The same sharp siren rang out again, slicing through the silence of the underground like a blade through fabric. It was the signal—time for dispatch.
Without a word, Azael joined the line that was already forming.
Dozens of slaves shuffled forward, their expressions blank, their bodies heavy with fatigue.
No one dared to speak.
The only sound was the soft scuff of boots and chains dragging across the stone floor.
The tunnel they moved through was wide enough for four people to walk side by side, but its dim lighting and damp walls made it feel far more suffocating.
Old lanterns, mounted along the walls at regular intervals, gave off a flickering yellow glow, barely enough to see clearly.
The tunnel itself seemed to stretch endlessly, carved from dark gray stone, worn smooth from years of traffic. Cracks ran across the surface like veins, and the air inside was thick with the scent of dust, sweat, and iron.
Eventually, the tunnel opened up into a large stone hall—roughly circular, with four branching paths leading in different directions.
This was the heart of the underground system, where all roads in the mine seemed to meet.
Azael's eyes scanned the four exits carefully, making mental notes.
The first path, to the left, was the one he was most familiar with. It led directly to the slave prison. He recognized the stone arches and the iron-gated entrance where he had passed in the morning.
The second path looked busier.
Several slaves were already moving down that corridor, each carrying small carts or crates filled with crystals.
It was a more structured route—long, straight, and organized.
Azael noticed the rhythmic way things were done there, the slaves loading, the guards inspecting, and the flow of materials being monitored closely. This must be where all the harvested crystals were collected and transported further into the facility.
This path was highly guarded.
The third path gave off a different atmosphere. It was quieter, but there were more guards stationed there, standing tall with their faces hidden behind dull, expressionless helmets. The air was different too—warmer, and filled with the faint scent of cooked food and steel.
Azael guessed it led to the guard quarters or barracks. That's where they likely rested, armed themselves, and planned whatever tasks they oversaw here.
Then came the fourth path.
It was oddly quiet.
There were only two guards at the entrance, both standing with stiff postures and offering no reaction to anyone passing by. The corridor beyond them looked clean, too clean. Unlike the other paths, there were no signs of heavy use—no carts, no scuff marks, no soot or footprints.
Azael narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to gauge what that route could lead to. He didn't know. But something about it unsettled him. There was an eerie stillness there, like the air hadn't been disturbed in a long time.
As he turned to walk toward the first gate that would lead him back to the prison cells, something caught his eye in front of the fourth cell.
It was just for a brief moment—at the very edge of his vision. A glint. A flash. A shape.Just for a second.
He didn't turn to look. He kept walking, pretending not to notice. But the image stayed with him, lingering in the back of his mind.
And a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
-------
While walking down the path, Azael kept his eyes sharp, his steps slow and measured as they made their way through the branching corridors.
Every guard's posture, every cart's route, every flickering lantern along the walls—he noticed it all.
In a place like this, small details mattered.
They could mean the difference between life and death.
Or escape and capture.
Finally, the group was led through the leftmost path—back toward the prison section.
But this time, they didn't return to the same cramped, suffocating cell Azael had been locked in before.
The guards stopped at a different door. One Azael hadn't seen yet.
The new cell was... different. Larger, for one. Almost like a proper room rather than a cage.
The walls were still made of the same dull gray stone, but the space felt less like a grave and more like a holding chamber.
There were no separate iron bars—just one heavy iron door at the front, with a small rectangular window built into it, barely big enough to peek through.
Azael stepped inside, glancing around carefully. The space could probably hold ten or more people if needed. The air was a little less stale, and faint echoes from other cells could still be heard, but it was quieter. Less suffocating.
Strangely, there were fewer guards in this section than before.
Azael frowned slightly at that. He hadn't expected a drop in security.
But after a moment of thinking it over, it made sense.
The mining zone required more supervision. That was where the danger and chaos were most likely to erupt. Also, the guards were probably rotating in shifts, working long hours between escorting and overseeing labor. Stretching their numbers thin.
And more importantly, this cell block held no awakened individuals.
None of the prisoners here had shown any signs of advanced power.
No threat, no real resistance.
Just tired bodies and broken spirits.
Against the strength of an armed guard, they didn't stand a chance, especially with an iron door between them.
But Azael?
He was different.
Right now, sure, he wasn't strong enough to force that door open. Not yet. But one day soon, he would be. Once he gained more power, increased his stats, and learned how this world's system truly worked, that door wouldn't be a barrier.
He didn't say anything, of course. Just walked in, letting his thoughts settle as he glanced around the new space.
Tarek and Milo followed close behind him.
The three of them stayed quiet as they moved to one side of the room. None of them felt like talking right now. Everyone was still drained from the work, from the death, from the reality of where they were.
Just as they were settling in, the iron door creaked open again behind them.
Two more people stepped inside.
Azael turned curiously, and immediately recognised the new arrivals.