The dust from the collapse did not settle; it merely became a part of the air, a gritty coating that lined the throat and lungs.
In Gallery 4, the death of Number 42 was not an event. It was a punctuation mark in a sentence that had been running on for centuries. The reverberations of the falling slate faded, replaced almost instantly by the rhythmic clink-drag, clink-drag of pickaxes striking stone. To stop was to invite the whip. To mourn was to waste energy.
Rat wiped the mixture of sweat and rock dust from his eyes. His gaze fell to the spot where Number 42 had stood moments ago. The body was gone, hauled away by two "Corpse-Carriers"—slaves too broken to dig but still strong enough to drag meat to the disposal pits. All that remained was a dark, wet smear on the grey stone, glistening in the flickering light of the torch brackets.
Rat looked at the blood. He felt nothing. No sorrow, no pity, no fear.
Waste, he thought. The angle of the strike was inefficient. He wasted calories swinging at a fracture point that was already giving way.
He turned back to his own section of the wall. His arms, thin as dry branches, trembled with a fatigue that went down to the bone. Every muscle fiber screamed, a chorus of agony that had been his constant companion for as long as he could remember. But Rat did not listen to the pain. He categorized it.
Left deltoid: strained. Lower lumbar: approaching spasms. Hydration levels: critical.
He lifted his pickaxe. It was a rusted, heavy thing, likely weighing a third of his own body weight. To the other slaves, the pickaxe was an instrument of torture. To Rat, it was a lever.
He didn't swing with brute force. He didn't have any to spare. Instead, he let the weight of the iron head do the work, guiding it into the micro-fissures of the rock face.
Clink.
A chunk of ore broke loose. It was small, pathetic compared to the haul of the larger men, but Rat's pile grew steadily. He was a machine of conservation. While others heaved and grunted, wasting breath, Rat breathed in a slow, shallow rhythm.
"Shift change in one hour!" Overseer Grol's voice boomed from the platform, distorted by the echo of the cavern. "Anyone who hasn't met the quota gets half-rations!"
A ripple of panic went through the line of workers. The tempo of the pickaxes increased, desperate and frantic. Rat didn't speed up. He knew his pile was exactly at the minimum threshold required to avoid punishment. Not an ounce more, not an ounce less. To do more was to raise expectations. To do less was to starve.
Precision is survival.
The hour bled away, measured in the stinging sweat that dripped from Rat's nose. When the iron bell finally rang, signaling the end of the cycle, the sound was the sweetest music in the world.
The slaves dropped their tools instantly. A collective groan of misery rose from the gallery, a sound of human spirits deflating. They formed a ragged line, shuffling toward the lift cages that would take them up from the deep veins to the living quarters—the "Kennel."
Rat merged into the line, keeping his head down, making himself small. In the ecosystem of the mines, visibility was a death sentence. You wanted to be a grey blur, indistinguishable from the stone.
As they crowded into the rusted iron cage, bodies pressed together in a suffocating mass of unwashed flesh. The smell was atrocious—old sweat, fear, excrement, and rotting wounds. Rat was squeezed between a man with a weeping sore on his shoulder and the cold iron bars of the cage.
The lift jerked upward with a screech of metal on metal.
"Did you see Number 42?" a hoarse whisper came from somewhere behind him. "Flattened like a bug."
"Better him than me," another voice muttered back. "He was coughing blood anyway. Would have died in his sleep within a week."
"Still... the way the ceiling just gave. Could happen to any of us."
Rat stared through the bars as the rock walls blurred past. The fear in their voices was irrational. The ceiling hadn't "just gave." It had screamed its intention to fall for minutes before the collapse. They just hadn't been listening.
They look, but they do not see, Rat thought, his dark eyes tracking the passing strata of rock. They rely on luck. I rely on data.
The cage shuddered to a halt at the upper level. The doors groaned open, spilling the slaves out into the Kennel.
It was a vast, natural cavern converted into a barracks. The floor was dirt and filth. There were no beds, only piles of moldy straw scattered haphazardly. A stream of murky water ran along the far wall, serving as both latrine and washbasin. The only light came from glow-stones embedded in the ceiling—magical artifacts of the lowest quality that cast a sickly, greenish hue over everything.
But the eyes of every slave went to the same place: The Trough.
At the center of the cavern stood three large wooden vats. The smell of boiled roots and stale grain wafted from them. Dinner.
"Form up! No shoving, you maggots!" a guard shouted, slamming the butt of his spear into the ground.
The rush for food was the most dangerous part of the day. Starvation stripped away humanity faster than the whip. Men who would help you stand up in the mines would crush your throat for an extra ladle of gruel in the Kennel.
Rat maneuvered through the crowd. He wasn't strong enough to push, so he flowed like water through the gaps between bodies, anticipating where people would move before they moved.
Gap opening on the left. Large male moving right—slip behind him.
He reached the front of the line, holding out his wooden bowl. The cook, a toothless slave with dead eyes, splashed a ladle of grey slop into the bowl.
It was mostly water, with a few chunks of unidentifiable tuber floating in it. It was repulsive. It was life.
Rat cradled the bowl to his chest, shielding it with his bony arms, and turned to find a corner where he could eat in peace.
"Well, look at this."
The voice was deep, vibrating in the chest. Rat froze.
He didn't need to look up to know who it was. Krog.
If Rat was the smallest link in the food chain, Krog was the apex predator of the Kennel. He was a brute of a man, a former mercenary captured in the border wars. Even without proper nutrition, he was massive, a wall of scarred muscle and malice. He had survived three years in the mines by stealing rations from the weak.
Rat looked up slowly. Krog towered over him, a cruel grin splitting his bearded face. Behind him stood two lackeys, thin men who survived by clinging to Krog's shadow.
"You got a nice scoop there, little Rat," Krog said, stepping closer. The smell of him was overpowering. "Looks like the cook likes you. Maybe gave you an extra piece of potato?"
Rat stood his ground. His heart hammered against his ribs—120 beats per minute, rising—but his face remained a mask of stone.
"It is the standard ration," Rat said, his voice raspy from disuse.
"It looks heavy," Krog sneered. He reached out a hand, his fingers thick as sausages. "Let me carry it for you. You look tired."
The dynamic was simple. Give up the food and starve tonight. Or refuse, get beaten within an inch of life, and have the food taken anyway.
Most slaves would have handed it over, weeping.
Rat tightened his grip on the bowl. He couldn't fight Krog. In a physical confrontation, the disparity in mass and strength was approximately 800%. Krog could snap Rat's neck with one hand.
Strength is irrelevant, Rat thought. Structure is everything.
[Unique Trait: The Monarch's Soul is active.]
The world sharpened. The noise of the mess hall faded into a dull hum. The greenish light seemed to crystallize.
Rat looked at Krog. He didn't see a monster. He saw a collection of biological systems and geometric flaws.
Target: Krog. Height: 6'4". Weight: 240 lbs. Stance: Aggressive, weight shifted to the left leg.
Rat's eyes scanned the brute, dissecting him.
Analysis:1. Left knee: Slight tremor. Old injury? Meniscus damage. He favors it.2. Breathing: Heavy. Congestion in the right lung. Silica buildup.3. Psychology: Bully archetype. Relies on intimidation. fears weakness. Currently overconfident.
Rat's gaze shifted to the environment. The ground beneath Krog's feet was uneven—a patch of wet clay near the water trough runoff.
Simulation 1: Throw soup in eyes. Run.Result: Failure. Lackeys will intercept. Severe beating.
Simulation 2: Kick the knee.Result: Failure. Insufficient force generation. Leg reach too short.
Simulation 3: Psychological dismantling.Result: Uncertain. High risk. Highest potential reward.
Rat looked Krog directly in the eyes. The intensity of his gaze, usually hidden, flared up. For a second, the greenish light of the cavern seemed to reflect a cold, violet hue in Rat's pupils.
"I wouldn't do that, Krog," Rat said softly.
Krog blinked, surprised by the defiance. Then he laughed, a wet, barking sound. "You wouldn't? Is the little Rat going to bite me?"
He took a step forward, raising his fist.
"Your left knee," Rat whispered, the words cutting through the air like a razor.
Krog froze. His fist hovered in mid-air. "What?"
"The joint is grinding," Rat continued, his voice devoid of emotion, sounding like a medical report. "I watched you in the gallery today. You can't put full weight on it. You lean on your pickaxe every three swings. It's agonizing, isn't it?"
Krog's eyes widened slightly. It was a secret weakness, one he hid desperately. In the Wastelands, a cripple was useless. Useless meant dead.
"You shut your mouth," Krog growled, but his voice dropped an octave. He glanced nervously at his lackeys, who were looking at him with confusion.
Rat took a half-step closer, invading the brute's personal space. It was a gamble of insane proportions.
"If you hit me," Rat said, keeping his voice low so only Krog could hear, "I will scream it. I will scream that the great Krog is lame. I will tell the guards you can't meet quota anymore. I will tell everyone."
Rat paused, letting the threat sink in.
"And then," Rat added, his eyes boring into Krog's soul, "when they see you limping... how long until someone stronger than you decides they want your rations?"
Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
Krog's face turned a shade of purple. His fist trembled. He wanted to crush this insolent insect. He could kill Rat right now. But the seed of doubt had been planted. The fear of his own weakness being exposed was greater than his hunger.
The "Monarch's Soul" wasn't just about seeing cracks in stones. It was about seeing the cracks in power.
Krog lowered his hand slowly. He sneered, trying to save face.
"Not worth the effort," Krog spat, loud enough for his lackeys to hear. "Too skinny. Probably tastes like disease."
He shoved past Rat, his shoulder clipping Rat's bony frame hard enough to make him stagger, but he didn't take the bowl.
"Come on," Krog barked to his men. "Let's find something with meat on it."
The trio moved away, disappearing into the gloom.
Rat let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His knees felt like water. The adrenaline dump left him shaking.
Success. Energy expenditure: Minimal. Risk factor: Critical.
He didn't celebrate. He simply turned and walked to the far corner of the cavern, to a small niche behind a pillar of rock that he claimed as his territory.
He sat down on the cold earth, crossing his legs. He lifted the bowl to his lips and drank.
The gruel was cold. It tasted of dirt and starch. To Rat, it tasted like victory.
Night in the mines was a relative concept. It was simply the time when the lights were dimmed, and the exhausted silence descended.
Rat sat in the darkness, scraping the last remnants of the mash from his bowl with a finger. Around him, the sounds of the Kennel filled the air: snoring, coughing, the soft weeping of new slaves, the scratching of actual rats in the straw.
He was alive. He had survived another day.
Day 1,402, he mentally tallied.
Most people in the mines lost track of time. They forgot their ages, their names, their pasts. Rat hoarded these details like gold. He remembered the color of the sky (blue, not grey). He remembered the feeling of wind that didn't smell of sulfur.
He placed the bowl down and leaned his head against the rough stone wall.
His mind replayed the encounter with Krog. It had been close. Too close.
I cannot rely on bluffs forever, he analyzed. My body is failing. Malnutrition is stripping my muscle mass. Within six months, I will not have the strength to swing the pick. I will be discarded.
He looked at his hands in the gloom. They were skeletal, the skin translucent.
I need a variable. Something to change the equation.
He closed his eyes, trying to sleep, but a strange sensation pricked at the back of his mind. It was a low thrumming, like a vibration passing through the rock against his spine.
It wasn't a sound. It was a... pressure.
Rat opened his eyes. He turned his head, pressing his ear against the cold stone of the cavern wall.
Thump... Thump...
It was faint, rhythmic. Like a heartbeat. But massive. Ancient.
The other slaves slept on, oblivious. They felt nothing. But Rat's perception, sharpened by the [Monarch's Soul], picked it up. It was coming from deep below. Deeper than Gallery 4. Deeper than the mines had ever gone.
What is that?
He focused on the sensation. It felt like heat. It felt like static electricity on his skin.
And then, for the first time in his life, he saw it.
It was faint, barely a wisp. A thin thread of azure light, invisible to the naked eye but burning clearly in his mind's eye. It seeped through a microscopic crack in the wall next to him.
It wasn't torchlight. It wasn't the glow-stones.
Mana, Rat realized, the word surfacing from the fragmented memories of the stories the old slaves used to tell. The breath of the world.
In Aethelgard, magic was the domain of the nobility. It was said that commoners had no capacity for it, that their vessels were too crude to hold the power. Using magic required vitality, life force. If a weak man tried to touch the Mana, it would burn him to ash.
Rat reached out a trembling hand toward the crack in the wall.
His instinct—the survival mechanism that had kept him alive for seventeen years—screamed at him to stop. Danger. Unknown variable. High probability of death.
But another voice, colder and more ambitious, whispered from the depths of his soul.
If you stay here, you are already dead. You are just waiting for the date.
Rat gritted his teeth. I am Rat. I am Number 7. But I will not die a number.
He pressed his fingertip against the crack in the stone, directly onto the wisp of azure energy.
ZAP.
A shock, cold and sharp as a needle, shot up his arm.
It didn't burn. It froze.
Rat gasped, his back arching off the wall. The cold rushed through his veins, racing toward his heart. It felt like injecting ice water directly into his bloodstream. His vision blurred, the world tilting on its axis.
[Alert: Foreign Energy detected.] [The Monarch's Soul is analyzing...] [Analysis Complete: Raw Ambient Mana (Ice Attribute).] [Host body condition: Critical. Mana Poisoning imminent.]
The pain was blinding. He clamped his hand over his mouth to stifle a scream. He convulsed on the dirt floor, his muscles locking up.
Fool, he thought, panic finally piercing his calm. I killed myself.
But as the cold reached his heart, something pushed back. The [Monarch's Soul] didn't just observe; it dominated.
[Directive: Survive.] [Action: Diverting Mana flow.]
Rat felt a shift. The cold energy that was ravaging his tissues was suddenly seized by an invisible will. It wasn't expelled. It was... ordered.
Submission, Rat's mind roared into the void. You do not kill me. You serve me.
The chaotic energy paused. The agonizing cold receded, settling into a dull, chilling hum in the pit of his stomach.
Rat lay on the floor, panting, sweat freezing on his forehead. He was alive.
He looked at his hand. The fingertip that had touched the wall was blue, frostbitten, but the feeling was returning.
And something else.
He felt... lighter. The crushing weight of exhaustion that had been pressing on him all day had lifted, just a fraction. The hunger pangs were sharper, more demanding, as if his body was screaming for fuel to replace what the magic had consumed.
[System Update: Mana Sensitivity Awakened.] [Current Circle: None (Uninitiated).] [Mana Capacity: 0.01%]
Rat stared at the notification floating in his mind's eye. A slow, terrifying smile spread across his gaunt face.
It was the smallest fraction of power imaginable. A single drop in an ocean. But it was his.
He looked at the sleeping form of Krog across the room. He looked at the bars of the cage. He looked at the stone ceiling that crushed them all.
I see the flaws, Rat thought, his fist clenching. And now... I have a chisel.
He curled up in his corner, shivering from the lingering cold and the terrifying promise of the future. He didn't sleep. He watched the crack in the wall, waiting for the next drop of blue light to seep through.
The Rat was done hiding. The climb had begun.