The male guard burst into laughter, his cruel voice echoing across the clearing. "What an idiot!" he sneered, pointing at the dust pile where the man had perished moments ago. "At least he's proven to be a useful example to the rest of you wasteful wretches. If anyone else has delusions of freedom, just remember what happens when you try to outrun the monolith."

Zayn clenched his teeth, forcing himself to keep his head down. The sight of the guard mocking the dead man's fate disgusted him, not because of pity, but because he could tell that it extended to him as well.

He's looking down on us. Like literal dirt underneath his boots that holds no value.

Despite the gruesome display, the thought of escape still lingered in his mind. The man's failed attempt didn't extinguish the spark in Zayn's thoughts—it only made him more determined to get out of his predicament.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew his attention. He turned his gaze just enough to see other groups of guards leading their own lines of slaves toward the mountain. More carriages arrived in succession, their occupants emerging in the same lifeless manner as those in Zayn's group.

From what he could observe, there were four additional groups, each just as defeated and disheveled as his own. Together, they formed a grim congregation of roughly a hundred souls, lined up in neat rows under the watchful eyes of their captors.

As Zayn studied the others, his attention shifted to a new figure emerging at the base of the mountain. Elevated slightly by the rocky incline, the man stood tall and imposing, his presence commanding immediate attention.

Unlike the other guards, who bore distinct features like horns or unnaturally colored skin, this man appeared fully human. He wore the same type of uniform as the others, but his attire was more ornate, with gold embroidery accentuating its edges. His belt held crystals similar to those carried by the guards, but his were larger, encased in gold, and exuded an aura of authority. One crystal in particular—a deep purple one—stood out. Zayn quickly deduced that it was likely the key to controlling the monolith.

The man surveyed the assembled slaves with an air of disdain, his sharp gaze sweeping over them as if he were examining livestock. Then, he spoke, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence like a blade.

"Pathetic," he began, his tone dripping with contempt. "Each and every one of you is a worthless wretch. A drain on the kingdom's resources. Useless in every conceivable way."

Some of the guards chuckled, their laughter laced with mockery.

The man smirked, clearly reveling in the moment. "But don't worry," he continued, "we've found a way to make you worth something. Killing you outright would be a waste, your dead bodies wouldn't even serve as good manure."

Zayn felt a flicker of anger stir within him but suppressed it, focusing instead on memorizing every detail.

The man raised his hand and gestured toward the mountain. "Your task is simple. All one hundred and one of you—" He paused, glancing at the spot where the man had died. A cruel grin spread across his face. "Correction. All one hundred of you will dig. You will dig ditches larger than houses and deep enough to swallow them whole. You don't need to know why. You don't have the right to ask."

Zayn's ears perked up at the faint sound of murmuring among the guards near him.

"Odd orders," one whispered. "This wasn't the plan."

"Yeah," another replied. "This came out of nowhere. What are the boss up to?"

The hushed exchange only deepened Zayn's unease. If even the guards didn't know what was happening, it meant the situation was far more precarious than he'd realized.

The man continued, oblivious to the growing tension. "You will have four hours. Fail, and your punishment will make your miserable existences seem like blessings in comparison."

He turned to the guards and barked orders, instructing them to divide the slaves into smaller groups and assign them specific sections to dig. He emphasized that any disobedience was to be met with the black crystal's wrath—severe enough to instill fear but not fatal.

When his instructions were finished, the man turned his attention back to the assembled slaves. His eyes gleamed with sadistic glee as he regarded their defeated forms.

"Consider this your chance to finally mean something," he sneered. "Welcome to your purpose."

The slaves were ushered into a new line, and Zayn followed, his curiosity piqued when he saw they were being handed equipment.

He expected to see old-fashioned tools like shovels and pickaxes, relics of the Old Era before advanced technology. Instead, when it was his turn, a guard handed him a small, nondescript metal ball.

I really don't know why I expect things from the Old Era in a Story. Stories are known for having strange things in them...

Frowning, Zayn held the cold object in his palm, turning it over as he joined the line of other slaves who were similarly bewildered. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? he thought, his frustration building. He glanced around but saw no explanation forthcoming from the guards.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Before long, the lead guard stepped forward, clutching the ominous purple crystal at his side. The man spoke a string of strange words, his voice resonating with an unnatural cadence. The monolith behind him pulsed with energy, releasing a wave of purple light that enveloped the slaves.

Zayn’s rune tattoos flared to life, glowing with the same hue, and in an instant, the metal ball in his hand began to transform.

“What the hell?” he muttered under his breath, watching in awe and confusion as the ball seemed to melt, turning into liquid metal. It snaked around his hand, flowing like water until it re-formed into a sleek, metallic glove. The other slaves’ balls underwent the same transformation, but Zayn had little time to marvel at the process.

A sudden, searing pain jolted through his hand.

“Son of a—!” he barely stopped himself from shouting, biting down on his lip to stifle the curse. The glove’s interior bristled with needles, stabbing into his flesh. He felt the sharp, invasive sensation as if it were drilling into his bones, and the pain didn’t stop there.

The liquid metal seemed to flow into his veins, the needles guiding it like a path. Zayn’s chest tightened, and he glanced down in horror to see glowing silver and purple veins spreading up his arms and over his torso.

What the actual hell is this? he thought, panic warring with his determination to remain quiet. The agony was unlike anything he’d experienced, a relentless, burning pressure as if molten steel coursed through his body.

He gritted his teeth, cursing the Story and whatever cruel hand had dealt him this fate.

The lead guard gave another command, his voice booming. “Begin!”

The slaves were divided into five groups of twenty, each positioned around the mountain’s base in a semi-circle. Zayn’s group stood in the center, giving him a view of the nearest two groups in the distance.

Despite the mountain’s size, the groups were spaced far enough apart that their work areas didn’t overlap.

A guard barked at them to start digging, and Zayn frowned. Dig? With what? Our hands?

The answer came swiftly—and painfully.

The glowing runes on his body pulsed, and a sharp stinging sensation erupted in his limbs. Zayn froze, expecting to shout from the pain, but no sound escaped his lips.

He tried to move, to scream, to even twitch a finger, but nothing responded to his will.

Then his body moved on its own.

What the—? Zayn’s thoughts raced as he felt his limbs shift mechanically as if strings were pulling him. The pain inside his body intensified, a storm of needles stabbing him from within, but his movements continued uninterrupted.

He felt his hands rake across the rough, rocky ground, scooping away dirt and stones with monstrous speed. His fingers scraped and bled, the skin peeling back as if torn by sandpaper, but his body paid no heed to the damage.

All around him, the other slaves worked in unison, their movements eerily identical to his own.

This isn’t natural. This isn’t even human, Zayn thought, his frustration mounting. What the hell kind of twisted shit is this?

The repetitive motion, combined with the unrelenting pain, was maddening. Yet Zayn had no choice but to endure it, his body digging deeper and deeper into the unyielding ground.

Each scrape of his fingers against the stone sent jolts of agony through him, but he remained silent, his mouth refusing to obey his commands.

The sun bore down on them, but Zayn hardly noticed the heat. All he could feel was the endless pain and the hollow, mechanical rhythm of his forced labor.

.....

An hour had passed since the slaves began digging, and Zayn’s hands were a bloody, grotesque mess. His raw phalanges scraped against the unyielding ground, leaving streaks of red in the dirt. He wanted to recoil, to inspect the damage, to do anything—but his body continued its mechanical, unrelenting labor, ignoring the pain and damage entirely.

The only things under his control were his thoughts and the slow movements of his eyes. Even his breathing was paced and regulated, shallow and precise, to fuel his forced motions efficiently.

This is fucking shit. Literally hell, he thought bitterly. His mind churned with frustration, rage, and despair. He tried everything he could think of to resist—clenching his thoughts into commands, imagining his body breaking free—but nothing worked. He was trapped, a passenger in his own body.

He tried summoning the glowing book system he’d seen earlier, hoping for some kind of insight or reprieve, but it appeared only to show his information, basically useless in this situation.

The pain was endless, and Zayn’s thoughts began spiraling into regret. He cursed his existence, his misfortune, and the twisted world he’d been thrown into.

He wondered if death would come to him. But it seemed that it was offended that he avoided it the first time.

Fuck... why didn't I just die...

Then, a voice cut through the haze of despair.

“Hey,” it said, clear and calm in his mind.

Zayn’s heart skipped a beat. He tried to look around, but his head remained locked downwards, his body’s movements undeterred.

“Stop trying to look around,” the voice continued, a tinge of exasperation in its tone. “You can’t move, remember?”

His pulse quickened, and his thoughts sharpened. What the hell? he thought, his mind suddenly on high alert. “Who’s there?” he asked in his mind.

The voice sighed, the sound oddly soothing despite the bizarre situation. “Finally. Someone who hasn’t lost their mind yet.”

Zayn’s confusion deepened. “What do you mean? Who are you?”

“I’ve been trying to reach out to the other citizens, but... there’s nothing. Their minds are just empty, like husks,” the voice explained.

Zayn frowned inwardly. “Citizens? No, they’re not citizens—they’re slaves,” he corrected.

“Slaves?” the voice repeated, curiosity laced in the word. “What are slaves?”

Zayn hesitated, realizing whoever—or whatever—this voice belonged to didn’t understand the concept. He decided to let it go. “Never mind. Who are you?”

“Name’s Lain,” the voice said casually. “I’m the guy right in front of you. Blond hair, average height, probably looks about as miserable as you feel.”

Zayn squinted ahead, catching a glimpse of a young man with messy blond hair, his head bowed as he dug. Like all the others, his movements were robotic and mechanical, but Zayn could sense the connection now.

“How are you doing this? Talking to me, I mean?” Zayn asked, still wary.

“It’s a gift I was born with,” Lain replied. “Always been able to, though it’s not usually this hard. Something about this place makes it tougher to reach out, but I managed to get through to you.”

Zayn wasn’t sure whether to feel grateful or more unnerved. “Right. So, what do you want? I doubt you’re reaching out just to chat.”

Lain chuckled dryly in his mind. “Got me there. No, I’m not doing this for fun. I need help.”

“Help?” Zayn echoed, his curiosity now fully piqued. “With what?”

“I want to escape,” Lain said simply.

The words hung in the air, as heavy as the oppressive weight of their situation.

“And I can’t do it alone,” Lain added. “So, what do you say? You in?”

Zayn’s thoughts churned with the implications of Lain’s proposition.