a glare that could have frozen molten steel.
Dmitriy raised an eyebrow, his knife catching the firelight as he glanced from Victor to Claudia. “Didn’t go as planned?” he asked dryly.
“Shut up,” Claudia snapped, dropping into a crouch near the fire and grabbing the bottle from one of the half-conscious guards. She took a long swig, her jaw tight as she stared into the flames.
Victor strolled back toward the group with an exaggerated stretch, his cocky grin firmly in place. “She’s just got a temper,” he said, flashing a look at Dmitriy. “You know how she is.”
Dmitriy snorted, returning to his work on the blade. “Yeah. And you know she hates being grabbed like she’s a prize.”
Victor shrugged, unbothered, as he sank into his seat. “She’ll get over it.”
Claudia’s grip on the bottle tightened, her white eye narrowing as she muttered another curse. The other slavers wisely avoided commenting further, the firelight reflecting off their nervous expressions.
From his perch in the ruins, Denzel smirked faintly. At least one of them knows how to put Victor in his place, he thought. As Claudia took another drink, her eyes burning with simmering anger, Denzel slipped back into the shadows, his mind already turning toward the next step.
The camp settled again, the tension bubbling just beneath the surface. But for now, Denzel had his moment of quiet—and a grim sense of satisfaction that even the slavers couldn’t escape their own fractured dynamics.
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The morning came harsh and gray, the pale sun barely piercing the heavy clouds overhead. The slavers stirred from their drunken sleep, groggy and irritable. The guards by the fire stretched and groaned, their movements sluggish as they blinked against the chill air. Dmitriy, ever watchful, was already up, sharpening his knife while keeping an eye on the slaves.
The quiet was broken by a sharp yell.
“Oi! Her ropes are cut!” one of the guards barked, pointing at the ginger-haired girl. She flinched under the sudden attention, her hands held up defensively as the group converged on her.
Victor strode over, his eyes narrowing as he took in the severed cords around her ankles. “What the hell is this?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
The girl hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the tattered ropes. “I—I must’ve ground them off on a rock or something—”
“Bullshit,” snapped Claudia, her one good eye narrowing. She stepped forward, her scarred face twisted in irritation. “Those cuts are clean. Someone did this.”
The girl opened her mouth to protest, but the slap came fast and hard. She staggered, her head snapping to the side as she fell to her knees. Victor’s glare silenced any further objections as he motioned to one of the guards to retie her ropes.
“Renew them,” he ordered coldly. “And check the others while you’re at it. We’re not alone here.”
The slaves huddled closer, their fear palpable as the guards began inspecting their bindings. The tension in the camp grew thick, the slavers exchanging wary glances. Weapons were checked, and voices were kept low, every sound in the ruins suddenly magnified.
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Denzel crouched low behind his makeshift cabin, his breath steady despite the pounding in his chest. He hadn’t planned on things escalating so quickly, but the morning had other ideas. From his vantage point, he watched one of the nameless slavers—a stocky man with a patchy beard—wandering closer, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder.
The man muttered under his breath, kicking at the ground as he turned the corner of a crumbled wall. His steps slowed as his eyes fell on the cabin—Denzel’s chair and table standing out starkly against the ruined surroundings. The man’s expression shifted from curiosity to alarm as realization dawned.
He didn’t get the chance to shout.
Denzel moved fast, closing the distance in a blur. His hand clamped over the slaver’s mouth, and with a swift, brutal motion, he snapped the man’s neck. The sound was sickeningly quiet, a sharp crack that echoed only in Denzel’s ears.
The slaver’s body slumped heavily against him, and Denzel dragged it into the cover of some nearby bushes. He crouched over the corpse, inspecting it quickly. The rifle was battered but functional, a single-shot firearm with four remaining rounds in its makeshift cylinder. Not ideal, but better than nothing. Denzel slung it over his shoulder, tucking the extra rounds into his belt.
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He didn’t have time to waste. The slavers were circling closer, their movements cautious but deliberate. He needed to slow them down—buy himself time to think, to act.
Denzel grabbed what he could find: fallen branches, sharp stones, and scraps of the ruins’ debris. His hands worked fast, fashioning crude traps with the materials at hand. A branch bent low and secured with brittle vines became a snapping whip, ready to lash out when triggered. Sharpened sticks, driven into the ground and hidden under leaves, formed makeshift caltrops. A broken shard of stone, rigged to swing on a taut vine, could strike hard when set loose.
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It wasn’t perfect. Hell, it wasn’t even good. But it was something.
Denzel moved quickly, his eyes constantly scanning the slavers’ positions as he worked. He kept low, his body blending into the ruins as he planted each trap in key chokepoints. Every now and then, a shadow passed too close for comfort, and he froze, his breath shallow as he waited for the danger to pass.
Mewlissa followed close, her small frame darting silently through the rubble. She chirped softly at one point, her eyes narrowing as a slaver passed within arm’s reach, but Denzel’s hand on her back kept her still.
The traps weren’t finished when the first slaver came too close. Denzel pressed himself against the stone, the rifle heavy in his hands. He wasn’t ready for a full confrontation—not yet. But he could feel the tension building, the slavers tightening their circle.
The game was beginning. And the ruins were his board.
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The slavers moved cautiously now, their earlier bravado eroded by the uneasy realization that they weren’t alone in the ruins. Denzel watched from the shadows, his green eyes narrowing as he tracked their movements. His traps were ready—crude but effective. All he needed was patience.
One of the slavers, a stocky man with a perpetual scowl, muttered under his breath as he pushed forward. “This is a waste of time,” he growled, his voice carrying over the tension. The others hung back, their weapons raised but their nerves fraying.
As he stepped onto a concealed trigger, the whip-like branch snapped forward with a vicious crack. It struck the side of his head with enough force to cave in his temple. The man dropped instantly, his body collapsing into a lifeless heap. Blood seeped from the brutal wound, pooling on the dirt.
The other slavers froze, their eyes darting around wildly.
“What the hell was that?!” one of them hissed.
Victor strode forward, his face twisted in irritation. “It’s a trap,” he said coldly. “He’s toying with us.”
Another slaver, brimming with frustrated energy, surged ahead despite Victor’s barked warning. “I’m not sitting here waiting for this bastard to pick us off one by one!” he snapped, charging into the brush.
His foot snagged on a hidden snare, sending him sprawling forward. He landed hard, the sharpened spikes concealed beneath the leaves driving into his chest and abdomen. A blood-curdling scream tore through the ruins, the sound bouncing off the crumbling walls.
Denzel tensed as the group erupted into chaos, their shouts mixing with the slaver’s agonized wails. He kept his position, waiting to see how they would react.
Victor approached the wounded man, his expression hard and unyielding. “Shut him up,” he said flatly, his cold gaze flicking to Dmitriy.
Dmitriy hesitated, the tension in his jaw visible. “He’s one of ours.”
Victor sneered. “He’s dead weight.”
When Dmitriy didn’t move, Victor drew his own knife and crouched by the thrashing man. Without hesitation, he slit the slaver’s throat, silencing the screams in an instant. Blood bubbled from the man’s neck, his body going limp as the life drained from him.
“That’s enough!” Dmitriy’s shout cut through the air, his hand trembling as he raised his gun. “You think this is leadership? You just kill whoever inconveniences you?”
Victor turned slowly, his lips curling into a mocking smirk. “You’re getting soft, Dmitriy.”
The shot rang out before Victor could finish. The bullet struck him square in the back, and he staggered forward, a look of shock flashing across his face before he crumpled to the ground.
“You bastard!” Claudia lunged at Dmitriy, her knife flashing in the dim light. Dmitriy parried the blow, their weapons clashing as they grappled fiercely.
“Stay down!” Dmitriy snarled, wrenching the blade from her hand and shoving her backward. Claudia stumbled, her one good eye blazing with fury. For a moment, she seemed ready to attack again, but then her gaze flicked toward the ziggurat.
She spun on her heel and ran, her boots kicking up dust as she darted between the ruins. Dmitriy steadied himself, raising his gun with grim determination. He tracked her movements, his finger tightening on the trigger.
The shot cracked through the air, and Claudia’s body jerked violently as the bullet struck the back of her skull. She collapsed mid-stride, her momentum carrying her into a heap just around the corner of the ziggurat.
Dmitriy exhaled sharply, his composure cracking as he turned to the three remaining slavers. “You—go find him,” he barked, pointing to the nearest one.
The man swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the others for reassurance that didn’t come. With a hesitant nod, he crept forward, his weapon clutched tightly in his hands.
As he rounded the corner of the makeshift cabin, his breath caught. The body of the first slaver lay sprawled in the bushes, the crude scene unmistakable. The slaver’s eyes widened in horror as he realized just how dangerous their unseen opponent truly was.
“Dmitriy,” he croaked, his voice trembling. “He’s not just hiding—he’s hunting us.”
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Denzel crouched low behind a jagged wall, his warhammer gripped tightly in one hand, the stolen firearm slung across his back. The makeshift traps had done their work, but the remaining slavers were closing in. He counted three moving toward his position, their steps cautious and weapons ready. Dmitriy trailed further behind, his movements deliberate and calculating.
As Denzel shifted to get a better view, a branch beneath his foot cracked sharply.
The noise was like a gunshot in the tense silence.
“There! Over there!” one of the slavers shouted, raising his rifle and firing wildly toward the sound. The report of the shot echoed through the ruins, and another slaver joined in, their bullets punching into stone and scattering debris.
“Stop wasting your ammo, idiots!” Dmitriy barked, his voice laced with fury. “He’s one guy! You want to be out here with empty chambers?”
The shooting stopped, but the damage was done. Denzel knew they’d seen enough to get a rough idea of his location. The slavers began to move toward him, their steps faster now, emboldened by their apparent advantage.
Denzel cursed under his breath. No plan, no backup, no time.
He broke cover, dashing toward the deeper ruins. The three slavers spotted him immediately, their shouts ringing out as they gave chase. Dmitriy followed at a slower pace, his narrowed eyes scanning the shadows as if expecting another trap.
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Denzel’s heart pounded as he wove through the crumbling corridors of the ziggurat’s outer structures. The slavers were close, their boots crunching against the dirt and debris with every step. His makeshift traps were already spent, leaving him with little more than his wits and the weapons in his hands.
The first shot rang out, the bullet zipping past his shoulder and shattering a stone pillar ahead of him. He dove to the side, sliding into cover as the slavers advanced.
“Come on, you bastard!” one of them shouted, his voice tinged with adrenaline. “Let’s see how tough you really are!”
Dmitriy, hanging back near the edge of the chase, stopped abruptly as another shot cracked through the ruins. He slowed, his steps deliberate as he approached a corner where the noise had come from. His breathing quickened, but he held his rifle steady, his knuckles white against the stock.
It was only two steps to the corner, but his gut twisted with unease. The echoes of a struggle reached him—a gruff shout, the crash of something heavy, and then a sickening, muffled scream that was cut brutally short. Dmitriy froze, his lips pressing into a thin line as he gripped his rifle tighter.
Another shot shattered the silence.
Finally, Dmitriy gathered the courage to round the corner, his finger poised on the trigger. His eyes scanned the scene—and widened at what he saw. Three bodies lay crumpled on the ground, their limbs twisted unnaturally, blood pooling beneath them. One man’s face was caved in, his features unrecognizable; the second clutched at a wound in his chest, his body still twitching faintly; the third lay motionless with a bullet hole clean through his back.
Dmitriy’s breath hitched. Whatever cool, calculated resolve he’d had moments ago was gone. His gaze flicked up, searching the shadows for movement, but he saw nothing. The ruins around him were silent once more, save for the faint rustle of wind through the stones.
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He retreated slowly, his mind racing. Every step backward felt like a reminder of the bodies he’d passed: Victor, Claudia, the others. The bodies were piling up, and Dmitriy could feel the weight of his dwindling numbers pressing down on him. His options were running out.
As he passed back through the ruins and toward the camp, a grim idea began to form.
Dmitriy’s boots crunched on the dirt as he approached the slaves. They shrank back instinctively, their bound hands tightening around each other for support. Sima, who had stayed behind to guard them, glanced up from her seat near the fire. Her punkish demeanor faltered slightly as she registered Dmitriy’s expression.
“Something go wrong?” she asked, her tone cautious.
Dmitriy ignored her. His cold, predatory gaze locked onto the ginger-haired girl whose ropes had been cut. She stiffened as he grabbed her arm roughly, dragging her toward the open space near the ziggurat’s entrance.
“Get up,” he snarled.
The other slaves murmured in fear, but none dared move. The statuesque woman, her honey-toned skin catching the faint light, knelt beside the boy. Her broad shoulders shielded him slightly as she whispered soft reassurances, her voice low and soothing. “It’s okay,” she murmured, her hand resting lightly on his back. “Just stay still. We’ll be alright.”
Even Sima rose halfway, her usual cocky smirk replaced with unease. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked, taking a hesitant step forward. “She’s just a kid—”
“Stay out of it,” Dmitriy snapped, his voice low and dangerous. He shoved the redhead forward, forcing her to stumble as he dragged her into the open.
Denzel, crouched somewhere in the ruins, heard the girl’s frightened cry echo through the air. His jaw clenched as he shifted his position, his warhammer resting heavily in his grip.
Dmitriy stopped in the center of the open area, the ziggurat looming behind him. He gripped the girl tightly, raising his rifle in his free hand as he shouted into the air.
“I know you’re out there!” he bellowed, his voice carrying across the ruins. “You think you can pick us off, one by one? You think this is some kind of game?”
The girl whimpered, her green eyes darting toward the ruins as if searching for help. Dmitriy tightened his grip, his voice turning into a furious snarl.
“Come out, or I’ll shoot her right here! You hear me? You like saving people, huh? Well, here’s your chance, hero!”
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Denzel stepped out from the shadows, his warhammer strapped to his belt and his hands raised in a gesture of calm. The tension in the air was palpable, the wind carrying the faint scent of blood and dust. Dmitriy tightened his grip on the ginger-haired girl, dragging her closer as he leveled his rifle toward Denzel.
“Well, well,” Dmitriy sneered, his voice cold but tinged with triumph. “The big bad hunter finally shows himself. You’ve caused quite the mess, haven’t you? Victor, Claudia, the others—you think this is some kind of victory?”
Denzel didn’t respond immediately. His gaze flicked past Dmitriy, to the ziggurat gates looming behind him, and then downward—to the Trial key hanging around his neck. The key, dormant for weeks, now pulsed faintly, its intricate carvings glowing with a soft, ethereal light. A hum, subtle at first but growing louder, resonated against his chest.
Dmitriy continued, oblivious to the change. “You’ve been hiding in these ruins, picking us off like some damn ghost. What’s the plan now? Gonna rush me? Or maybe you thought I wouldn’t put a bullet in her skull the second you try something?”
Denzel barely heard him. His focus sharpened as the key’s hum intensified, the glowing light drawing his attention like a beacon. His fingers brushed against it, and an idea—wild, impossible—took root in his mind.
He raised his eyes to the girl. The redhead’s green gaze met his, wide with fear but flickering with the faintest glimmer of understanding. Denzel’s lips moved, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Duck.”
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t hesitate. She yanked herself downward with sudden force, driving her elbow into Dmitriy’s ribs as she fell. The man grunted, his grip faltering, and the rifle swung wide.
In that instant, Denzel let go of the key.
The Trial key shot forward like a streak of light, its path unwavering as it flew toward the ziggurat gates. Dmitriy barely had time to react before the glowing artifact struck him square in the chest. It wasn’t sharp enough to pierce outright, but the relentless force dragged him backward, his boots scraping against the ground as he struggled against it.
“What the—?!” Dmitriy’s shout turned into a strangled gasp as the key pressed him against the cold stone of the gates. The humming grew deafening, the light surrounding the key blazing brighter with each second. Denzel stood rooted in place, his eyes fixed on the spectacle as blood began to seep from Dmitriy’s chest.
The key, relentless in its purpose, pushed further. Dmitriy’s screams turned wet and guttural as the artifact carved its way through him, dragging flesh and bone aside as it sought the slot in the gate. The girl, still crouched on the ground, covered her mouth to stifle a gasp as the macabre scene unfolded.
With one final, wet crunch, the Trial key found its place, locking into the slot with a resonant click. Dmitriy’s body slumped forward, his lifeless form collapsing at the base of the gates, blood pooling beneath him.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, with a low rumble, the gates began to shift. Ancient mechanisms groaned as the massive stone doors parted, revealing a dark, cavernous space beyond. The air grew thick with a strange energy, swirling and electric, as the hum of the Trial key faded into an eerie stillness.
Denzel exhaled slowly, his gaze steady as he stepped forward. He glanced down at the redhead, her wide eyes still fixed on him in a mixture of awe and disbelief. He offered her a hand, his expression unreadable.
“You alright?” he asked, his voice calm despite the chaos.
She hesitated, then took his hand, pulling herself up. “What the hell was that?”
Denzel glanced at the gates, then back to her. “A bad idea,” he said simply, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But it worked.”
Behind them, the sound of footsteps echoed faintly. The others—Sima and the remaining slaves—were stirring, their attention drawn to the now-open gates and the bloody mess at their feet.
As the rumbling of the ziggurat gates subsided, Denzel turned to the redhead, who stood shakily by his side, her gaze darting between him and the bloodied remains of Dmitriy. Before he could speak, the sound of footsteps drew their attention. Emerging from the shadows, Sima approached, the other slaves trailing cautiously behind her.
The ropes that had bound them were gone, their tattered remnants hanging loosely from the wrists of the other women. Sima walked slightly ahead of the group, her arm draped protectively over the boy’s shoulders. His gaunt frame pressed close to hers, his wide eyes locked on the carnage in front of the gates.
Sima’s usual punkish demeanor was subdued, her face pale but resolute. “So,” she said, her voice cracking slightly as she glanced at the bodies scattered across the ruins. “Guess that’s the end of Dmitriy, huh?”
Denzel nodded, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “You freed them?” he asked, gesturing toward the other slaves.
She shrugged, shifting uncomfortably. “Yeah. Figured someone had to, since you were busy turning Dmitriy into a ground meat.”
The ginger girl stepped forward, her green eyes narrowing. “And why now? You were fine standing there watching us get dragged through hell until—”
“Because he’s my brother!” Sima snapped, her voice louder than she intended. The words hung in the air like a challenge, and everyone froze. She tightened her hold on the boy’s shoulders, her expression softening as she glanced down at him. “I joined the gang to keep him safe. It was supposed to be temporary. Just enough to keep us both alive. But then they grabbed him in some raid...”
Her voice faltered, and the boy leaned into her side, his thin arms wrapping around her waist. “I thought I could protect him. I thought joining them would give me control, but... I lost him anyway,” Sima finished, her voice barely above a whisper.
Denzel’s expression softened slightly, though his posture remained firm. “And now?”
Sima met his gaze, her usual bravado dimmed but still present. “Now, I’m done. No more gangs. No more running. I just want to get out of here with him.”
The redhead crossed her arms, her fiery hair catching the faint light of the rising sun. “And what about the rest of us? You think you can just walk away and call it even?”
Sima frowned, her gaze flicking to the other women. “Look, I don’t know what I can promise. But I’ll do what I can. We’re all getting out of here. Together.”
Denzel raised a hand to cut the argument short. “Enough. If you’re serious about helping, then help. Get these people moving. Make sure they’re safe.”
Sima hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
The redhead stepped closer to Denzel, her green eyes searching his face. “What about you?” she asked quietly.
Denzel glanced over his shoulder at the open gates, their dark expanse stretching into the unknown. The Trial key, still faintly glowing, sat embedded in the stone, its work apparently complete. He adjusted the strap of his warhammer, exhaling slowly.
“I’m going in,” he said simply.
The girl frowned, but before she could protest, Sima spoke up. “Good luck in there, big guy,” she said, her voice tinged with a trace of her usual snark. “Not that you’ll need it. Seems like you’ve got a knack for surviving the impossible.”
Denzel smirked faintly, nodding once. “Take care of them,” he said, his gaze lingering on the redhead for a moment longer before he turned toward the gates.
As he stepped into the shadows, the murmurs of the freed slaves faded behind him. The faint crunch of paws on loose dirt drew his attention, and a small, striped shape slipped into step beside him. Mewlissa padded silently, her golden eyes glinting faintly in the dim light of the open gates. She chirped softly, as if to announce her presence, and rubbed briefly against his leg before bounding ahead, her tail flicking like a banner.
Denzel glanced down at her and let out a quiet chuckle, his fingers brushing over her head in a fleeting gesture. “Guess you’ve decided I’m not going in alone, huh?” he muttered, the corner of his mouth quirking into a faint smirk.
Mewlissa didn’t respond, of course, but her calm, confident gait spoke volumes. Together, they crossed the threshold, the weight of the Trial key’s glow at their backs, and stepped into the unknown.