Chapter 4: Red Mage
There were no thin orcs. Not surprising, considering that their entire race was an amalgam of human and swine. A young race at less than three millenniums old, they originated from the Chimaera Project: vampire High Lord Enzeal's attempt at creating a new race by merging existing species.
Composed of the skill shards: Variation, Evolution and Mutation among others, the interior of Lord Enzeal's Dungeon provided the perfect environment for the study of the origin of species. Rumour has it that in his reckless enthusiasm, the High Lord ended up creating a monster too powerful for him to control, perishing together with it, shattering the Dungeon in the process. The orcs, along with the nagas were the only two viable races that survived the collapse of the Chimaera Dungeon. Their high sex drive and corresponding fertility was the reason for their subsequent rapid expansion.
Ashamed of the death of one of their High Lords at the hands of his own experiment, the vampires sealed all knowledge of the Chimaera Project, forcing the orcs and the nagas as far away from their metropolises as they could. Driven into the Tyhr Desert, the orcs were forced to survive on the harsh sands, while the fate of the nagas was left to the whimsies of the Thousand Seas.
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Sand stood at the very end of the line of slaves, with several paces separating him from the next person, watching the orc slaver pacing from one end of the line to the other. Idly, he contrasted him with his previous master. Unlike Gura, whose tunic often found it difficult to constrain his jiggling stomach and breasts that would put most women to shame, Kreg's shirt revealed barely any wobble as he strode from one end of the line to the other. His sleeves, that were rolled back to reveal his thick forearms, bulged over the corded muscles of his upper arms.
'A Strength shard; most likely at Tier 2,' judged Sand with an experienced eye. 'To support the energy demand of that, he needs to be a Yellow Mage at the very least. Green Mage is unlikely. If he was so strong, he wouldn't be assigned such a dead-end job. So, Yellow it is.'
Some skill shards had very distinctive effects on their owners, making it easy to pick them out by mere visual examination. Of course, a broad knowledge base and experienced eye was required for such analysis, and even then, the information obtained was very fragmentary. For example, Sand had no idea what Kreg's second skill shard could be, or whether he even had one. All sorts of strange and unusual skills abounded and without completely figuring out every detail about the orc, Sand was unwilling to commit to any plan of action. For even the best laid of schemes could be derailed by the appearance of the wrong skill.
As Kreg passed by each of the slaves, they would subconsciously try to stand straighter even if there wasn't a single curve in their spine. Not standing straight enough, fidgeting and even blinking while the orc was passing by could be grounds for a whipping. Back when they were still part of the slave caravan, this sort of hazing was a part of the takeover ritual. The batches of slaves would often be shuffled internally to break up any possible relationships and right afterwards, the orc in charge of the newly formed batch would pace in front of them in a re-enactment of some primitive dominance ritual. The slaves would be conditioned to stand straight, motionless and unblinking as a sign of submission. It was supposed to make takeover much simpler for their subsequent owners. Sand observed it all detachedly, finding it ironic that the humans standing the straightest had the least iron in their spines.
There were only two slaves that didn't need to worry about this ritual. The Favour, who was standing apart from the rest of the group facing them from behind the pacing orc, because he had been exempted from it. And the Fool, because no matter how well he performed, it wouldn't change the result of him getting picked if none of the other slaves slipped up. As he had been unconscious the other day, Sand didn't know who it was that got picked as the Favour. Now that he saw him, he couldn't help but commend Kreg on his choice. It was the sturdy slave who had been ordered to carry him by Gura. It appeared that even swine could appreciate irony.
Finally satisfied by the performance of the slaves, Kreg walked up to Sand, towering over his diminutive form with his two-and-a-half metre tall frame. The flickering flames of the sconces cast the orc's shadow over him, yet Sand kept his eyes on the ground. A large hand gripped his hair and jerked his head back, forcing him to look up into the eyes of the orc. "Did that ol' medic wrap ye up right?" asked Kreg, in mock concern.
"Yes, Master Kreg." replied Sand, concealing his desire to slit the orc's throat behind a scared expression.
"Tsk.." Kreg clicked his tongue, obviously regretful that he hadn't been able to trip Sand up on how he was to be addressed. "Smart kids ain't any fun," he pouted, causing his grotesque face to distort further. His eyes flashed with a cruel light, "But since yer so smart, I'll do ye a big favour." Dragging Sand to the front of the line of slaves, Kreg barked out, "Listen up ye worthless maggots! I feed ye. I clothe ye. I give ye a place ta sleep. Without me, ye'd be dying on the sands. Freezin' at night, burnin' in the day. Ye'd think that ye sorry lot'd be a bit grateful, eh?"
Looking down at Sand, he spoke in a stage-whisper, "Yer grateful, right?" then he forced him to nod with the grip on his hair. "See that! Even a kid knows to be grateful. And ye? None of ye even said a thank you. Hurt me poor little heart." Turning to his side, he slapped the back of the Favour with his free hand, making him stagger and cough from the force of the blow. "Only this lad 'ere had the sense ta thank me. So 'e gets ta be in charge." Pointing to a pile of pickaxes, he said, "Take those and get ta the end of the tunnels. There's some ol' hands waiting ta show ye the ropes. Hand over whatever ye get by the end of the day ta the lad, he'll tell me how each of ye did and I'll decide who gets the whip and who gets the meat."
"As for ye," Kreg sneered down at Sand, "I wouldn't want ye ta hurt yer back again, now would I? So, ye get to carry whatever they mine to the cart. Aren't ye grateful now?"
Carrying the baskets laden with ore to the cart was the most strenuous part of the job and Sand had to do it in the place of all the other slaves.
"Thank you, Master Kreg," he replied, maintaining the nervous façade.
Kreg seemed to lose interest at his servile attitude and with a contemptuous snort, he released his grip on Sand's hair with a push, sending him sprawling on the ground. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away. After he was gone, the slaves went into a tizzy of discussion as Sand picked himself up and tamped down his hair. The orc had nearly pulled his hair out by the roots. Maybe he was jealous of his lush crop of hair when all he had was three limp strands.
It didn't take long for the slaves to get their pickaxes and make their way down the tunnel with the Favour taking the lead with Sand following behind them. At the end of the passage stood a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man leaning against the wall with a pickaxe resting on the ground beside him.
Noticing their approach, the man shouldered the implement and stepped forward to greet them. "Follow me." he ordered in a gravelly voice, leading them down a couple of corridors to a region where the mine tunnel widened out into a cavern. Several large baskets along with a wooden cart presented themselves to their view. "This here's your spot." Walking up to one of the walls, he pointed out a mineral vein that glinted under the flickering torchlight. "Find these veins in the rock then dig them out, like so –" he said as he unshouldered his pickaxe and in one practised movement, swung it down, embedding the piton deep into the rock. Then with a twist of the handle, he dug out a large chunk of the glinting, mineral-veined rock.
"Got it?" he asked. Noticing the unsure looks on their faces, he shook his head. "Alright, just try it out. I'll help you get the hang of it." As the rest of the slaves moved into position, the Favour walked up to the man and whispered something into his ear. Seeing that the man looked at him, Sand could approximately guess the contents.
Sure enough, on the grounds of his recent injury, he was forced to sit out while the man helped adjust the stance of the others. If he'd been a common slave, this method was sufficient to ruin his future. Without the knowledge of how to correctly mine ore, his output would be much lower than the others, resulting in repeated penalties. But now, his memories of the future insured him against such mishaps. He might have never held a pickaxe in his previous life but his combat experience meant that he knew just where to strike and how hard to eke out the maximum effect. The man departed after about an hour of instruction, leaving them to their devices.
"How long are you gonna keep slacking off?" asked the Favour, swaggering up to Sand. He was named Crooked after his nose, which hadn't set right after one of the orcs had punched him in the face.
Ignoring him, Sand silently walked up to one of the baskets that had been filled and bent down to lift it up, wincing as scabs on his back split at the exertion, causing blood to soak into his bandages. 'Since, I'm already exerting myself, I might as well start training my magic,' thought Sand as he staggered towards the cart, strenuously carrying the heavy basket full of ore.
Unnoticed by everyone present, every single pore on Sand's body shut tight, isolating the inside and the outside. The heat produced by his straining body began to accumulate, making each of his breaths scalding hot. The temperature of his body rose drastically, making his line of sight fuzzy as he was hit by a bout of dizziness. Yet his expression remained the same. No clenching of jaws, no bulging veins, no rapid breathing… just a mechanical uniformity in his strides, an unchanging countenance and steady breaths as he put each step before the other towards the cart, dumped the contents of the basket into it, returned to the miners, exchanged a full basket for the empty one, then walked back towards the cart. Again, and again and again… and again.
It wasn't the time for desperation. It wasn't the time to go all-out. It was just the beginning of his journey. The first step of many. It was the time for a firm heart, a still mind and perseverance.
The slaves had been deriving sadistic pleasure from watching him struggle. Some had even used this feeling as a motivation to work faster. The more ore they mined, the more baskets Sand would have to carry. That was the kind of thought driving them to work. And in fact, that was the purpose of the Fool's existence. They even taunted him when he came to pick up their basket.
Slowly but surely, they grew silent as they watched this child, aged no more than ten, work tirelessly without complaint. Shame welled up in their hearts and they turned away from that emaciated form, unable to keep watching any longer. Yet their ears couldn't help but pick up the sound of his steady footsteps no matter how loudly and vigorously they used their pickaxes. Each step seemed to tread upon their heart, guiding its rhythm.
The sound of metal against stone slowly faded away. What replaced it was the sound of a child's footsteps, each step deliberate, measured… as if it wasn't a basket of rocks he carried in his arms but the future of an entire race. Caught up in that mood, the slaves watched silently as one basket after another was emptied into the cart. A voice ascended in their hearts cheering the little figure on. They had an inexplicable feeling that they would gain something if the boy succeeded.
The final basket.
Sand's steps seemed heavier, more ponderous, yet just as steady as before. 'Do it.' 'Just a few more steps.' 'Don't stop now.' 'Come on.' The slaves silently encouraged him in their hearts. Just a few steps from the cart, Sand stepped on a loose rock and stumbled, the basket spilling out of his hands and scattering the ores everywhere. The hearts of the slaves dropped into the pits of their stomach. A desolate feeling welled up in their minds. Would it always be this way? Was there no hope?
Smiling sadly, they turned back to their tasks, the dark thoughts already creeping back. 'Damn that Fool, making me waste so much time.' 'It's all his fault.' 'What if they don't give me my ration because I didn't deliver enough ore?' 'Damn!' 'Bastard!' 'Idiot!' 'Fool.'
Face twisted with anger, just as a slave was going to swing his pickaxe –
*clack*
They all turned around at once. While they were busy cursing him, Sand had struggled to his feet. His expression was still that calm. His gaze was still that steady, as if staring at some goal deep into the future. In his hand was a stone – one of the pieces of ore that had rolled away.
Meticulously, he placed the stone back into that basket.
*clack*
It was like he wasn't handling a stone, but a human life. One after the other, until they had all been gathered back into the basket, he worked without cease, heedless of the blood that now flowed freely from his reopened wounds, soaking through the bandages and through his shirt. When the blood touched his heated skin, it evaporated, wreathing him in a light bloody mist. Bending down, he picked the basket up yet again. Then he began to walk the final three steps.
One step. Two steps. Three.
*crasshhh*
The moment he dumped the contents of the basket amidst the cheers of the slaves, an airwave proliferated from him, blowing away the bloody mist. He had broken through. Yet, there was no change in the expression on his face. Success, failure, it mattered not for his goal was still far away.
Chapter 5: Humanity
"There is only one path to power – Eat and grow strong!" - Khara, Rakshasa General
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Humans are creatures of perception. Sometimes all it takes to inspire them is watching someone they thought of as inferior to them struggle and overcome a hurdle they themselves failed at leaping. They think, 'If he can do it, I can too.' Even when that isn't necessarily true. But throughout the ages, it is these very humans who have created miracles. Based upon their tenacious faith, false has been turned into true.
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Sand watched helplessly as the other slaves bustled about doing his work for him. When he had decided to use the hard labour to break through into the initial stage of magic, he hadn't planned for his actions to affect the other slaves so profoundly. He hadn't planned to affect them at all. After all, in his tentative plans, the mine was only a short pit-stop in his journey to reclaim the power he had lost to the river of time.
But he had underestimated the influence watching a ten-year-old child silently, stubbornly complete his tasks despite his wounds and their taunts, would have on the slaves. A man could survive on only food and water but to live, he needed hope. And as a slave, hope was in very short supply. Sand had given it to them. They couldn't help but be affected. After he had deposited the last basket of rocks in the cart, successfully breaking through into the echelons of a Red Mage in the process, the slaves had forced him to rest and tend to his wounds while they deposited whatever ore they mined into the cart on their own.
Sand sighed inwardly. 'All I wanted was to seize the opportunity to stock up on some red mana. How am I supposed to do that if they do all my work for me?' Sitting on a rock in one corner of the cavern, Sand took his shirt off and unwrapped his bandages, placing them in a neat pile by the side. He didn't want them sticking to his reopened wounds as the blood clotted. Shaking his head in resignation, he turned his attention back to inspecting the condition of his body after his breakthrough.
'The amount of mana is a bit low. It's within expectations. I couldn't close all my pores in this inexperienced body… I'll have to work on it.'
The method of mana generation was quite simple. Every creature in the world followed the law of tenths. Whatever the creature ate, only about a tenth could be utilized by its body while the rest would be lost to the world as heat. Mages went against this natural law by preserving this energy, which would have otherwise been lost to the world, within their body. To do so, one had to perform strenuous exercise to generate heat and lock it within their body by shutting all of their pores. Once the heat went beyond a certain level, it would coalesce into another form of energy known as mana. Depending on the density of the mana, it would have different colours leading to the differentiation of a mage's stages.
The first stage of mana was red. Hence, mages at this realm were called Red Mages.
'The efficiency of conversion is around nine-tenths. A bit lower than I remember. I guess my talent isn't fully mature yet.'
The magical talent of a mage was measured by inspecting what fraction of the heat energy locked within their body they could transform into mana. Anyone with an efficiency of ninety percent or higher was considered to have top grade natural talent and expected to reach the level of a Violet Mage somewhere down the line. An efficiency of eighty percent or above was considered a highly talented individual with the prospect of reaching the level of a Blue Mage if they were diligent in their efforts.
A medium level of talent implied that the mage could convert over seventy percent of the heat to mana, demonstrating the potential to reach the level of a Green Mage. A low-level talent could hope to reach the level of a yellow mage in his or her lifetime but further progress was unlikely. They had around sixty percent conversion efficiency. Finally, anyone with above fifty percent efficiency was classified as barely talented and a Red Mage was their hard limit. Anyone with less than fifty percent efficiency wouldn't even be able to condense mana in the first place. Their path to magic severed even before they could begin walking down it.
Of course, there were skill shards that could improve the magical talent of a person but without exception, they were consumption class skills. This meant that once they were used, they would integrate with the physique of the owner and improve it, thereby getting consumed in the process. Such skill shards were extremely rare and precious and almost never appeared on the market. After all, who wouldn't mind a bit more natural talent and magical potential?
As for Sand, in his heyday he'd had an efficiency of over ninety-five percent. There was a reason he had been able to rise to the level of a Dungeon Mage despite the oppression of the orcs.
'But my mana is getting consumed to heal my wound. This way, I won't be able to increase my mana until I convalesce fully. Actually, this is good. I was worrying how I would hide my natural talent but if I use this wound well, I can give off the impression that I have a medium level talent. Even that will cause a commotion but there's nothing I can do about that.'
Having mana in one's body provided a mage with all kinds of benefits. Enhanced endurance and accelerated healing were the two most prominent effects. As long as a mage had mana, he or she would not tire. At least not bodily. Mental fatigue was still possible therefore mana didn't eschew the need for sleep. And as long as a mage had mana, any injuries they had would heal much faster. Both these abilities consumed mana and were automatic in nature, meaning that a mage couldn't just 'turn them off' as required. Therefore, mages took great care of their bodies, avoiding overworking themselves or any form of injury like the plague.
'Really, this body needs a lot of work.'
One more benefit that came with mana – well, not exactly a benefit but a feature – was the ability to sense one's own mana. Now, this was a lot more useful than it sounded at first. Mana permeated every corner of a mage's body. Sensing mana meant that that the mage had a panoramic awareness of his entire body. That allowed him to stay in the best possible shape and diagnose his own illnesses with extreme accuracy.
Sand couldn't help but frown as he found exactly how damaged his young body really was. The wounds on his back were merely the tip of the iceberg. The ten years of malnutrition and misery heaped on him since his birth had taken its toll on him, leaving deeply rooted imperfections that couldn't be resolved without some sort of healing skill or magical potion. But soon, his eyebrows stretched as he relaxed. It was a problem he had dealt with in his previous life. There was no reason he wouldn't be able to resolve it in this life as well. Especially with all the advantages he had.
Snapping out of his contemplations, he cast a glance at the slaves who were struggling to complete their quota. His mask of apathy cracked slightly as he watched their struggles. These men weren't important in the grand scheme of things. He'd never heard of a freedom fighter remotely related to anyone from the silver mines on the outskirts of Gehenna. Helping these men wouldn't advance his cause. In fact, if his performance was too striking, it might arouse the vigilance of Kreg. The best course of action would be to just ignore them.
'But I am the reason they are running behind schedule. If they didn't stand around idle, gawking at me lugging some rocks about, this wouldn't have happened. Anyway, if they overshoot the requirements, Kreg will allow us some meat. This body needs whatever extra nutrition it can get.'
Having justified his actions to himself, Sand wrapped the bandages around his wounds. The wisp of mana he'd managed to generate had already clotted the blood, getting consumed in the process. Donning his shirt, he stood up and went over to Crooked.
"Hey," he said, "Don't you think the work is going slowly?"
Turning around from his excavation of the ores, the sturdy man spoke in a surprised tone, "You can walk? How? It's only been what – an hour."
Sand waved his concerns away. "I'm fine. I've always recovered fast. Now, don't you think that the work is going quite slowly?"
Despite looking at him with suspicion, Crooked shrugged and answered, "Nothing I can do about it. That orc's target was impossible to reach anyway. The miser wasn't going to give us any meat."
"Well, I might have an idea as to how to reach that target," said Sand. "And it'll take less effort than now."
"Really?" asked Crooked, licking his lips in anticipation.
The team had been mining the ores individually, picking a spot and taking their pickaxes to the rock. But that way was quite inefficient. The veins of silver were distributed throughout the rocks unequally. A lot of the slaves were wasting their efforts by digging away at regions of quite low concentration. In the absence of unity, a hierarchy based on strength had formed were the strongest slaves worked where the mineral was richest. After all, their rations would be distributed on the basis of their individual contribution. Crooked had even been thinking of collecting some commission from them for reporting their contributions to Kreg accurately. But after Sand's performance, he'd given up that idea.
Now, under Sand's guidance, the team only mined the most mineral rich areas of the cavern and rotated the workers, allowing them to be well rested when their turn came again. That way, they managed to speed up the production process several fold. Therefore, when the middle-aged man who'd shown them the ropes finally came by to inspect their progress and dismiss them for the day, he was shocked to see the cart overflowing with ore.
"Well, that's quite the day's work," he commented before leading them to the front of Kreg.
The orc narrowed his beady eyes as he studied them before his eyes fell on Sand. Striding up to him, he grabbed his wrist in a crushing grip. Immediately, Sand felt a foreign mana invade him, and prod around his body for a while before retreating. Letting go with a jerk that nearly dislocated Sand's arm, Kreg addressed the slaves with a chuckle, "Looks like that Gura trained ye pretty well. Tell the cook that I said that ye did some good work today." He walked away, leaving a few words behind: "The lad decides who gets what. The runt can have the leftovers."
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That night, in the mine's mess, Sand observed the rest of the slaves being moved to tears at their first proper meal in ages. Looking down at his own bowl, his gaze grew profound. Gruel that threatened to brim over, several scraps of meat of indeterminate origin, some greens; his bowl had the largest amount of food, more than even Crooked's – a result of contributions from all the slaves. As he raised the bowl to his mouth and took the first sip, he came to a decision. 'If I get the chance, I'll come back and see them freed.'
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