"Enough! You have no right to be fighting right now!"
The roar exploded through the underground hall like a thunderclap.
Everyone froze. The sound was deep, commanding, filled with fury that sent a chill through the prisoners' spines.
It was the warden's voice — sharp as steel and heavy as the sound of iron chains striking stone.
The man who spoke stood tall, his shadow stretching across the cold stone wall. The faint orange glow of the torches behind him flickered, casting restless flames that danced over his uniform. His sharp eyes, gleaming like tempered iron, swept over everyone involved. His face twisted with rage — the kind of rage born from both authority and exhaustion.
"You all have work to do!"
His tone struck the air like a whip. "That is the only thing you should be doing!"
His voice echoed again and again, bouncing off the damp stone walls.
Each reverberation felt like a hammer slamming against the chest of everyone in the room.
After a moment, the warden took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling heavily. The sound of his exhale carried an oppressive weight — one that silenced the whispers and movements around him.
"And now…" he said slowly, his tone sinking deeper, colder, "your workload will be doubled."
The final word fell like a stone into still water — sending invisible ripples through the crowd.
Silence spread. Even the faint dripping of water from the ceiling sounded louder in its aftermath.
The prisoners stood unmoving, the air thick with despair and resentment.
Dozens of eyes turned — not toward the warden, but toward Settee, the old man who had sparked the conflict earlier.
Their stares burned like daggers. Hatred, disgust, fury — all mixed into the same heavy air.
But no one dared to move.
The warden was still there, his presence suffocating enough to hold every soul in place.
Lensin, however, remained completely calm.
His face was unreadable, his violet eyes cold and distant. He did not even bother to glance at Settee.
The scene before him seemed to hold no meaning — as if he were simply watching dust drift through sunlight.
He let out a quiet breath and began walking. The sound of his chains clinked softly, each movement echoing faintly in the dark corridor.
Around him, the others began to move too — slow, silent, their footsteps scraping against the rough stone floor.
The air smelled of rust, sweat, and the faint scent of burning oil from the torches.
The corridor stretched endlessly ahead, narrow and shadowed.
Moisture dripped from the ceiling, glimmering faintly in the firelight. The prisoners walked in lines, and Lensin's steady steps blended into the dull rhythm of boots and shackles.
Beside him, Settee walked with a bowed head. His expression was pale and weary, the fear in his eyes barely hidden beneath exhaustion. He dared not speak a word.
Eventually, a dim light appeared at the end of the tunnel.
It wasn't the wavering orange of torches — this was different. It was faintly white, pure and natural.
As they approached, the stale air shifted, replaced by a cool, open breeze that brushed across Lensin's face.
He stepped out of the corridor and into a wider cavern.
And then, before him, a towering mountain wall stretched high into the distance — massive and silent, like the back of a sleeping titan.
A faint ray of light shone from above, filtering through cracks in the stone ceiling. The world outside was still hidden, but that thin slice of sunlight painted a soft glow over the path.
Lensin's gaze moved forward — and there, at the mountain's base, was a gigantic cave.
Its entrance yawned open like the mouth of a beast, swallowing the light around it.
Inside, countless glimmers of blue, silver, gold, and deep green sparkled within the darkness.
The air was heavy with dust and the metallic tang of iron.
The rhythmic clang of metal striking rock echoed faintly from deep within — clang… clang… clang… — steady, relentless, like the heartbeat of the mountain itself.
Lensin narrowed his eyes slightly. He had expected this.
He already knew that the kind of labor a prison like this demanded would not be light — mining was inevitable.
A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
The blond-haired guard — the same man who had placed the cuffs on him earlier — approached quietly. His expression was stoic, almost emotionless, though his gaze was sharp and watchful.
Without a word, the man reached into a small pouch at his waist, pulling out a ring of keys. The cold sound of metal jingling echoed softly as he inserted one into Lensin's shackles.
With a click — clank — the cuffs fell away.
Lensin rubbed his wrists slightly, feeling the faint sting of metal that had bitten into his skin. The marks it left behind glowed faintly red under the dim light. But he said nothing. His eyes were already fixed ahead, at the vast cavern that awaited them.
Inside the cave, light shimmered faintly across the ore-covered walls.
Some of the crystals pulsed softly, glowing as if alive.
The deeper veins shimmered with faint blue light, while others glittered like fragments of frozen sunlight.
Each stone seemed to carry its own essence — some radiated faint heat, while others chilled the air around them.
Lensin noticed that the ores were not all ordinary.
Among the precious and metallic ones, there were mysterious ores that seemed to breathe — expanding and contracting slightly, like the lungs of a living creature.
Near the entrance, old wooden tables had been set up. On them lay helmets with built-in lamps, rusted pickaxes, heavy hammers, baskets, and shovels covered in grime.
Everything looked worn, stained with sweat and years of use.
The tools reeked of iron and earth — a smell that sank into the skin and stayed there.
The ground beneath their feet was uneven and coated with a thin layer of dust.
Every step stirred it into the air, making the light shimmer in faint golden motes.
Farther inside, the faint glows from the ores reflected off metal helmets and rough stone walls, filling the cave with a dim, ghostly light.
The soundscape of the place was haunting — the clang of tools, the echo of footsteps, the murmur of chains dragging across stone.
It was a world of labor and silence, where time seemed to crawl instead of flow.
Lensin took in all of it without expression. His eyes, however, carried a glint — not of surprise, but of understanding.
He already knew what awaited him here. This was his new routine, his new confinement — a life buried under stone, where light and freedom could never reach.
The blond guard gave him a brief glance before walking away, his boots crunching against gravel. The beam of light from his helmet swept briefly across Lensin's face — cold, sharp, almost colorless.
Lensin blinked once as the light passed, then looked forward again.
The faint shimmer of the ores reflected in his eyes, but there was no warmth there — only stillness.
He understood perfectly well.
This was the new world he had stepped into —
A world without sunlight, without freedom.
Only the sound of hammers striking rock…
Only the endless rhythm of chains and breath,
And the silent watch of the mountain that never slept.
The sharp clang of metal striking stone echoed endlessly through the cavern — clank… clank… clank… — a sound that seemed to vibrate within the bones of everyone trapped there.
It was the voice of labor, of survival, of futility — all blending into one rhythmic torment that filled the enormous, dimly lit hollow beneath the mountain.
People reached for their tools in silence.
Some grasped pickaxes so worn their handles were splintered, others dragged rusty shovels that looked as though they'd outlived generations.
There were hammers, buckets, and crude chisels — all passed down from prisoner to prisoner, all scarred by time.
Muscles strained beneath sweat-streaked skin. Each swing brought a dull ache that traveled from hand to shoulder, from shoulder to back.
Sweat rolled down foreheads, mixing with the gray dust of shattered stone until every face was painted in the same lifeless hue — neither human nor ghost.
The air was heavy, dry, and thick with the metallic taste of iron dust.
Some prisoners were strong enough to keep digging, their bodies moving like machines long past exhaustion.
Others coughed and stumbled, gasping for air that no longer felt like air at all.
But no one dared to stop. Not even for a breath too long.
Lensin, too, reached for his set of tools — a dull pickaxe, a helmet with a flickering light fixed to its front, and a worn leather satchel meant for carrying ore.
He said nothing. His eyes, cold and half-hidden in shadow, revealed neither fatigue nor emotion.
He simply bent his knees, took a deep breath, and began.
Though his magical power was gone, his body still held its strength — the raw, disciplined force of someone who had trained beyond the limits of ordinary men.
Each strike he made was deliberate and unhurried, his rhythm steady and unbroken, echoing through the cavern like the ticking of a clock in a dead room.
The rock wall splintered under his blows.
Fragments fell in small cascades, scattering across the ground in dull sparks.
The echo of his work blended into the chorus of hundreds of others, forming a ceaseless metallic storm within the underground world.
At first, what he uncovered were only common ores — dull gray stones that reflected no light, no value.
But as he dug deeper, the nature of the cave began to change.
The air grew cooler, thicker; the texture of the walls became smoother, denser.
When the beam from his helmet struck certain angles, faint glimmers of blue and green shimmered from within the rock, like fragments of frozen water or scales of buried serpents.
At around thirty meters down, most of the others had stopped.
Many collapsed where they stood, panting, their faces pale with exhaustion.
A few dragged themselves back toward the tunnel entrance, unwilling to risk the wrath of the overseers but too weak to continue.
Lensin, however, remained still for a moment, studying the stone around him — then resumed digging.
The deeper layers were colder. His breath turned to mist.
The light from his helmet illuminated only a small circle before him, while everything beyond it dissolved into darkness.
Dust hung in the air, floating like pale smoke. Every movement stirred it anew, creating ghostly clouds that shimmered in the dim glow.
Then — his pickaxe struck something hollow.
The metallic ring that followed was wrong. Too soft. Too hollow.
He paused, frowning, then struck again — gentler this time.
More dust fell, and from the broken rock emerged something pale… something shaped like bone.
It was a corpse.
No, several corpses.
He crouched down and brushed away the dust with the back of his hand. Beneath the layers of dirt were remains — dry, fragile, their clothes reduced to tatters clinging stubbornly to bones.
Some skulls were split clean in half, others bore the deep indentations of blunt weapons.
Chains still circled a few of their wrists and ankles, as though death itself had never freed them.
Lensin didn't flinch. His expression remained unchanged, calm, almost detached.
This place was an underground prison — finding death here was as ordinary as breathing.
Still, something about the silence surrounding the dead felt heavier than before.
It was as if the air itself carried the echoes of screams that had long ceased to exist.
He scanned the bodies one by one until his eyes caught a small cloth bag clutched tightly in one of the corpses' hands.
Carefully, he pried it free. A faint stench of dried blood escaped as he untied the cord and opened it.
Inside were several small glass vials — filled with a thick, dark-red liquid.
They glimmered faintly under his light, each drop within them shifting sluggishly, like something alive.
"Blood vials…" he thought silently.
Lensin turned one of them in his hand, examining it.
The liquid still looked potent — unnaturally preserved, as though sealed by an unknown magic.
He didn't know what kind of blood it was, or what purpose it served, but he knew it was valuable.
Everything in this world held a price. Even blood.
He placed the vials back into the bag, tied it securely, and slung it over his shoulder.
As he straightened up, the faint rustle of dust fell from his clothes — and then—
A touch.
A soft hand landed gently on his shoulder.
Lensin's instincts flared. He spun around instantly, his pickaxe raised halfway before stopping mid-motion.
Dust swirled through the air, caught in the weak light.
And in that haze — he saw her.
A woman stood just a few steps away.
Her hair was long, pure white, glowing faintly in the light from his helmet like strands of moonlight.
Her eyes — gray and cold — reflected him clearly, emotionless yet impossibly deep, as though she carried within them both the silence and sorrow of a forgotten sea.
Lensin recognized her immediately.
She was the same girl who had sat across from him during meals — silent, distant, unmoving.
He remembered the way she never looked up, never spoke, as though she had already vanished from the world but her body simply hadn't realized it yet.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The light from their helmets crossed in the air, forming a pale beam between them.
The dust within that beam glittered like drifting stars.
She stood motionless, breathing softly, the faintest rise and fall of her chest visible in the shadows.
Her white hair swayed gently in the underground wind that slipped through the narrow cracks of the stone.
Lensin slowly rose from his crouched position, his body stiff from hours of labor.
His back was coated in dirt and sweat, but his gaze remained calm, unshaken.
He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, its contents clinking faintly, then spoke — his voice low but clear, resonating quietly through the cavern.
"What is it?"
His tone was steady, detached — neither hostile nor friendly.
The sound drifted through the cave, echoing faintly before being swallowed by the weight of silence.
The woman didn't answer right away.
She only looked at him — her gray eyes catching the light, gleaming faintly like polished stone.
For a brief second, her expression seemed to shift — not enough to be called emotion, but enough to suggest something hidden beneath the surface.
The silence stretched between them like a living thing.
Around them, the other miners continued their work far in the distance.
The clangs of metal were faint now, muffled by layers of rock, like a storm echoing from another world.
Here, in this small hollow beneath the earth, there was only stillness — two figures, one light, and a hundred shades of shadow surrounding them.
Lensin didn't move. He simply watched her, his eyes unreadable, patient, waiting.
There was a weight in the air — the kind that pressed against the lungs, that made every breath feel heavier.
The faint hum of his helmet's lamp was the only thing breaking the silence.
And yet… something unspoken passed between them — a recognition, perhaps, or an understanding without words.
Still, Lensin said nothing more.
He merely stood there, waiting for an answer that might never come, surrounded by the endless darkness and the scent of dust and ore that filled the air.