Auron followed the guards without speaking. The other slaves watched him go, some with fear, some with awe. He didn't look back. His hands were tied, but his steps were steady. He was not being dragged. He walked on his own.
The tunnels became darker the deeper they went. The torchlight flickered on the rough stone walls. Strange markings glowed faintly along the ceilings—symbols of old magic. The kind only nobles used. The kind Auron once knew.
He said nothing as the guards led him into a wide chamber at the bottom of the mine. It was colder here. Wet. Silent.
Then he saw him.
The Warden.
A massive man sat on a throne made of bones and iron. His armor was black and covered in scars. A metal mask covered his face, shaped like a skull. His eyes, sharp and gray, stared at Auron without blinking.
"So," the Warden said in a deep voice. "You're the one."
Auron didn't answer.
The Warden stood slowly. He was tall—much taller than any man Auron had ever seen. His presence filled the room like a shadow.
"You killed a mana wretch with a broken pickaxe," he said. "And lived. That's rare."
"I was lucky," Auron said calmly.
The Warden chuckled. "No. Luck doesn't survive down here. Strength does. Pain does. And hate."
He stepped closer. Auron didn't flinch.
The Warden stopped just a few feet away. "You have hate in your eyes, boy. Who are you?"
"No one," Auron said.
The Warden tilted his head. "Lies. You speak like someone who used to command. Like a prince."
Auron looked him in the eye. "And if I was?"
The Warden stared at him in silence. Then he turned and walked back to his throne.
"If you were, then you've fallen far."
"I have," Auron said. "But I'm not staying down here forever."
The Warden sat. "Brave words for a slave."
"Maybe," Auron replied. "But I've already died once. I have nothing left to fear."
That made the Warden pause.
After a moment, he spoke again.
"I give most slaves a number and forget them. But you… you interest me. So I'm offering you a deal."
Auron waited.
"I'll train you," the Warden said. "Give you better food. Rest. Strength. You'll become more than just a rat in the dark."
"What's the price?" Auron asked.
"You fight for me when I say. You kill when I order. You live… for me."
Auron stayed quiet.
The Warden leaned forward. "Or you can go back to the pit and die slowly like the others."
Auron thought for a moment. Then nodded.
"Fine. I'll take your deal."
The Warden smiled behind his mask. "Good. Then your training begins now."
He stood again and tossed a wooden practice sword at Auron's feet.
"Pick it up."
Auron did.
The Warden drew his own weapon—thick, heavy, and chipped from many battles.
"Let's see if you're worth the trouble."
He swung fast.
Auron barely blocked it. The force sent him flying backward. He crashed into the wall, gasping.
"Again," the Warden growled.
Auron stood, coughing, and raised the sword.
The next hit knocked him down again.
And again.
And again.
But he didn't quit.
Hours passed. Auron bled. His hands blistered. His arms shook. But he stood every time.
Finally, the Warden lowered his weapon.
"That's enough."
Auron collapsed, breathing hard.
"You've got spirit," the Warden said. "But spirit won't keep you alive. You'll learn. Or you'll die."
He tossed a small piece of bread near him. "Eat. Rest. Tomorrow, we train again."
Then the Warden turned and walked away.
Alone in the dark chamber, Auron stared at the bread.
He was exhausted. Sore. But in his heart, he felt something strange.
Not pride. Not hope.
But hunger. Real hunger.
Not for food.
For power.
He would survive this.
He would grow.
And when the time came…
He would take back everything.
---
The next morning, Auron was taken to a different part of the mine. A place most slaves never saw. A small room with weapons hanging on the wall, training dummies, and stone floors cracked from years of battle.
The Warden stood in the center, arms crossed.
"This is where you stop being prey," he said. "If you live through this, you'll earn your first real weapon. If not…"
He shrugged.
Auron nodded. "Let's begin."
The Warden attacked without warning.
No talking.
No mercy.
Auron blocked what he could. Dodged when he had to. Took hits when he had no choice. Every strike was like fire. But every wound taught him something.
Auron didn't fight like a warrior.
He fought like someone with nothing to lose.
Each day was the same. Pain. Blood. Lessons. And survival.
> \[Strength +1]
> \[Speed +1]
> \[Passive Skill Learned: Unshaken Stance]
By the fourth day, he was faster.
By the sixth, he could strike back.
And on the seventh…
He knocked the Warden's blade from his hand.
The older man stared at him.
Then laughed.
"You're more dangerous than you look," he said.
Auron stood, chest rising and falling.
"You're learning."
"I'm remembering," Auron said softly.
The Warden stepped closer.
"You've killed once. Soon, you'll do it again. And again. Until you stop counting. Are you ready for that?"
Auron looked him in the eye.
"I've already made peace with death. Now I want revenge."
The Warden's eyes narrowed.
"Then you're ready."
He tossed Auron a dagger. The blade was short, curved, and sharp.
"Tomorrow night," he said. "A test. Not training. A mission."
Auron gripped the dagger tightly.
"What kind of mission?"
The Warden smiled behind the mask.
"You'll find out soon enough."