A lone boy stood in the forest. The musculature of whom, chiseled perfectly into buns and molehills, showed from a half-naked body. Now, he wasn't here to be a creep or advance his pervy agendas, instead he was here to prove that humans could be mages—or at least so that he might one day prove it, for as currently, he was failing miserably at the endeavor. He knew the principle: intent to determine the form and spell control, aspected mana to be molded into the desired effect, and mystical words to impress the intent onto the aspected mana.

He huffed, breathing heavily from the exhaustion of continually pouring mana out of his soul. A proper fireball required only fifty jiggs of mana to conjure, and he had a thousand jiggs in his reserve, at least according to the elf that had tested him and his fellow low-adventurers. A higher than average reserve compared to other humans, but nonetheless paltry compared to those cursed elves who had hundreds of thousands of the thing. He raised his two hands, positioning them opposite each other, and then formed them into claws. He imagined clearly in his mind what it would look like: a solid globe of burning fire—form. That done, he proceeded to think of it as if a string connected it to his own soul, allowing him to move it wherever he wished, or throw it and all its destructive capacities towards a target—spell control.

Next, he imagined scooping a part of his personal mana, and then forced it to gain the properties associated with fire and solidity—aspecting the mana. He then urged this aspected mana to flow through his unimaginably thin meridians and gather between his hands. Fieris, bunto, he intoned the incantation for the spell—mystical words to impress intent onto aspected mana. He felt the mana violently shake between his hands as if the image in his head was being forced onto the mana. But when the mana started forming into the desired image, it collapsed.

Tsk, not enough pressure. He noticed what he'd been noticing for as long as he had been trying to do magic—his mana lacked the pressure to push through the boundary between aspected mana and the actual desired effect, in other words with lack of pressure also meant a lack of robustness to the spell structure, thus causing it to collapse before forming into anything.

He stopped casting and huffed gravely with every breath. Sweat overflowed from the pores of his skin, bathing him with the icky liquid from his own body. After he'd recovered for a while, he lifted his hand, thinking of flame and using fire-aspected mana, he conjured this time a raging tongue of fire just above his hand.

“A mere cantrip…”

All this time, what he could successfully conjure were merely cantrips—unstructured spells that simply required aspected mana and intent. If he remembered correctly, a structured spell was made by combining two aspects into a structure. In the case of a fireball, it consisted of both fire and solid aspects, able to destroy when hurled at something. A cantrip on the other hand didn't have any structure, hence why they cost a paltry amount of mana and why they only required a single aspect. To his knowledge, that's how scholars defined cantrips: they only used a single aspect.

Finishing up his fruitless training, he picked up the shirt, sword and leather armor he had hung on a nearby branch. He donned them on, taking on the grave image of an adventurer, or at least a low-adventurer. For all his limited knowledge of the world, he knew of one thing: only Ethera allowed humans to become adventurers. In fact, only this country allowed humans to erect settlements with freedom. But thanks to dungeons and monsters, most humans congregated at Thuruk, the human city-state. With its outlying villages and towns, it was the greatest human country in the world—actually it was the only one of its kind, but nevertheless still great. With all this speak of how great Thuruk was, he reminded himself of one important fact: Thuruk wasn't completely free, it still needed to pay its taxes to Ethera while remaining autonomous in terms of rule. It and its surroundings were the only home he ever got to know, and the only place in the world he ever got to see.

Oh what he would give to see other parts of the world, to adventure into dungeons, or even collect monster cores from Monstrum. Hearsay said that one could become as rich as a baron if one simply got a hold of a single monster core from Monstrum. Then there were other parts of Ethera; where there were said to be floating carriages that moved without horses, and nobles that could command magic like no other. Instead of touring the world and vanquishing foes, he was stuck in this hell-hole—not Thuruk for he liked the place with all its imperfections—no, he meant being a low-adventurer. If he had magic he could change all that, hence why he occasionally trained.

He made his way along the bustling dirt road leading towards the city, occasionally seeing laborers, artisans, and merchants with their carts, farm and carpentry tools, elaborate dresses sewn with artistic intent, and much much more. Thuruk was home to a variety of humans, from emancipated slaves coming from all over the world, to dark-skinned humans from overseas.

Not many who made their way to Thuruk survived. A batch of slaves, freed from the clutches of destitution in the mines up north by an accident, told him that they were a strong two hundred when they were liberated, and arrived only five. But they said it was all worth it. Here, they could at least train their trade freely, and if demand waned, suffer the consequences with the thought that they at least had a chance at life. This little niche of the world, all made for humans, by humans, made him secretly proud. Here, amidst the giants of the world, stood a little empire no less precious than the metropolises of the elves, or underground grand cities of the dwarves, or the lofty floating cities of the dragons. This was home.

Nodding at the city guard, he entered the city-walls, strutting like the warrior that he was, moving forward towards the guild, where he might snatch a new job. He still had fifty shackalie—equivalent to five hundred tushackalie—with him, which meant that if he slept by the streets and ate only twice a day, he'd be able to live a ‘luxurious’ two and a half days. Since meals were, at the cheapest, only a hundred tushackalie. But if he wanted a bed to sleep on, he should earn at least thirty shackalie, that should grant him at least four days of roof on his head.

He entered the guild with the door ringing the bell that hung just above it. He scanned the room, all full of hardened and scarred low-adventurers; they briefly took stock of him before returning to whatever conversation they were blubbering about with each other, no doubt talking about what scant adventure there was available here in Thuruk. Real adventure was out there, where lurked monsters greater than the stage-2 ones they fought here.

He went towards the quest board and looked for anything remotely close to any job appropriate for a lad his rank. It took him some time to find an apropo quest; after all, the higher you climb up the guild rankings, the scarcer the available work that was equivalent to your rank. He was currently an I-rank adventurer, with H to F the only ranks higher than his. For a teenager his age, his rank was already a telltale sign that he was a talented warrior: a fierce and efficient killer. Reaching H to F would take more time, but with the way he was rolling, he was sure to reach the peak in six years time. Although, he would eventually reach the boundary between the sane and the insane. That's how he liked calling the difference between human and elven strength. Cutting a branch with one strike was sane, leveling a whole mountain with a bat of an eyelid was insane—although, he had to admit it was a bit of a hyperbole, but nonetheless the idea was there. He dreamed of one day bridging that gap, but how he'd go about it, he did not know. For now, he decided to start with little things.

He browsed the quest board and found interesting but unworthy jobs, from guarding caravans to slaying stage-1 monsters that kept destroying vegetation and crops, to more mundane ones like helping a carpenter build a house, dam or bridge. Those were not to his liking though. He was getting impatient when his eyes happened to gaze upon one job request: subduing a monster nest up north, requested by Sifon, an elven adventurer. They were paying a hundred shackalie for the job. That was something. He glanced at the difficulty and found it to be just I-rank. You would think it should've been ranked higher, but because ‘real’ adventurers were the ones to take on the full brunt of the attack, the difficulty was greatly subdued. Most likely, human adventurers were only needed to pick on the low-level stragglers.

With a smooth and graceful motion, he waded through the numerous tables and their gruff patrons and went to the clerk helming the counter.

“Get me I-3,” he commanded, a smile plastered on his face.

The clerk gave him a pen and a form to fill out.

***

The trek had taken about two weeks to complete, and he had to survive in the wilderness without shelter, trudging through rain unprotected. Since he brought no extra clothes with him, stashing what meager belongings he had in a hidden cache somewhere at the forest, west of Thuruk, he exuded a particularly pungent odor. His breath fared no better as he was forced to eat what little game he could hunt, animals that tasted so bad he wanted to vomit it all out.

But he was here, right at the border between Thuruk and Ethera. Well, technically all of it belonged to Ethera, Thuruk was just on lease, so there was no such thing as a border, but he liked to think of it in a different perspective: Thuruk was a nation under the aegis of a more powerful, benevolent nation. He wished he could say ‘benevolent’ for all Etherans, but reality was almost never within expectations. Even for a nation touted to have passed laws preventing human slavery, anti-human sentiments were still rife in every nook and cranny of the kingdom; in fact he was bracing himself for pejoratives his employers might throw at him; he could never be sure if they were aligned with the kindness with which the king handled Thuruk or they praised the anti-human slurs which some in the council nursed within their bosoms.

He laid down under the shade of a tree and waited. If he had come here two years ago, when he was just a novice, he would have surely gotten lost, but thanks to experience, he had pretty much mapped out most of Thuruk's landmarks by now. But if he somehow deviated, he was sure that his employers would easily find him, with that…. What was that again? Spiritual sense? Anyway it wasn't long now until the agreed upon hour, and he'd be meeting with them. Surely, his odor wouldn't help with the first impression but regardless, he was in it for the money. A little later, other low-adventurers arrived with stuffed bags full of whatever survival items they had. He recognized some of them, being I to F ranked adventurers. The request did say the more the merrier—actually, it did not outright say that, but it did say: the more low-adventurers heed our call, the safer we can make this land. He counted fifteen low-adventurers in total—that's a crowd in the adventuring business.

Despite their number, no one even attempted to say hello to him. It was pretty obvious that they kept their distance from him, ostensibly masking their aversion with menial conversations about how that tree was better for shade or this rock was best for reclining and so much more. He did not mind….

“I’ve never seen swines out of their pigsty before.” Someone tittered.

“That's him, isn’t it? Winston Rossir? The anti-social prick who shrugged off Merlion's invitation to join his team?” The other man smugly let out.

“Yep, that's him, suddenly getting big headed just because he climbed a few ranks higher than his peers.”

“I bet he's thinking he’s way better than any of us right now. Well, I guess he'd be right about that. That stink can certainly overpower any attack.” The man smirked and cackled openly.

Winston's heart, ripe for violence, flared under the voices he was hearing. But he kept it all under control.

“Good for Merlion for having his invitation rejected, the guy smells like a thousand shits. He would have had to buy clips for his entire party to clip their noses.”

“Heh,” the other guy sniggered. “Just thinking about what that would look like makes me want to laugh. Anyway, should we buy clips as ....”

Before he could finish, a fist connected with his jaw, sending him whirling down to the dirt.

His companion, somewhat shocked, quickly jumped back. “What's wrong with you?” He said. “That was uncalled for!”

Winston stood before them, huffing and red in rage.

“Swine you say!? Well I'd have you know I'm a proud I-rank adventurer, you owe me the respect due to someone of my rank.”

The other man rolled his eyes, “We're all high ranking here… but if you want a fight, I will not balk away from a provocation.”

“You were the one who provoked me!” Winston cried on the top of his lungs. “You disrespected me, I demand recompense.”

Instead of compensation, Winston got a fist hurtling towards his nose. But with an agile dexterity, he was able to move to the side before the fist hit, causing the other man to overextend, so that his side was now directly in front of him. He quickly swung his leg, hitting the other man's stomach with a knee and sending him hurtling backwards.

“I am I–rank,” Winston claimed, proud and seething. “You are I-rank, but we’re not equal. I am stronger than you!”

The two men writhed on the ground, nursing their bruises. When they stood up, still clutching their hurt, they readied themselves to attack, but before it could happen a towering man stood between Winston and the two men.

“Merlion!” One of the two men exclaimed. “He just started hitting us and….”

“Enough!” Merlion shouted angrily. “In this world rife with monsters and magic that could literally wipe us all out of the face of Mundus, I would expect humans to stick together. But this! THIS IS UNBECOMING OF AN ADVENTURER!”

Merlion was a respected F-ranked adventurer, so his shouting held a lot of weight for Winston, the two men, and all the onlookers.

Merlion turned to the two men, “I would not have you snickering or gossiping about, focus on the work ahead!”

“And you,” Merlion turned to Winston, with a grave and nagging tone. “I expected much more from a talented young man; do you not have the restraint to let simple insults brush you lightly? And you had jumped to attack at the next opportune moment? You have done more wrong than an insult, you punched your fellow adventurer!”

“I-I d-demand recompense for the… disrespect!” stammered Winston, averting his gaze away from the bulging man.

“And you have taken more recompense than necessary, you drew blood.”

“I did not draw blood!”

“You might as well have; attacking an unsuspecting comrade with a rage-addled head. You disappoint me lad.”

Hearing the reprimand, Winston gritted his teeth and left, he didn't want to hear more. He went deep into the forest and sat beneath a ginormous tree. Once he got magic, he'd surely revisit those punks and make them feel sorry they had ever had the thought of making him cross. But magic was still unimaginably far away that he wondered when that might be. Then his imaginings slowly shifted towards musings about his future, digging deeper and deeper into his thoughts until he fell asleep.

***

It was dark. But instead of it being empty space, it felt like water—no, it was something more viscous, making it hard to move without grunts of effort. But he moved anyway, walking—or swimming? It was hard to know what sort of facility he enabled himself to move, as if his sense of balance and space were mussed by an external force. But he moved anyway, to what exactly he did not know. A dot of light appeared just ahead. It looked close—no, actually it was far, farther than the distance between the world and the moon. It was just that this darkness made it look closer than the truth. He moved towards that light, desiring respite from this darkness.

He jumped the galactic distance in just seven steps—or seven sweeps? Weird. But he arrived there. And he saw what he could only call—beautiful. A gigantic orb flew in this viscous space, full of energy and strength. And above it were the words: This is sorcery, an unstoppable force. Understanding came to him as he read the words. He knew then and there that this was the magic of the great races.

Then the light started to subsume him and eat him and burn him. In that instant he understood: sorcery was an unstoppable force. At that moment, he realized the foolishness of his endeavors. He could never attain the power to wield this magic; it was foolish of him to desire power like the elves when his own was miniscule compared to the power they wielded. He was but a mote in the tapestry of the great races’ power. But then everything calmed down and the heat and burning disappeared. He opened his eyes, and now he saw a man whose skin was as black as the night sky, and similarly dotted with stars. Threads of light ran through his body and his eyes glowed with ethereal light. A nebula of the same threads of power circled behind him, and some errant lines emanated from it, angling at some points or curving at others.

Beneath it were the words: This is magick, a constrained force.

He felt familiarity with this new power. It was weak and subtle but he knew that those errant threads connected to mana, the source of all magic. These were not two demarcated powers; instead they were two sides of the same coin—magic. One was a power that screamed, the other hushed. One was freedom, the other was boundary. He never heard of anyone calling the magic of elves as sorcery before, nor did he ever happen upon the word magick and all that it entailed, but he understood nonetheless that these were all parts of magic.

This new power swathed over him, welcoming him in its bosom. Hope dawned on him despite the searing image that sorcery had imprinted into his mind. But as to how to harness this different power, it eluded him. As the power swallowed him whole, he opened his eyes to a scene he could never ever fathom or believe. A city sprawled before him, dappled with towering buildings that he could only imagine as belonging to an elven metropolis, but then his sense of sight draped over this whole vision, and he could see every nook and cranny of the whole city. He was shocked out of his seat when he saw humans, happy and violent, depending on what corner he looked at.

Then he saw them: mages—or at least they must have been, since they conjured flames, ice, metal or rocks and even crystals. What kind of world was this? So full of color and so full of humans—freer than the humans at Thuruk. If he could harness whatever magic—or magick—they were using, then he could show those arrogant elves that humans could equal or even surpass them.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

When he had gotten all he could from the scene, he was whisked away to another dark place. Then as if light came into being while darkness still overflowed—as if he could now see in the dark, though the dark was not dispelled by any source of light—he saw the countenance of a girl. She was crying, asking and clawing for help. Black fluid oozed from her eyes, then from her ears and mouth, and then the black fluid burst out of her skin.

She was crying, “Help me, Winston!”

Winston wanted to move to her aid but his body moved in the opposite direction.

“Why am I running away?”

He kept moving forward without stopping, and he kept glancing at the girl, horror now swallowing him as he saw the girl being reduced to bones. And he cried from the bottom of his heart.

“Why didn't I save her!?” These words were not his, but it was as if it were, calling from the depths of his conscience.

“What's going on? What have I done?” He jolted awake, his vision still blurry and the sounds around him muffled. The first thing he did, or rather felt, was how the vision burned into his brain a very realistic image. It was as clear as the memory of what he had eaten yesterday. He could not differentiate the dream from any real-world memory he had had from experience. It was there, and the magic those humans wielded… it was all real.

That girl at the end, and her gruesome death. Did he somehow cause it? Was that a portent of the future, or of a past he was not aware of?

The moment that his thoughts about the dream subsided, he finally began to take notice of his surroundings. He felt jostling as if a cart was hitting a bumpy road. He wiped the tears from his eyes and immediately observed that he was now sitting in a wooden frame, and now that his eyes were clearing, he could clearly see this was a cage, and based on the bumping, it must be on a wagon.

“What the hell happened!?”

“You’re awake,” someone said. He turned his head towards the source and saw Merlion sitting diagonally in front of him, wearing tattered clothing more fit for a slave than an adventurer.

Merlion seemed to notice Winston eyeing him for his clothes. “This?” he asked with a smile. “Woke up with them,” he pointed at Winston, “like you.”

Winston looked at his clothes and did in fact see a ragged piece of shirt and some dirty pants.

“What exactly happened?”

“Wasn't really a job, they ambushed us, but even if they didn't, they still had the overwhelming strength—magic and all. So we were no match. My guess is they'll be selling us to a slave merchant.”

“Impossible! Slavery is prohibited in Ethera!”

“Maybe. But what if it was to a different nation?”

Winston gritted his teeth. The slavers must have drugged him while he was sleeping and took him without a fight. Blasted elves and their condescension. If he gained the powers he had seen in his vision (if it was real) he would make them taste iron.

“Where are the others?” Winston asked, irritation obvious on his face. “I assume we were all captured?”

“Don’t know, but if my hunch is correct, they'll be selling us to different merchants. Less chance of their misdeed getting discovered that way.”

A raging wildfire of rage crept up from Winston’s heart, making him tremble with its violent potential. Cursed those slavers, cursed those elves who took away everything from him. They took his family, and now his freedom! The memory of his parents death seared itself on his brain. How that wanton baron slit their necks just because they couldn't pay him their debt, just because they did not have the economic gearing to produce income that could pay him their debt. He will rain hell upon these foul, barbaric, fiendish and truculent bastards. How though—that was the question. The moment doubt crept into his head; the moment he realized how far that was from his grasp, was the moment his heart gave way.

His earlier rage now turned into a whorl of despair, drowning him deeper and deeper into its maw. He was still angry, but he was sad at the same time. He was sad that he was powerless to untangle this knot of misfortune in his life. So he cried, he sobbed—snot mixed in with tears.

Merlion stayed silent. Winston was free to interpret what his silence meant so he thought of it as Merlion's way of respecting him. When Winston stopped crying, he did not say a word; he preferred it that way. Instead, he looked through the tiny window of their cage, looking beyond its rusty bars. Meanwhile, Merlion closed his eyes and slept.

When it got dark, the wagon stopped. Winston could clearly hear the sounds of men disembarking from the wagon. An idea lit up in his head and he positioned himself in front of the door.

“What are you doing?” Merlion asked.

“Trying to take a kill.”

“Are you serious!? They'd kill you even if you fail.”

He did not care if he died after, but he wanted to fight back, he wanted to… ARGH! He wanted to eradicate all of them.

The sound of clacking from the other side signaled that someone was undoing the door bolt. Then the door opened just a little bit so that he could see someone opening it. Not shackling him beforehand was a mistake these elves would soon regret. He lunged at the door, forcefully opening it. Dropping on the ground feet first, he turned to the man that had opened the door. He only had seconds before the man reacted and casted something. He immediately snaked his hands towards the elf’s head and with a quick twist, stole the life out of him.

The other elves were in uproar the moment they realized. Shackles immediately clamped themselves onto Winston's hands and feet. Then an elf pointed to the shackles, and as if they came alive, they moved downwards, forcing him to kneel on the ground. Winston raised his head, scanning the whole scene. He could see more elf than the wagon could hold so he suspected there were more wagons just up ahead.

“You killed one of us!” The elf that had shackled him, screamed. Seeing as how all of the elves deferred to him, he must be their leader.

Winston did not say anything. Rather, he spat on the ground with disdain. The elf slapped him on the face.

“Speak! Tell me anything that would make me spare you!”

Despite himself, he stayed silent. Before the elf could chop off his head, a voice from inside the cage responded to the elves.

“I'm sure you'd earn a wealthy sum if you sold him as an elf-killer. If he has the mettle and drive to kill one of your own, he would be a great laborer.” It was Merlion, he was trying to negotiate with the elves for his sake.

Winston turned his head to the elf and saw him ponder for a bit.

“But that would also mean he'd be dangerous.”

“To whom?” Merlion's voice rang behind Winston. “To elves such as yourselves? Surely if you keep him at arm’s length he would be harmless. No brute could ever hope to bridge the gap between human strength and elven magic.”

“True,” the elf said, acquiescing. “Did anyone have the recording of the attack?”

Many of the elves shook their heads.

“I do!” One cherry-cheeked elf exclaimed.

“Good, good.” The elf turned to Merlion and sent magical shackles flying towards him, securing him from ever moving. “As thanks for the good idea, you will have twice your portion of food tonight.” Then the elf smirked. “Of course that means you get a bowl, no more, no less.”

They made camp that night, and Winston stayed restrained and kneeling at the corner. He got no food, probably as a form of punishment for what he had done. The night turned deep, and he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

***

It took them about a week to reach their presumed destination, and based on what he saw through the tiny window, it was a city, and based on the smell of salty water, it was a port city. The unnatural speed with which their caravan traveled, and the durability of the wagons relative to that speed smelled of magic. He guessed they were using monster horses to tow a magically reinforced wagon. Not exactly the floating, horseless vehicles he wished to see, and he was not exactly in the condition he would like to be in when he'd be seeing a product of magic, but this would do. He had, in a sense, seen a part of the world that had previously been mystified by the squalor of Thuruk. This relaxed thinking was the result of resigning himself to his fate. He was still fuming at the slavers, but it was now subdued by the fact that no matter who he killed, or what he'd do, the reality of the matter would remain the same—he was now a slave.

But instead of whining about his situation, he contrived a plan: learn whatever magic his vision had shown him—the one those humans wielded—and break himself free of the fetters of elven cruelty. He was convinced the vision was real, because some part of him had changed after that; his senses were sharper, and if he just looked close enough, he could make out motes of light in the air. He guessed this must have been what they called spiritual senses.

All his training in magic was neither aided by self-study nor a proper mentor. Instead it was the result of a program the king had commenced, where humans from all over the kingdom would be tested and taught the basics of magic. In the hopes, according to the messenger, of finding magic-abled humans and elevating humanity from their current state. That was where he had learned to aspect his mana into solid and fire, and the mechanics of how to cast a spell as well as the incantation for a fireball. He learned it all within a month, which, the elf teaching him said, would have made him a prodigy if he was an elf. Alas, he was born human and would never be able to aspire to the heights of magic.

But maybe if he learned magick, he could race after the elves. He closed his eyes and felt for his mana; there was no time to practice than now, so he focused. Instead of aspecting his mana he tried something different. He imagined and remembered how those humans in his vision let out strings of mana and shaped them into various shapes. So he called from within him, slowly guiding the mana through his meridians and then releasing them as threads of power. He realized once he'd done that, that only a tiny portion of his mana had come out. Then he opened his eyes. He saw dancing strings, glowing in orange light, above his outstretched palm.

“Do you see this?” he asked, turning to Merlion.

Merlion glanced towards him and shrugged.

“I see a violent kid, who shouldn't have the business to be adventuring alone at his age.”

Winston frowned. When it seemed that he wasn't going to reply to Merlion, the other man returned to looking at the outside with what little view the windows offered. Winston then turned his attention back at the dancing threads on his palm. Okay, so other people could not see the mana. He could guess that maybe personalized mana couldn’t be seen by others besides its owner, or it could be that only those with spiritual senses could see it and that the reason he was seeing his mana was because he had unlocked his spiritual senses. Whatever he could think of to explain how he could see the dancing strings of mana was as good a guess as any. He just didn't have enough data to draw one reliable conclusion. As he began to knead the mana, he realized that he could control them, and with great effort, he could shape them! This was progress, at least to him.

He spent hours trying to bend the strings into circular shapes because of no other reason besides the fact that he liked it. Then the cage turned dark, apparently entering into a tunnel. He felt the ground tilt to the front, indicating that they were now traveling aslope, descending into some dark facility. Winston and Merlion jerked to the side as the wagon grinded into an abrupt halt. The door then slammed open, revealing an elf standing at the far end who had obviously opened the door by magic. They crawled in the cage and then stepped out, their shackles jangling with the act.

“Walk.”

They were nudged by the elf to walk forward, and they moved, following another elf who was taking the lead. Winston looked around for the other elves but found no sign of them, probably delivering the other slaves to other merchants. It looked like they were indeed selling them separately, or maybe by batches of two, but whatever be the reason, they were now too deeply sunk in the mire to get out. They approached a huge metallic door and the elf leading them knocked in an intentional rhythm. The door opened, and a stout, muscular dwarf, about a head shorter than him, greeted them with the most hostile stare he had ever seen. He had never seen a dwarf before but he was certain this man was a dwarf, because dwarves were said to have skins the color of metals and this one had a skin as brown-orange as copper.

“Inside!”

At the behest of their captors the two of them went inside, and a corpulent elf eyed them with interest, not for what potential they had as persons, but for what potential sum he could eke out of them.

“Hm… muscular. Good, good,” the corpulent elf said, the flabs at his side jiggling as he moved to inspect them. “The other one is young, could fetch a lot considering he has the potential to work more years than this one.” He pointed at Merlion. “But this one looks more experienced and peaceable. He could probably do more efficient work than the younger one. Good, good, specimen. I'll take them all.”

“Twenty shackals for the youth, ten for the adult.”

The merchant turned to the elf and snorted. “Are you trying to rip me off of my wealth? The adult I understand but the youth is beyond overpriced!”

“Oh, but he's not any ordinary youth,” the elf grinned odiously. “He killed an elf, although admittedly by surprise, but a human capable of doing that is hard to come by. If he's that stubborn, then think how stubborn he'd be when faced with insurmountable work!”

The elf then took off a brooch on his chest and placed it on his palm. The jewel on the brooch glowed in green colors, then the brooch dissolved into the air. It reformed into a square screen where images rapidly rolled in a series, forming a moving picture. This was the first time Winston had seen moving pictures before; truly, the grandeurs of magic were unparalleled by any human crafts. The moving image depicted the scene when he had killed the elf, causing his eyes to widen. How did they “collect” those images into one moving picture? Who had done that? He couldn't remember any elf acting out of place during his violent act.

After the scene finished playing, the screen clammed down and reformed back into a brooch, which the elf placed back on his chest.

“Or,” the merchant began, raising a finger. “He'd be too stubborn to work.”

The other elf pondered a bit, no doubt not expecting the merchant's well-thought-out retort.

“Well damn,” the elf said, “We didn't think about that.”

“Tell you what,” the merchant said. “I'll take him for a hundred fifty thousand tushackalie, just fifty thousand less than your offered price, that way, both of us can get out of this happy.”

The merchant grinned in the most crooked grin he had ever seen.

“Deal.” The other elf shook hands with the elven merchant.

After they had made the deal, the two elves lead Winston and Merlion into a jail cell within this seemingly underground bunker. They shoved them inside and closed the bars with a lock. Winston felt helpless. He wanted to escape but couldn't. But maybe if he was patient enough, he could one day break free from slavery with his own power—someday.

***

Winston groaned as he woke up, his palms sweating and his butt hurting from sitting all day. His stomach rumbled, grumbling in dissatisfaction with the gruel they were fed with. He had lost count of how many days it had been since their incarceration. Although not as accurate as the physical sign of the eternal dance between the sun and moon, he used the number of sleep he had had as a counting agent to determine the days. He had approximately slept about thirty one times, which meant the days were nine days short of being a month—if his sleep accurately represented the demarcation of days.

Their cell stank because they were only given a bucket to excrete with. He looked at Merlion and the man was as stoic as ever, resting his back on the wall and never eking out a sound. When Winston's sufferings were bearing down heavily, he looked up to the metaphorical sky and prayed. Perhaps not to be pulled out of this state but at least for a small respite, at least, he thought, some meat would suffice. But nobody answered his prayers; his fate all but certain to end in misery.

“If there is any god out there,” he wailed. “Please… give us meat.”

“I believe,” a heavenly voice replied to his anguish. “He would give you one if he could.”

There was an odd tinge of a familiar tone from those words… hold on a minute, it wasn't someone at the gates of heaven who spoke up. Winston turned to the man sitting at the side. He frowned.

“Did I ask you to answer?”

“Maybe,” Merlion spoke hushedly and gave Winston a companionable glare. “He used me to talk to you.”

“Cut the crap will you. What do you mean ‘if he could’? If he's a god, then shouldn’t he be able to do anything?”

“He could. He could magically pop up meat in the air as we speak.”

“Exactly,” Winston said, the scowl in his face steady and persistent. He prayed out of desperation but it did not mean he believed in any higher being.

“But what if,” Merlion offered, slicking back his hair. “It was all meant to be a lesson.”

“Oh shut up, I've already learned enough lessons, isn't this slavery business enough of a punishment?”

“Not for you, you dolt,” Merlion smilingly pointed out. “For others. What if it's the way for the up high to teach them a lesson in kindness?”

“Using us as the sacrificial lambs!? Well fat chance of that converting me to believe.”

“It did make you pray,” Merlion giggled, causing Winston to roll his eyes. “We haven't been sacrificed by an unfeeling god,” Merlion continued, tapping his fingers on his knees. “We were sacrificed by circumstance and by free agents who could affect it. I bet by now, there are a thousand other circumstances that are tickling the heart of slavers to change their ways. What I meant by ‘he can't give you meat’ is that he can't currently, because none of the slavers has yet to respond to his tickling and none of them plan on giving us meat any time soon. There's a saying, ‘God has no eyes, mouth, hands and feet in the world but you.’”

“Ugh,” Winston grumbled. “I just let out words by accident and it has now turned into a debate.”

Merlion chuckled. “I'm a firm believer, young man, and men like us tend to prattle on long tirades about our beliefs, though admittedly, it doesn't mean we are any better a person for it.”

“Well, if someone gives me meat today, I'd consider believing.”

The two locked gazes and a moment later they were laughing. What respite Winston actually needed was a simple companionable conversation—even about things he didn't believe in. He might not have been a believer, but he nonetheless respected the stark honesty of the big man.

Three sleeps later, a rotund dwarf waddled to their jail cell, clinking of keys audibly echoing all throughout the uneven surfaces of this bunker that seemed to have been a repurposed cave. The dwarf unlocked the lock fastening the latch in place.

Winston's blood boiled in anticipation, his adrenal gland pumping adrenaline heavily into his system. Sweat dropped from his pores, bathing him in their disgustingly slick consistency. His eyes darted around looking for any other elf or dwarf, then it locked down on the dwarf's person.

He could do this, they could escape here. When the dwarf pulled the barred door open, Winston launched from his position at lightning speed. He headbutted the dwarf causing him to buck backward, then Winston struck with his fingers at the dwarf's throat, causing him to topple to one knee and cough. He snaked his two hands around the dwarf’s head and with a twist… hang on, his neck wouldn't twist. The calloused hands of the dwarf wrapped themselves around his wrists, and the dwarf slowly stood up, overpowering Winston's strength. Slowly but surely, pushing him to kneel down on one knee.

The dwarf cackled. “You think you could overpower me, human? It might have worked with a lanky elf, but me? Tut tut tut.”

The dwarf's unnerving smile painted the image of a monster playing with its plaything into Winston's head. Then the dwarf swung his grip sideways, toppling Winston down to his side. Winston writhed in pain on the ground, nursing his bruised side that had hit a projecting stone on the cavern floor.

“Get up all of you, the sea is waiting. You can now only hope to find a good master at the Triumvirate.”

Merlion, who had run to Winston’s aid, looked to the dwarf.

“You mean we're going to Kirisal?”

“Where else, you dumbo? Everyone knows Kirisal has the biggest slave market in this part of the continent.”

Immediately after, both Winston and Merlion were forced to enter a cage on a wagon, and brought to the pier, at least to Winston's guess, because he could see the sea through the window from where he sat. Then he felt the cage float in the air as it trembled by the act. Suddenly, it went dark all around, his guess being that they were now inside a ship. A few hours later a loud sound boomed—a jarring siren. After the sound had rang, the boat steadily left harbor and moved.