The damp, cold stone sent a nasty chill into my side, even through the thin, torn rags that served as my clothes. (Thanks to yesterday's "pleasantries," sleeping on my back was out of the question.) The silence in the cell was near-total, broken only by the deep drone of Rob's voice.
As he told me about this "heavenly" little place, I was being dragged relentlessly toward sleep. Who forced him to be as dull as my old philosophy professor from university? That guy also had a conceptual talent for transforming the most interesting topics into a sleep-inducing drone. I fell asleep in his lectures ten times out of ten; his words were a more potent sedative than any pill. And now, despite the pain and anxiety, I couldn't resist. My eyelids felt like lead, and the old man's monotonous voice was carrying me away from this grim reality.
But even through my drowsiness, my brain was soaking up key fragments of information like a sponge. And when he uttered the name of this place, my consciousness, already prepared to sink into blissful oblivion, latched onto the words like a drowning man grasping a straw.
The Tower of Heaven.
I had found myself in a literal bloody paradise—the Tower of Heaven. The R-System. A massive resurrection artifact that, according to canon, was created by the dark mage Zeref himself to revive his younger brother. In the future, the valiant wizards of Fairy Tail would wipe this accursed construction site off the face of the earth.
There was just one tiny, insignificant downside. That "future" was many, many years away. And I had landed right at the beginning of its construction. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. I had traded a quick death at the hands of a crazed Hunter for a slow, agonizing demise in slavery. A great career move.
The living conditions here weren't just slavish—they were hellish. The stench of sweat, fear, and stone dust mingled with the salty sea breeze to create a nauseating cocktail. Piles of people kidnapped from all over the world—men, women, the elderly—were all just expendable materials. They were the walking dead, with hollow eyes and emaciated bodies, hauling impossibly heavy blocks to build a giant tower in the name of some dark cult. Every day, someone died from exhaustion, from a guard's blow, or at the hands of another slave. Murder wasn't uncommon—you could get your throat slit with a rusty nail for a stale crust of bread that had long since died a hero's death.
In his story, Rob also mentioned that he was looking after six other children here.
I didn't give a single shit about them. What help, I ask you, could a bunch of snot-nosed kids be in this hellhole? They were a burden. An anchor that would drag anyone who tried to help them straight to the bottom. And this "caring" for other people's children... Ugh. Definitely a priest.
On top of that, the damn old man wouldn't shut up about his past adventures. A nostalgic spark would light up his faded eyes as he recalled his bygone days, boasting about what a powerful mage he had been as a member of Fairy Tail. He spoke of mighty spells, of vanquished foes, of glory and honor…
Listening to him, I felt a dull irritation simmering inside me. What the hell, old man? If you're so damn powerful, why haven't you blown this prison to smithereens? What, those primitive magic-suppressing shackles on your wrists are stopping you? Then why the hell did you let yourself get caught in the first place, if you're so smart and mighty? All his stories sounded like empty bravado, fairy tales for naive children, not reality.
So, lulled by his exhausting, sleep-inducing speech, I was knocked out cold, despite the dull, aching pain in my back and the cold stone at my side. My consciousness simply gave up and plunged into a blissful black abyss.
For a fleeting moment, there on the edge of sleep and wakefulness, it might have seemed that I had resigned myself to my fate. That I had accepted my new role as a nameless slave, destined to rot away on this cursed construction site.
But that would have been a huge mistake.
Even in my sleep, that snarky yellow panel hovered before my mind's eye. My 'persistent'—no, that's not the word—my psycho system was silent. It was flat-out ignoring all my mental queries as if I didn't even exist. But its silent presence was the very thing that kept me from giving up. I already understood with perfect clarity: this sarcastic interface was my only key to escape. Isn't every system in isekai stories the ultimate tool, a cheat code to power and might?
Give up because of a "little" pain and some temporary difficulties? No, thanks. In my last life, everything was taken from me in an instant. Now, fate, or whoever is in charge of it, has given me a second chance. And even if it's wrapped in pain, filth, and slavery, it's a CHANCE. And since I've been granted such a wonderful opportunity, I'm going to use it to the fullest.
I just need to endure. To wait. And to find the right time to test my new abilities in some secluded corner. It's time to see what a Level 1 "Multiverse's Strongest Necromancer" can do.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
A deafening metallic clang ripped me mercilessly from the clutches of a heavy, restless sleep. I jolted, reflexively scrambling up on the cold stone, and the dull pain in my back and neck immediately reminded me of yesterday. Consciousness returned as quickly as that bastard was pounding on the door.
In the small, enclosed cell, the sound was unbearable. A guard was sadistically hammering a metal club against the rusty bars of the small, grated window on the door. It felt less like he was hitting iron and more like he was driving red-hot nails directly into my eardrums.
The dark silhouette of an overseer loomed in the opening. My first instinct was to jump up and tell this freak exactly what I thought of him, then go back to sleep. But I'm not an idiot. I still wanted to live, no matter how much rage was boiling inside me. So, I forced myself to swallow the venomous words on the tip of my tongue and just glared at him, my eyes filled with all my indignation.
"Wakey-wakey, little piggies, slop's on," a nasal voice rasped, dripping with sadistic pleasure. The guard stopped his drumming and broke into a crooked, rotten-toothed grin.
Ten points for enthusiasm, zero for originality. It seems all prison guards share the same scriptwriter.
With a crash, he unlatched the feeding slot at the bottom of the door and tipped the contents of a rusty bucket inside. A grey-brown sludge with floating chunks of something unidentifiable splattered onto the filthy floor, and a suffocating stench instantly filled the cell.
My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets from the reek. It was an assault on my sense of smell, physically palpable and gag-inducing. A mixture of rot, sour fermentation, and something else that made my stomach churn. It seemed the local chef had decided to treat us to his signature dish: "Week-Old Garbage à la Gourmet." I could only hope it was just rotten food and not some poor soul from the next cell… By the way, what were the chances that this "food," which was clearly radiating like Chernobyl's third reactor, wouldn't turn me into a mutant?
My thoughts drifted far away, trying to ignore the nauseating swill.
My stomach rebelled, threatening to expel the remnants of yesterday's identical "meal." But my brain, cold and pragmatic, insisted on one thing: eat or die. There was no room for squeamishness here. Every calorie was another hour of life.
Rob, with an expression of stoic resignation, was already dividing his half of the slop with a piece of stone. Suppressing my gag reflex and trying not to breathe, I joined him. We choked down our portions in silence.
I'll spare you the details... but somehow, I managed not to turn my stomach inside out.
The day passed in a haze. A haze of pain, exhaustion, and despair.
After the disgusting morning gruel, we were herded like cattle from our cells onto the construction site, which was flooded with merciless sunlight. I was put to work with hundreds of other slaves, hauling massive, roughly hewn stone blocks. We harnessed ourselves to ropes that dug into our shoulders and palms, leaving bleeding abrasions. Our muscles burned, our lungs screamed for air, and a single thought hammered in my head: one step, another step, one more.
It was like a picture from a history textbook about Ancient Egypt, except we didn't have camels. Or rather, we were the camels—bipedal, obedient, and completely without rights. Overseers with whips strolled lazily between the rows, and every now and then, the whistle of leather would cut through the air, tearing a scream of pain from someone's chest. It served as a constant reminder: stop, and you die.
But even in this hell, my brain was working. Throughout the long day of heavy, monotonous labor, I managed to familiarize myself with the layout. My gaze wasn't drawn to the majestic, rising walls of the tower or the endless sea. My attention, like a magnet, was pulled to one specific place.
A ravine at the edge of the construction site. The place where, twice a day, the guards indifferently dumped the bodies of those who couldn't take it anymore. They would just drag them by the feet and toss them in like unwanted trash. For everyone else, it was a grim reminder of their own fate. For me, this cesspit full of the dead had become a beacon of hope. It wasn't a gravesite; it was an open-air recruitment center with a huge pool of highly motivated, albeit temporarily inactive, employees.
Now, only one small thing remained: find a way to slip past the guards and get to that pit to finally test my abilities. The only problem was, I had no idea how to do it. Patrols were regular, and any attempt to deviate from the path was met with immediate and brutal punishment.
That evening, when we were herded back into our pens, I sat down, leaning my back against the cold wall. It was time to pitch my business plan to a potential investor whose only assets were a beard and sad memories.
My gaze settled on Rob. The old man sat opposite me, silently turning a small stone over in his hands. The risk was enormous. But the alternative—becoming part of this tower's foundation—was even worse.
"Old man," my voice, low and raspy, sounded like a gong in the ringing silence of the cell.
Rob raised his tired eyes to meet mine.
"You're a mage from Fairy Tail, right?" I began.
He nodded slowly. "I was. Once. Before this cursed place. No… I always will be."
"Good," I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Your magic… is it completely gone, or are you still capable of something other than depressing everyone with your stories? I need a distraction. Something bright, something loud. A little magic firework show from Grandpa Rob, so to speak."
The old man's eyes narrowed for a moment. He stopped fiddling with the stone and looked at me intently. The paternal kindness in his gaze was gone, replaced by the cold glint of calculation and experience.
"What do you need it for?" he asked directly.
It was time for the performance of a lifetime. I channeled all the experience I'd gained from years on RP servers, where a convincing lie was an art form. I let a fanatical gleam ignite in my eyes, and my voice took on an undertone of mystery and hidden power.
"Let's just say," I hissed, leaning even closer, "these cuffs don't block my magic. It's… different. But to unleash it and get us all out of here, I need a catalyst. Something that can only be found over there… in the ravine."
I deliberately left things unsaid, cloaking my words in as much fog and mystery as possible. Let his imagination fill in the blanks.
The old man was silent for a long time, mulling over my words. A real battle was raging on his face: common sense screamed that he was dealing with a desperate, delirious child. But his eyes… his eyes saw something else. They saw a desperate, insane hope. He knew there was no other way out of here. And my words, as wild as they were, had become the straw a drowning man would clutch. Of course, trusting the words of a brat was a fool's errand, but what other choice did he have?
"Alright…" he finally breathed. "But I have a condition, too. I can create a diversion, but you have to take the children with you… all six of them."
Damn it. Dead weight. Six slow, noisy anchors tied to my ankles. But that was the price of the deal.
"Deal!" I couldn't hold back a relieved exhale, trying to make it sound as sincere as possible. I couldn't believe it had actually worked. Seriously? I had just pulled off the scam of the century, selling thin air to an old mage, and he actually bought it? Maybe in the world of anime, the laws of logic really do take a backseat to faith in miracles. Who knew.
"When do we start?" I asked eagerly, playing the part of a hero raring for a fight.
The old man sighed grimly, as if he could already see the tragic end to our little venture. He glanced at how I was carefully leaning against the wall, trying not to aggravate my back.
"Are you sure you're ready? Your back... that pain won't be gone anytime soon. If they catch you, they won't be merciful. They'll kill you."
I gave him a crooked smile. "Kill me? Come on, old man. The food here is a much more reliable way to die. And don't mind my back, it's just my new spine settling in. I left the old one in another world."
"Don't be hasty. I need to prepare the children, tell them to run to you at the first opportunity. And… I have an idea how to pull this off. In a few days. Just promise me you'll really help them escape. I have nothing left to lose, I've lived my life, but they… they're just kids. They have their whole lives ahead of them."
The word "promise" hung heavy in the air of the cell.
"I promise, old man," I replied, and to my surprise, I felt the weight of those words settle on me.
The sincerity in his voice made even me, a person who considered a conscience an unnecessary appendix, a little uneasy. For some reason, it felt like a farewell. Even though I had only been with him for a short time, I knew he was a good man. And maybe that's why my soul felt so shitty and sad.
Okay, stop. Enough of this sentimental bullshit. The grim atmosphere was oppressive, and a conscience and sadness were useless in this hell—just extra baggage that could get me killed. I had to break the high-minded mood, fast.
I shook myself and, to dispel the oppressive silence, abruptly switched my tone from serious to my favorite, mocking one.
"And I think we need a name for the operation, old man. How about 'The Ascension of the Strongest Lich'? No, no, that sounds too much like 'leech'," I stroked my chin thoughtfully. "Then how about 'The Rise of the Multiverse's Strongest Dark Mage'? Nah, too dramatic… Well then, how about…"
Rob stared at me as if I had just suggested he paint the tower pink. First, bewilderment flickered in his eyes, which was then replaced by a universe-weary exhaustion. He had just made the deal of a lifetime, entrusting the fates of six children to a boy who, by all appearances, had finally lost his mind from the hard labor.
The old man sighed, a heavy sound, as if another stone block had just been loaded onto his shoulders. I smirked internally. It was better for him to think I was a harmless lunatic. Much better than him seeing the cold-hearted bastard who would do anything to achieve his goal. A fool's cap is the best camouflage.