Chapter 2: Chapter 2: The Boy Slave
the cart rattled and creaked as it went across uneven ground, the wood wheels catching in each rut and stone. Hadrian slumped to one side, his arms slack at his waist, wrists raw from the rough cord that bound them. The smell of sweat, dirt, and blood thickened the air and weighed heavily upon his senses. He wanted to close his eyes, shut it all out, but the jolts of the cart made rest impossible.
The other captives packed into the cart didn't look much better. Their faces were pale and hollow, their clothes little more than torn, sweat-soaked rags. Some stared blankly ahead, while others hunched over, clutching their knees as though trying to curl into themselves. Hadrian wondered if he looked the same. He probably did.
He shifted uncomfortably, his shoulder scraping against the rough wood. His dirty blonde curls stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his skin—tan from days spent in the sun before all this—was smudged with dirt. At four foot nine, he wasn't the shortest boy in the cart, but he felt small all the same. His frame was lean, his features delicate for a boy, though his Roman nose gave his face a sharpness that might've made him seem older. Not that it mattered now. None of it did.
Beside him, a boy about his age sat with his knees drawn up to his chest. He was small, smaller than Hadrian, with dark brown hair that hung in uneven strands around his face. His frame was wiry, almost skeletal, as though a strong wind might blow him away. The boy had been quiet for most of the ride, but now he shifted, turning to look at Hadrian with wide, curious eyes.
"You've got a bruise," the boy said, his voice barely audible over the creak of the cart. He pointed to Hadrian's cheek. "Right there. Big one."
Hadrian didn't respond. He turned his head.
he let his blue eyes drift toward the trees scattered along the long road. but The boy didn't seem to mind the lack of response. If anything, it encouraged him.
"I'm Leon," he said, leaning forward slightly. His bony knees jutted out awkwardly, and his bound hands rested on the wood between them. "Figured I'd introduce myself. Since, you know... we're probably all going to the same place."
Still, Hadrian said nothing.
Leon pressed on, undeterred. "I saw you earlier, back on the battlefield. You were standing, weren't you? I mean, before they got us. I saw you holding a sword. Were you fighting?"
Hadrian shot him a sideways glance. His grip tightened on the rope around his wrists, but he didn't speak.
"Not much of a talker, huh?" Leon said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That's okay. I talk enough for both of us. My mother always said I never knew when to shut up. Guess she was right."
"She also said I had to be strong," Leon added after a pause, his voice quieter. "For her. She didn't make it."
Hadrian's chest tightened, but he kept his eyes on the passing trees. He didn't want to hear this. He didn't want to feel anything for this boy or anyone else in the cart. he didnt want to get attached only for the boy to die, 'what a waste' Hadrian thought.
"Shut up," a voice growled from the back of the cart.
Both boys turned. A tall boy, he looked around the age of thirteen or fourteen, glared at them from his side of the wooden cart. He was lanky, his arms too long and skinny for his small body, his face was sharp, almost wolfish, with stringy black hair falling over his forehead.
"You think this is some kind of playground?" the older boy sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "No one wants to hear your life story, runt. Keep your mouth shut before I make you."
Leon drew back, his wide eyes darting to Hadrian. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Hadrian shifted, straightening up and sitting with tired eyes narrowed as he fixed the older boy with a glare.
"Why don't you shut the fuck up?" Hadrian said, his voice low but sharp enough to cut.
The older boy's sneer deepened. He leaned forward, his bony hands curling into fists. "What did you say to me?"
"You heard me," Hadrian said, his tone unwavering despite the pounding in his chest.
The bigger boy began to lunge, but before he'd gotten very far, the cart jerked violently and there came a loud crack. One of the orcs walking along beside them had driven the butt of his spear against the wooden frame. The vibration rattled through the cart and the captives fell silent.
"Quiet!" the orc barked, his guttural voice sending shivers down Hadrian's spine. His tusks jutted forward as he glared at the group, his yellowed eyes gleaming with irritation. "Make noise again, and I cut tongue."
No one dared move after that. The taller boy sat back, muttering something under his breath, and Leon shifted closer to Hadrian.
"Thanks," Leon whispered, his voice barely audible.
Hadrian didn't respond immediately. His mind was still reeling from the confrontation, his heart pounding in his chest. Finally, he sighed and muttered, "Don't thank me. Doesn't change anything."
"Maybe not," Leon said with a faint shrug. "But it's nice to know someone here isn't a complete asshole."
Either way, it was enough to make Hadrian feel a little less alone.
Hadrian looked at him.His face in spite of himself softened towards Leon. It was true that Leon's face was pale and hollow; but in the eyes there was a flicker of something--a stubbornness, or perhaps desperation.
He leaned back against the side of the cart, letting his head rest against the rough wood. "Don't get used to it," he muttered.
Leon gave a faint smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
The cart continued on its course. Except for the creak of the wood, the sparse guttural commands from the orcs, and the rattling iron, it was silent. Hadrian closed his eyes, allowing himself to slip into half-sleep, mesmerized by the steadiness of the wheel rhythms. Flickering behind his lids came memories-snippets of a battlefield, screaming faces, and a metallic taste. His fists knitted as a will to banish those visions rose but the ghostly figures seemed to cling...
Hours later, the cart lurched to a bone-jarring stop, and orcs began dragging the captives out one by one. Hadrian had stumbled as rough hands jerked him to his feet, threatening to buckle under his weight. Others were being herded into line around him, faces pale and hollow with exhaustion.
The camp sprawled before them, a tumbled maze of crude huts and jagged fences. Bones scattered the ground, and the stench of rot hung heavy in the air. Hadrian's stomach heaved as his gaze caught on the wooden stakes lining the perimeter, each sporting a rotting human head, flesh blackened and shriveled.
One of the orcs barked a command and shoved Hadrian forward with the blunt end of his spear. Hadrian stumbled but kept on, his eyes fixed on the ground. He didn't want to see any more. He didn't want to think about what lay ahead.
But the sounds of the camp—the laughter, jeers, cries—made it impossible to ignore.
The captives were herded into the center of the camp, a sprawling mess of crude huts and uneven fences that seemed thrown together without thought or care. The smell of rot and filth was stronger here, thick enough to make Hadrian gag. Flies buzzed around piles of refuse, and bones—human and animal alike—were scattered across the ground like discarded scraps.
Orcs lounged near fire pits, their guttural laughter filling the air as they watched the new arrivals with predatory grins. Many were smeared with paint or dried blood, their tusks glinting as they jeered and shouted to one another. Hadrian tried not to meet their eyes, but the weight of their stares pressed down on him all the same.
Ahead of him, Leon stumbled as the orc behind him gave him a rough shove. He caught himself just in time, his bound hands scraping against the dirt. Hadrian took a step forward, instinctively reaching out to steady him, but stopped when he saw the look on Leon's face. It wasn't fear, not exactly. It was the kind of quiet resignation that made Hadrian's chest tighten.
"This way!" one of the orcs barked, jabbing the blunt end of his spear toward a crude platform in the center of the camp. The captives were forced forward in a shuffling line, their heads bowed and their eyes darting nervously from side to side.
The platform was raised just enough to give the orcs a good view of their new slaves. A particularly large orc stood at the top, his tusks stained red and his chest crisscrossed with scars. He surveyed the line of captives with a sneer, his beady eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
The adult men were separated first. Some were dragged toward the far end of the camp, where the labor pits lay waiting. Others were shoved toward a circular arena surrounded by wooden stakes and jeering orcs. The word Kargashuk echoed through the crowd, accompanied by harsh laughter and guttural chants.
Hadrian's stomach turned as he watched the men disappear into the pit. He didn't know what Kargashuk meant, but the bloodstains on the dirt floor told him enough.
When it came to the boys, the process was quicker, almost careless. The orcs barked orders, pointing and shouting as they divided the group. Half of them, including Leon, were led toward a large hut on the edge of the camp. The other half, Hadrian included, were shoved toward the arena.
Leon hesitated as he was pulled away, his wide eyes darting to Hadrian. "What's happening?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "Where are they taking us?"
Hadrian didn't have an answer. He shook his head, his throat tight as he forced the words out. "Stay strong. Don't let them see you're scared."
Leon nodded, his jaw tightening as he straightened his back. "You too."
It was the last thing he said before disappearing into the crowd, his small frame swallowed by the sea of orcs.
Hadrian's group was forced to the edge of the arena. The closer they got, the stronger the smell of blood became. It clung to the air, mixing with the sour stench of sweat and filth. Hadrian's legs felt like lead as he stumbled forward, his mind racing. He tried to focus, to think of a way out, but every path he imagined ended the same way—with him dead in the dirt.
The arena itself was a crude pit dug into the ground, its edges lined with jagged stakes. Blood stained the dirt floor, the dark patches still wet in places. A low murmur rose from the crowd of orcs gathered around the edge, their anticipation palpable as they leaned forward, eager for the spectacle to begin.
One of the orcs, a towering brute with a scarred face and a chipped tusk, stepped forward. He barked a command, his voice booming over the noise of the crowd. Another orc translated in halting human speech.
"You fight," the orc said, his lips curling into a grin. "Fight or die."
Hadrian's stomach lurched. The words hung in the air like a death sentence, their finality pressing down on him. He looked around, hoping for some kind of reprieve, but the other boys looked just as terrified as he felt. Some were trembling, their bound hands clutching at each other like frightened animals. Others stared blankly ahead, their faces pale and hollow.
The scarred orc grabbed Hadrian by the arm, his grip like iron as he shoved him toward the edge of the pit. "No run. No hide. Fight."
Hadrian's feet scraped against the dirt as he stumbled forward, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst. He caught himself just before he fell, his hands trembling as he looked down into the pit.
A man stood in the center, his clothes torn and his body covered in bruises. He was older—maybe thirty, maybe more—and his eyes were hollow, like all the life had been drained from him. But there was something else there too, something cold and sharp. A grim determination that made Hadrian's blood run cold.
The man wasn't just waiting. He was ready.
Hadrian's breath caught as the crowd roared, the sound deafening. His vision blurred at the edges, his pulse thundering in his ears. He wanted to run, to turn and claw his way out of the pit, but his legs wouldn't move. He was frozen, caught between terror and the awful weight of inevitability.
And then it happened.
A low hum filled his ears, drowning out the noise of the crowd. It wasn't a sound, not really. It was something deeper, something that resonated in his bones. Words appeared in the corner of his vision, sharp and bright, burning like fire.
Mission: Survive. Reward: [System Activation].
Hadrian blinked, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. The words didn't make sense. They shouldn't have been there. But they were. They hung in his vision, impossible to ignore, their presence both alien and strangely familiar.
The man in the pit moved, and instinct took over. Hadrian barely had time to raise his arms as the man lunged, his movements quick despite his injuries. The world seemed to slow as Hadrian stepped back, his heart hammering in his chest.
"Fight," the orc growled from above, his voice cutting through the haze. "Or die."
Hadrian's fists clenched, the rope around his wrists digging into his skin. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to die. But in that moment, with the man's hollow eyes locked on him and the crowd's jeers ringing in his ears, he realized he didn't have a choice.
CREATORS' THOUGHTS 
sean_sheri
sean_sheri yeh the bad shit happens in chapter 3
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone