The massive communal pit was a sensory assault that hit Joseph the moment his consciousness fully returned. The smell was the first thing that registered—a thick, heavy mixture of unwashed bodies, stale excrement, sharp fear, and the distinct metallic tang of blood. It was not just unpleasant but actively nauseating, the kind of stench that seemed to coat the inside of his nostrils and cling to the back of his throat.
He lay curled on the cold, rough stone floor, trying instinctively to make his body as small and unnoticeable as possible. Every muscle ached from the earlier violence. The kick from the overseer had left a deep, throbbing pain in his ribs that flared with each breath. The humiliation of being dragged naked through corridors and thrown into this pit still burned in his mind, but beneath the shame, something colder and more practical was beginning to form.
He was no longer just Joseph, the twenty-year-old otaku who had fallen asleep reading fantasy novels. That person was fragmenting, breaking apart under the relentless pressure of this new reality. What remained was the raw material for something else—for Velrith. And Velrith's first priority was survival. Not escape. Not revenge. Not even understanding. Just survival, moment by moment, breath by breath.
He cautiously raised his head, moving slowly to avoid drawing attention. The chains attached to his ankles scraped against the stone with a soft, metallic whisper. Around him, the pit held perhaps fifty other demon slaves, though the exact number was hard to determine in the dim, flickering light. Most were huddled along the stone walls, their bodies pressed against the cold surface as if trying to disappear into it.
The lighting came from several large iron sconces mounted on the walls above the pit, each holding a crude torch that burned with a smoky, orange flame. The light was weak and inconsistent, casting deep shadows that seemed to move and shift with the dancing fire. The smoke from the torches added another layer to the already foul air, making breathing even more difficult.
The other slaves were silent. Not the peaceful silence of rest, but the heavy, oppressive silence of fear. Their eyes were vacant yet watchful, carrying the weight of exhaustion and the dangerous glint of desperation. Some bore visible wounds—deep lash marks across their backs, missing fingers, broken horns. Others appeared physically intact but psychologically shattered, staring at nothing with expressions of complete emptiness.
The sounds of the pit were minimal and carefully controlled. The faint, dry coughs of the sick. The soft hiss and crackle of the torch oil burning. The occasional shift of chains as someone adjusted their position. And, most importantly, the periodic heavy footsteps of the overseers patrolling the perimeter above.
The overseers were the absolute authority here. Joseph could see them moving along the raised walkway that surrounded the pit, their massive forms silhouetted against the torchlight. They were larger than the slaves, their bodies thick with muscle and armored in crude leather and metal. Each carried weapons—whips, clubs, short blades. And each radiated an aura of casual, unconcerned power.
When the overseers spoke to each other or yelled commands down into the pit, the sounds were entirely incomprehensible. The language was demonic, and it bore no resemblance to any human tongue Joseph had ever heard. It was a series of harsh, grating, guttural sounds punctuated by sharp consonants and deep, rolling vowels that seemed to come from deep in the chest. The noise meant absolutely nothing to his conscious mind. It was pure alien sound, a hostile wave of meaningless syllables.
Yet as the sounds washed over him, Joseph forced his fractured, exhausted mind to focus. He realized that while the words themselves were meaningless, the context was immediate and deadly clear. This was the first, terrifying layer of communication he had to decipher—not the verbal language, but the non-verbal language of absolute control.
He lay perfectly still and watched the patterns. This was reconnaissance, the kind of careful observation that might mean the difference between life and death. His body ached and his thirst was overwhelming, but he pushed those sensations to the background and focused entirely on the behavior of the guards and slaves.
A guard would casually jab a finger toward a slave who was resting against the wall. That slave would immediately scramble to their feet, eyes wide with terror, and rush toward whatever unseen task awaited them at the far end of the pit. The action was automatic, reflexive, without any hesitation. The slave did not need to understand the words. The gesture was enough.
Conversely, an overseer would issue a long, complex string of the guttural demonic language. If the slave hesitated for even a half-second, if their response was not immediate and complete, a heavy leather whip would crack violently against their exposed skin. The sound of the whip was sharp and wet, followed immediately by a cry of pain. Then the overseer would shout a short word, a single syllable barked with absolute authority.
The pattern was inescapable and brutally simple: guards point, slaves obey or receive whips. The actual words being spoken were irrelevant. The consequences were everything. Joseph internalized this cold logic with the speed of desperate survival. His continued existence depended not on understanding the syntax or grammar of this new language, but on mastering the kinetics of obedience.
He focused on the body language of submission. When a slave received a command, they immediately adopted specific behaviors. The shoulders would slump forward. The head would drop, eyes fixed on the ground. The hands would spread slightly, showing they held no weapons. The movement would be quick but not frantic, running to comply but not appearing to flee. Most importantly, there was never any eye contact with the overseer. To meet the gaze of one of these powerful beings was apparently an unforgivable transgression.
Joseph meticulously cataloged these behaviors, knowing that his new, vulnerable body would have to perfectly mimic them if he wanted to survive. He practiced the movements mentally, imagining the slump, the averted gaze, the quick compliance. His mind, despite its exhaustion and trauma, was still capable of this kind of analytical observation. It was perhaps the only advantage he had.
As he watched, the pain from the gag became unbearable again. His lips were still cracked and bleeding from the earlier trauma. His tongue was swollen to the point where it pressed painfully against his teeth and the roof of his mouth. Every swallow was agony. The need to communicate, to beg for water, to confirm his location, to understand anything about his situation, grew from a desire to a desperate need.
The cold resolution of the emerging Velrith fought against the desperate, human need to speak. For several long minutes, the internal battle raged. Logic said to remain silent, to continue observing, to avoid drawing any attention. But the human part of him, the part that was still clinging to the identity of Joseph, needed to try. Needed to assert some small measure of agency in this nightmare.
The desperation won.
Joseph shifted his weight slightly, pulling his chin against his chest in what he hoped was a submissive gesture. It was a tiny movement, barely noticeable, but in the oppressive silence and stillness of the pit, it stood out. An overseer standing perhaps thirty feet away noticed immediately. The guard's head turned with predatory focus, the movement slow and deliberate.
The overseer moved toward him. The boots scraped softly on the stone, each step measured and unhurried. The figure radiated contempt and absolute confidence. This was a being that had never known fear, never questioned its right to inflict suffering, never doubted its power over the wretched creatures in the pit below.
The guard paused directly above Joseph. The light from the nearby torch illuminated the overseer's features—the heavy, jutting jaw, the thick fangs that protruded from the lower lip, the small, cruel eyes that glittered with dark intelligence. The overseer leaned down slightly, and the heavy scent of old sweat, leather, and a powerful, metallic musk washed over Joseph like a physical wave.
In a swift, brutal motion, the overseer reached down with one massive hand and grabbed the thick cloth that served as Joseph's gag. The fingers were huge, the leather glove rough against his face. With a single, violent yank, the overseer ripped the gag free.
The sound was loud in the silence—the tearing of fabric, the wet, sucking noise as the cloth pulled away from his dried, stuck-together lips. The sudden release was both relief and agony. His jaw, which had been forced open for hours, cramped immediately. His lips, stretched and cracked, began to bleed fresh blood. His tongue, suddenly free but swollen and useless, flopped in his mouth like a dead thing.
He coughed violently, his entire body convulsing with the effort. Saliva thick with bile and dried blood dribbled from his lips, running down his chin and dripping onto the stone. The coughing made his bruised ribs scream with pain, each spasm sending sharp jolts through his torso.
The sudden, agonizing freedom allowed the final, desperate remnants of the man Joseph to surface one last time. He ignored the burning in his throat, the raw pain in his mouth, the overwhelming thirst that dominated every other sensation. He gathered what little strength remained and shouted the only question that mattered, forcing out the words in his old, familiar human tongue:
"Where am I? What is this place?!"
The sound was hoarse and high-pitched, emerging from his throat as a strangled, desperate cry. The human words—the familiar sounds of his native language—felt wrong the moment they left his mouth. They were grating, foreign noise in this hellish environment. They marked him immediately as other, as ignorant, as weak.
The response was immediate, terrifying, and brutally instructive.
The overseer did not hesitate. There was no pause for consideration, no moment of confusion. The back of its massive, leather-gloved hand swung down with brutal, working force. The backhanded strike connected solidly with Joseph's jaw.
The sound was a loud, cracking smack that echoed in the pit. Several nearby slaves flinched at the noise, their eyes widening with renewed fear.
The pain was electric and paralyzing. It was not the diffused, aching pain of his other injuries. This was a localized, shocking blow that fractured his understanding of reality. His head snapped violently to the side, the force of the impact causing his neck to twist at a dangerous angle. His teeth clamped down hard on his inner cheek, immediately tearing the soft tissue and drawing a rush of fresh, bloody pain. His vision swam in a confused, vibrant array of colors—bright red, brilliant white, and deep black—before settling back into the smoky orange gloom of the pit.
He was completely disoriented. The world tilted and spun. The taste of fresh, metallic blood mixed sickeningly with the dry bile in his mouth. His jaw felt loose, possibly broken, sending sharp spikes of pain through the entire left side of his face. His ear rang with a high, piercing tone that drowned out all other sound.
The overseer stood over him, its entire body radiating profound, cold anger. But interestingly, it did not strike again. It simply crouched low, bringing its face close to Joseph's ear. The hot, foul breath washed over his skin as the overseer spoke in a low, heavy stream of demonic language.
The words were slow, brutal, and simple. This was not random cruelty. This was teaching. The overseer was delivering a lesson, making sure the punishment was understood not just as pain but as correction.
Then the overseer stood up, its joints popping with the movement. It pointed its heavy, spike-studded truncheon directly at Joseph's face, the metal tip coming to rest just inches from his eye. It repeated one word, a short, sharp sound, with the same tone of absolute, unforgiving command.
"Kravesh."
The overseer's eyes never left Joseph's face. It repeated the action and the word, demanding complete attention and understanding.
"Kravesh."
Then, to demonstrate the meaning, the overseer turned and pointed the truncheon at a slave sitting across the pit. This slave had a broken horn, the jagged stump still weeping a dark fluid, and a face marked by countless scars. The slave's eyes went wide with terror the instant the truncheon pointed in their direction.
The slave reacted with impossible speed. They scrambled to their feet, chains rattling violently, and ran to stand upright at the edge of the pit, their body rigid with fear and compliance. The entire sequence took perhaps two seconds from the moment of pointing to the completion of obedience.
The overseer turned back to Joseph.
"Kravesh."
Something extraordinary happened in that moment. The internal process was fascinating, terrifying, and profoundly alien. Joseph's conscious mind, still reeling from the strike and flooded with human panic and confusion, registered almost nothing. The word was just another incomprehensible sound, lost in the chaos of pain and fear.
But the new body—the demonic form he now inhabited—reacted with cold, almost mechanical efficiency. It was not that he had studied languages or possessed any special linguistic talent. It was not conscious learning at all. Instead, the inherent memory structures of this demonic form were beginning to surface, reacting to the stimulus in ways his human consciousness could not control or fully understand.
The new soul that was Joseph had no knowledge, no experience, no understanding of this world. But the old body—the physical form he had been reincarnated into—carried its own set of memories. These were not conscious memories like those he had lost from his human life, but deeper, more fundamental patterns. Muscle memory. Instinctual responses. The kind of knowledge that lived in the body itself, written into the structure of the brain and nervous system.
When the overseer spoke the word "Kravesh" in that specific tone, with that specific context, the demonic body recognized it at a level far below conscious thought. The sonic pattern, the tonal quality, the situational context—all of these triggered a response that bypassed Joseph's human understanding entirely.
The word settled into his consciousness with the weight of cold, absolute law. He knew, with a certainty that overcame the panic of the moment, what the word meant. Not in the sense of being able to translate it into human language, but in the deeper sense of understanding its imperative force.
Kravesh meant obey immediately. No questions. No hesitation. No thought required. It was the core principle of existence in this place, the fundamental command upon which all other rules were built.
Joseph—or Velrith, as that identity was slowly, painfully being forged—forced himself to move. The blow to his jaw was still a searing pain, making his head feel heavy and disconnected. The dry, aching thirst was screaming for relief. His body was trembling with exhaustion and shock. But the instinct to survive, to comply with the word Kravesh, was stronger than all of it.
He scrambled to his feet, trying desperately to keep his movements subservient and quick despite the heavy chains and his complete lack of coordination in this new body. His legs trembled violently, the muscles weak and unfamiliar. His knees locked awkwardly beneath him, threatening to buckle. The weight distribution was all wrong—the wider hips, the heavier chest, the different center of gravity. Every movement felt clumsy and dangerous.
The effort was immense. It caused fresh pain in his bruised ribs, sharp spikes that made his vision darken at the edges. The chains scraped his ankles raw again, the metal cutting through the barely-formed scabs and causing new blood to run down his feet and onto the stone. His hands, still shackled behind his back, pulled at his shoulders in an unnatural position that made his upper back burn with strain.
But he managed it. He stood, swaying precariously, staring at the overseer with an expression of forced, terrified submission. His head was bowed. His eyes were fixed on the ground. His body language screamed compliance and fear.
He had learned the first, most critical word of the demonic tongue through the immediate, brutal education of the backhanded strike. The lesson was written in the bloody pain of his mouth and the cold logic of survival. This was how language worked in this world—not through textbooks or patient instruction, but through violence and the body's instinctive need to avoid further harm.
The overseer stared at the struggling figure before it—the pale ash-grey skin now covered in dirt and blood, the crimson-black hair matted and tangled, the awkward, shaking compliance. It grunted, a noise of pure satisfaction. The sound was almost approving, as if pleased that this particular slave had learned the lesson quickly.
The overseer reached out and grabbed the back of Joseph's neck. The heavy leather glove was rough and cold. The fingers clamped down hard, an immense pressure on his exposed vertebrae that made him gasp. He could feel the individual fingers, each one thick as a rope, pressing into the soft tissue and threatening to crush the delicate bones of his spine.
The overseer spoke again, adding a second word to the lesson.
"Kravesh, Da'ra."
The same process repeated. Joseph's conscious mind heard only noise, but his body understood. Da'ra. The word settled alongside Kravesh in that deep, instinctive place. Da'ra meant slave. Property. Thing to be used. It was his new identity, his new name, his new purpose. He was no longer Joseph. He was no longer even Velrith, not yet. He was Da'ra, a slave, owned and controlled by these powerful beings.
The overseer did not release his neck. Instead, it gave a powerful, working tug on the chains attached to his wrists. The lesson was complete. The demonstration was over. Now came the application.
The chains tightened, pulling his wrists painfully behind his back and forcing his shoulders into an even more unnatural position. The overseer began to walk, dragging Joseph along by the neck like an animal on a leash. The grip was unrelenting, cutting off part of his air supply and making each breath a struggle.
They moved out of the communal pit and into a narrow, dark corridor. The other slaves watched in silence, their expressions carefully blank. They had seen this countless times before. Some would return from where they were taken. Others would not. It was the fundamental uncertainty of slave existence—never knowing which summons would be the last.
The corridor was even darker than the pit, lit only by occasional torches set far apart. The walls were rough stone, carved directly from the rock, and they seemed to press in from both sides. The floor was uneven, covered in places with standing water or other, less identifiable liquids. Joseph stumbled repeatedly, his unfamiliar body unable to navigate the treacherous surface, but the overseer never slowed or loosened its grip.
The pain was secondary now to the chilling realization settling over him. He had just received his identity—Da'ra, slave. He had learned his first command—Kravesh, obey immediately. He had been given his first instruction on how to endure in this brutal new existence.
This was not the beginning of a power fantasy. This was not the start of a hero's journey. This was the absolute bottom, the lowest point from which Velrith would eventually have to claw her way up. Every lesson would be written in pain. Every advancement would be paid for in blood and suffering. There would be no shortcuts, no convenient power-ups, no mysterious benefactors offering help.
There would only be this: the cold stone, the heavy chains, the brutal overseers, and the fundamental word that governed everything.
Kravesh.
Obey immediately.
The long, hard road of this new life had truly begun, and it stretched ahead into darkness without any visible end.