Clang. Clang.
Xaroth slammed his pickaxe into the mine wall. His thin, calloused hands shook with every strike. Sweat stung his eyes, running down his forehead in dirty streams. Around him, a dozen other men—faces worn thin, bodies hunched—repeated the same lifeless motion. The air reeked of damp earth, dust, and old despair.
He lowered the pick for a single breath. Just one moment.
The whip cracked across his back.
"Move it, idiot!"
The guard's voice echoed through the cavern, bored and commanding all at once.
Xaroth let out a low growl and clenched his teeth. He glared up at the man with pure hatred.
The guard frowned and raised the whip again.
"How dare you look at me like that, you bastard? Looks like you still haven't learned your place, damn slave."
He was about to swing again when a bald, skinny old man stepped in.
"Please, my lord, forgive him. He's just a stupid kid."
The old man smacked the back of Xaroth's head and forced him into a bow.
The guard clicked his tongue, spat on the ground, and turned away.
"Tch. Damn slaves."
Once he was far enough, both straightened up. Even sunken from hunger and exhaustion, Xaroth's eyes still burned with defiance.
"Damn it… That bastard… One day I'm gonna smash his face in."
The old man shook his head and lifted his own pick again.
"Stop talking nonsense, Xaroth. Get back to work. How the hell do you plan to get revenge when you don't even have a mana core?"
Xaroth growled but said nothing. As much as it hurt to admit, the old man was right.
Three years had passed since he turned twelve—the age when everyone forms their mana core. Everyone… except him. Orphan. No family. No magic. A nobody. That's how he ended up captured and thrown into slavery in this cursed magic crystal mine.
Lost in thought, he swung the pick again. Every hit made his bones creak.
For hours, the only sounds were the rhythmic clangs of picks, the ragged breaths of slaves, and the occasional crack of whips.
When the workday finally ended, the slaves shuffled out in a line. They dragged their feet like walking corpses, eyes hollow.
Xaroth trailed at the back. He gritted his teeth when he saw Vorcas stumbling ahead. He slowed down and grabbed the old man's arm.
"Damn it, Vorcas. At this rate you're gonna die before we even get out of this hole."
The old man gave him a tired look and a sarcastic little smile.
"My old bones don't work anymore, kid. If I don't wake up tomorrow… I'd be grateful. I've lived long enough. And now that you mention it… dying doesn't sound half bad."
Xaroth looked down and stayed quiet. He just gripped Vorcas tighter as they walked.
In this hellhole, the old man was the closest thing he had to a friend.
They walked a couple more minutes until the camp's faint light appeared at the tunnel's end. The slaves picked up speed like they could smell freedom—even if it was only for a few hours.
Fresh night air hit their faces as they emerged. Xaroth guided Vorcas to the central bonfire and eased him down onto the dirt.
Vorcas spread his arms and let out a satisfied grunt.
Xaroth dropped beside him. Around them, the others did the same. Some passed out the second they hit the ground. Others just sighed in relief.
Soon two women in ragged, stained clothes brought the "food": a chunk of rock-hard bread and a cup of murky water.
Xaroth bit into the bread. He had to soak it in the water just to tear off a piece.
Next to him, Vorcas tried the same. On the first bite, one of his teeth flew out.
The guards watching from a distance burst into laughter.
Vorcas didn't care. He just grunted, soaked the bread, and kept chewing like it was nothing.
For a few minutes the only sounds were chewing, the crackle of the fire, and the guards' mocking laughs.
Xaroth finished his portion. His stomach still growled. Same as always. He didn't complain. If he opened his mouth, tomorrow there'd be no bread at all… and probably another beating.
He sighed and lay back, staring at the sky.
Two moons. One gray. One… red.
He blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Looked again.
"Hey, old man."
Vorcas grunted through a mouthful.
"Since when do we have a red moon?"
Vorcas raised an eyebrow and swallowed.
"You going crazy? The moons are gr—"
He didn't finish.
The ground began to shake.
"What the hell is that noise?"
"It's shaking!"
"Shit, what's happening!"
The tremor grew fast. Guards and slaves cursed as they stumbled.
Xaroth and Vorcas scrambled to their feet.
"What the hell is this?" Vorcas yelled, falling ass-first into the mud.
"Look at the moon!"
Someone pointed skyward.
Everyone looked up. And gasped.
The red moon had swollen huge, almost bloody. But there was no time to process it.
A deafening roar tore through the air—like the world itself was ripping apart. So loud everyone dropped to their knees, hands over ears. Some slaves writhed on the ground, screaming in agony.
And it wasn't just there.
Across the continent—human lands, elven forests, demon territories, dwarven mountains—the same tremor and roar hit at once.
Xaroth, still on the ground, looked up.
Above them, a massive fracture began tearing open in the sky. Like a wound in reality itself.
"A fracture!"
"Why the hell is there a fracture here?!"
The guards screamed in terror.
Chaos fractures were rare. All of them controlled by empires. All in dead zones. The monsters inside could topple kingdoms… but the resources were worth fortunes.
And now one was opening right over their heads.
The crack widened. Stretched down. Reached the ground. A jagged tear appeared right at the mine entrance—like a door to hell swinging open.
Xaroth went pale. Sweat poured down his back.
Everyone froze.
But only for a moment.
Slowly, their bodies started getting pulled toward the fracture.
"Shit—run, kid!" Vorcas shouted.
Xaroth snapped out of it. Tried to run. Couldn't. An invisible force dragged them all. Guards, slaves—it didn't matter.
Desperate screams filled the air.
"We're gonna die!"
Vorcas clung to Xaroth's arm.
"Damn it, this isn't how I wanted to go! I wanted to die in peace!"
"Shut up, old man! Hold on!"
They fought. Dug their heels in. Useless.
Then the pull stopped cold.
Everyone collapsed, gasping.
"We made it!"
"It stopped!"
"Let's get out of here!"
They crawled, tried to stand, laughing from sheer relief.
Xaroth got up and hauled Vorcas to his feet.
And then the suction returned.
Hard. Sudden. Merciless.
In one brutal yank, everyone was swallowed by the fracture.