Azael's fingers brushed the crystal—softly, yet with a strange sense of daring, as if he was testing the edge of fate itself.
For a moment, silence reigned.
No explosion.
No tremor.
No blinding light.
Just the cool surface of the crystal humming faintly beneath his fingertips.
"Phew..." he exhaled, relief washing over his features. "Looks like there's nothing to worry about."
The tension in his shoulders eased. Carefully, he wrapped his hand around the gem, its surface smooth but oddly warm, pulsing faintly like a sleeping heart. He turned and placed it gently into the metal bracket affixed to the stone wall behind him.
As it settled in, the crystal gave off a quiet hum, barely audible.
Azael stared, eyes narrowing.
There was something strange about it—something he couldn't quite put into words. It wasn't just the glow or the hum.
It was a feeling.
Like the crystal was whispering... not in words, but in something deeper.
He blinked and shook his head. "Stop overthinking," he muttered. "Weird magic rock. That's all."
Without wasting more time, he picked up his hammer again, the worn leather grip familiar in his hands. His arms moved on instinct—strike, shift, repeat. The dull clang of metal on stone echoed through the vast cavern as he chipped away at another cluster of ore.
Time slipped by in swings and echoes.
The stale air of the mine grew thicker as the hours passed, a blend of sweat, stone dust, and faint magical residue. His muscles ached, but he kept going—there was purpose in his work now. Not just survival.
Progress.
Then the siren sounded.
A long, low note rolled through the tunnels like a ghost's howl cutting through rock and silence. All around, hammers stopped mid-swing. Picks dropped. Slaves straightened, wiped their brows, and exhaled in unison.
It was time for lunch.
Azael blinked as the notification appeared before his eyes:
=========================
Act Progress: 212 / 1000
=========================
A rare smile curved his lips. "Not bad," he whispered.
He stretched, letting his joints crack and unwind. With his work paused, it was time to do what he'd learned mattered most in this place—observe, listen, and survive.
*************
The long, guttural shriek of the lunch siren echoed through the tunnels like a beast in pain.
Tools hit the stone floor. Hammers silenced. Groans of relief rose like smoke from the laborers, each face drenched in sweat and coated with dust. They moved like ghosts—hollow, aching, and hungry.
Azael followed the crowd, joining the long, winding line that curled toward the food corner.
Several guards stood at the side, each cloaked in thick armor and veils that covered their faces entirely.
Not a shred of skin was exposed.
Not a single emotion is shown.
Just silent sentinels, handing out bowls of watery stew and stale bread as if feeding livestock.
Azael accepted his portion with a nod. His fingers grazed the metal bowl—it was hot, barely tolerable to hold—but the steam curling from the slop inside hinted at something warm, and that was enough.
Turning, he scanned the gathering area. Clusters of workers sat on the stone floor in twos and threes, hunched over their meals.
His eyes caught sight of two familiar figures near a shadowed corner, partially blocked by a stack of broken crates.
Milo and Tarek.
They sat close together, barely touching their food. The moment Azael saw their faces, he knew something had changed.
Their expressions were sunken, hollow in a way that couldn't be blamed on hunger.
Milo stared blankly at his bowl, lips unmoving. Tarek simply held his spoon in mid-air, unmoving as if time had frozen around him.
Azael made his way over and sat beside them, silently, letting his presence speak before his voice ever could.
None of them spoke for the first few seconds.
And then, Tarek gave a nod—small, tired, but recognizing him.
Milo didn't even look up.
Azael knew the weight they carried. He didn't need to ask.
Losing someone like Hardin… left a wound that didn't heal with time.
"He was with you two for a long time, wasn't he?" Azael said quietly.
Milo's jaw clenched. Tarek looked away.
"Since we were teens," Tarek muttered. "He kept us from starving more times than I can count."
Azael let the silence rest a moment longer. He took a bite of the bread—it was dry, like chewing dust, but it grounded him.
"You know," he said, his voice calm but distant."There was a saying, 'If we must steal to live, then the real crime is how the world lets us starve."
Milo looked at him, eyes narrowed, something behind them flickering.
"I don't think Hardin was a bad guy," Azael said softly, staring at his bowl. "At least... from what I saw these past few days."
Tarek let out a small breath, somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle.
"Yeah, you're right," he murmured. "I was always the loud one, the hothead. Pushed his buttons more times than I can count… but he never once gave up on me."
A shadow of sorrow flickered across his face.
"You know," he added, voice low, "me and Milo… we wouldn't have made it this far if it weren't for him."
Azael said nothing. He just listened.
Then he bit into his bread again, the crust hard and stale against his teeth, and pursed his lips.
After a few moments of silence, Azael spoke again, his voice quiet but firm.
"Then… are you going to keep working here? In the same place where Hardin lost his life?"
The question hung heavy in the air.
They all fell silent again.
Around them, the noise of clanking bowls and murmured voices faded into a distant hum—like the world itself had paused to listen.
Azael knew exactly what he was doing. He knew it might come off as cold, maybe even manipulative. But in a place like this, survival wasn't about kindness—it was about decisions.
Hard, necessary ones.
And he had already decided.
He glanced between the two. Milo's fingers had tightened around his bowl. Tarek's eyes stared at the stone floor, unmoving.
The hurt was clear.
But beneath it… fear.
Not just grief from losing someone.
But the terror of witnessing someone being erased—just like that—and knowing it could be you next.
Azael knew what he was doing, he knew taking advantage of the situation but survival matters the most in this place, that much was pretty clear.
Hardin had been the oldest of the trio. The mature one. The one who never lost his cool, who knew when to run and when to fight. Azael hadn't known him long, but even he could feel the hole his absence left behind.
Eventually, Tarek muttered, "We were never killers and took only from nobles. We have never intended to harm innocent people and Hardin was the one who made it possible."
Milo finally spoke. "And now we're buried in stone. Just for trying to eat."
Azael looked at his hands. Covered in dust and callouses.
"Now we eat," he said, raising the spoon, "so we don't get buried."
Azael didn't push further—saying more now would only rush things. For his escape plan to work, he needed both Tarek and Milo on his side. And not just cooperating—they had to trust him, completely.
That kind of trust couldn't be forced. It had to be built, slowly and carefully. He would guide their thoughts, win their confidence, and when the time was right... then he'd act.
Of course, he intended to bring them with him. Leaving them behind wasn't something he wanted to do.
But deep down, Azael knew—he couldn't make any promises.
If it came down to it—if survival demanded it—he would do what was necessary.
Even if it meant being ruthless.
After that three of them shared a silent meal.
-------
The lunch siren rang again.
The break was over.
Everyone stood and walked back to the mines.
Azael returned to his station, but this time, his focus drifted.
His pickaxe still struck stone, but his eyes flicked around more than usual.
Watching.
Observing.
The guards. The layout. The tunnels.
He noticed a pattern. The guards—all of them—wore the exact same uniform.
Same shape. Same armor. Same mask.
There were no symbols.
No rank badges.
No facial features.
It was like they were copied from the same mold.
No visible names.
No voices.
No individuality.
Just shadows in armor.
Azael's gaze narrowed.
'That could be useful later.'
He took another swing with his pickaxe, the sound echoing through the cavern. But his mind was already far ahead.