Time in the Pit had no name. No morning, no evening—only the creak of chains when the guards changed shifts, the sharp crack of the whip against stone, and that thick silence that settled between pickaxe strikes. Marc had stopped counting after the ninth awakening. The days had blurred into a single gray mass, punctuated by the gong that echoed through the tunnels like a muffled death knell. He no longer knew if it was dawn or dusk—here, the light of the lamps never changed.

  His body, though, had learned. The first nights, he had jolted awake. Now, he slept the heavy sleep of a beast of burden, rising before the gong, his muscles already tensed for the labor ahead.

  The Ash-Bread no longer turned his stomach. He chewed it slowly, feeling the gritty texture dissolve on his tongue, leaving that taste of earth and oxidized copper. The brackish water, drawn from the deepest wells, slid down his throat without him needing to force it. He had noticed that the other slaves drank in small sips, as if afraid the liquid might be torn from them. He, though, drained his ration in one go. That’s how you adapt, he thought, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. You swallow what you’re given, and you wait for the body to follow.

  The guards didn’t speak to him. They didn’t speak to anyone. Their orders were reduced to grunts, blows from their batons, or that sharp whistle that meant faster. Marc had learned to recognize them not by their faces—barely discernible in the darkness—but by their habits.

  The one with the scar across his left hand always struck twice, never three times. The one who limped always lagged behind the group, as if hoping a slave would stumble to justify punishment. Another, the youngest, clenched his fists before raising his whip, as if he needed to gather courage. Marc noted these details without emotion, as he would spot the weaknesses of an opponent in hand-to-hand combat. Know the enemy. Even when the enemy is just an anonymous guard in an endless corridor.

  As for the tunnels, he knew them now. Some were wide, cut to allow mineral carts to pass. Others were nothing but narrow crawlspaces, where one had to advance bent over, shoulders scraped raw by the rock. There were the guarded galleries—those where the guards stood at regular intervals, their silhouettes outlined in the bluish glow of the lamps—and the abandoned sections, where dust accumulated in gray dunes and the air smelled of mildew and rusted iron.

  He had also learned to distinguish the other prisoners. Not by their names—no one introduced themselves in the Pit—but by their bodies. The one who coughed at night, a raw, wet sound that echoed. The woman with deformed fingers, her joints cracking with every movement. The young one, too thin, who trembled every time a guard approached, his eyes shining with animal fear.

  And then there were the others, those who showed nothing. Those, Marc watched with particular attention. Because on a battlefield, as in a mine, the most dangerous were never the ones who screamed.

  He had positioned himself in the middle of the line. Not at the front, where the guards struck to set an example, nor at the back, where the stragglers were crushed by the crowd. He walked at a steady pace, shoulders slightly hunched to appear less imposing, hands gripping the handle of his pickaxe as if it were a weapon. Because it is one, he reminded himself each time the tip sank into the wall with a dull clang.

  Everything is a weapon.

  It was an accident.

  On the sixteenth day—or perhaps the seventeenth, Marc had stopped counting—a cave-in blocked the secondary tunnel. A low rumble, like the growl of a sleeping beast, then a cloud of reddish dust that filled the lungs of the nearest slaves.

  When visibility returned, part of the ceiling had collapsed, blocking the passage three meters wide.

  The guards cursed, striking the walls with their batons, while the slaves backed away, coughing, eyes squinted against the suspended particles.

  — Clear this, one of them barked, his voice echoing under his leather helmet. And fast, or it’s the whip for everyone.

  No one moved. Eyes slid from the pile of stones to the guards, then to the ground. Marc felt the tension rise, thick as dust. He knew this hesitation. The kind that precedes panic.

  He stepped forward.

  Not quickly. Not as if volunteering. Just one step, then two, until he stood before the cave-in, his boots crushing the smaller rubble. He leaned his pick against the wall, then, without a word, grabbed the first block within reach.

  It was an angular stone, the size of his head, streaked with red ore veins.

  He lifted the block... and realized his mistake. On Earth, this stone would have been heavy. Here, it was too light for him. His body, forged in stronger gravity, had exerted excessive force, like a blow struck in a vacuum. The muscles in his back hadn’t even strained.

  For those from here, it was different. Their muscles, adapted to Akheros’ low gravity, would have struggled to lift it even with two men. But Marc wasn’t from here. His bones, tendons, and muscle fibers had been shaped differently. And when he straightened his arms, the stone left the ground as if it were nothing but a child’s toy.

  Silence.

  Then a sharp clack as he tossed it aside.

  The guards froze. The slaves did too. Even the lamps seemed to flicker, as if the air itself held its breath.

  Marc didn’t look at them. He bent down, grabbed a second block, then a third. Each movement was calculated, precise, without apparent effort. Don’t show sweat. Don’t show strength. Just do the work.

  But it was too late. They had seen.

  When the passage was cleared, no one said anything. No thanks. No whip either. Just that tense silence, like after a duel where the victor spares his opponent out of contempt rather than mercy.

  Marc returned to his place in line, his hands covered in fine red dust. He could feel their stares burning into his back.

  Marc rubbed his hands together, feeling the grains embed themselves in the micro-cuts on his knuckles. He hadn’t bled. Not yet. But he knew it would come. Always.

  Davorin approached without a word, his shadow stretching across the compacted ground like an ink stain.

  The overseer carried no weapon—he didn’t need one. His whip—Skarl—hung carelessly from his belt, but it was his silence that weighed the most. A man who speaks little has already said everything.

  — You lift like a rutting Grath, he finally growled, his voice rough as poorly greased leather. Not like a man.

  Marc didn’t look up. He continued massaging his phalanges, feigning a weariness he didn’t feel.

  — Here, Davorin continued, leaning in slightly, you gain nothing by helping others.

  A sideways glance. The other slaves, lined up like poorly stored tools, listened without moving. Their eyes gleamed in the dimness, attentive. They know. They all saw.

  — You think they want strength? Davorin sneered, a dry sound like the crack of a whip. No. They want obedience. A Karsak who lifts too much is a Karsak who dies too soon.

  He straightened, crossing his arms. The low light emphasized the raised scars on his forearms—old and sharp, like grooves carved into hard wood.

  — Tomorrow, you’ll carry what a man carries. Not a stone more. You’ll walk as a man walks. Not a step more. You’ll sweat as a man sweats. Not a drop more. Understood?

  Marc nodded slowly.

  — Good, Davorin murmured. Because if you do it again, it won’t be me who corrects you.

  A silence. Then, lower, almost a whisper:

  — It’ll be the Ludus.

  The word resonated like a hammer strike on an anvil. Marc knew the term. He had heard the murmurs, the stifled laughter when the guards spoke of "new recruits" for the arena.

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  The Ludus. The place you didn’t leave. Where you became spectacle. Where the Law of Iron boiled down to a single rule: kill before you die.

  He clenched his fists, just enough for his knuckles to whiten beneath the dust.

  It might be the only solution.

  The next day, Marc matched his pace to Varg’s, the gray-bearded Terrak who always dragged his feet as if he had anvils chained to his ankles. One step. Two steps. Breathe. He bent his knees while lifting, feigned a tremor in his arms as he set the blocks of Skalvorn on the workbench. The stone groaned under the weight, and he let out a stifled grunt, just loud enough for the guards to hear.

  No one looked at him. No one struck him either. Good sign.

  That’s when he saw him.

  The new one.

  He was crouched near the eastern wall, where the shadows of the pillars stretched like skeletal fingers. Too thin. Too pale. His hands—Marc noticed them immediately—were smooth, without calluses, without scars. Hands that had never held anything but a bowl or a light pickaxe.

  The adolescent—sixteen at most—was trying to lift a block of Sidakh-Gra, a black-blue ore veined with silver threads. His arms trembled. His shoulders, too narrow for this kind of work, hunched under the effort like broken wings. The vein in his neck pulsed, visible even from three meters away.

  — One... two...

  Marc heard the muffled count. The boy gritted his teeth, lips pulled back over pale gums. He panted in gasps, like a wounded animal. Panic breathing. He’ll exhaust himself before noon.

  A guard approached, his Skarl hanging from his belt like a sleeping serpent. He watched the new one with a crooked smile, the kind of grin that always preceded unnecessary blows.

  — Well, little one? he said. Are you dancing with the stone, or carrying it?

  The boy didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His arms were shaking now, fingers slipping on the sharp edges of the ore. A drop of sweat trickled down his temple, carving a path through the red dust stuck to his skin.

  The guard raised his whip.

  Marc moved before he could think.

  He bent down, grabbed a stone block—not too heavy, not too light—and headed toward the central workbench. As he passed the new one, he dropped his burden with an exaggerated grunt, just enough for the stone to graze the guard’s foot.

  Marc cursed.

  The guard turned his head, annoyed. The whip fell limp.

  Marc murmured in the broken Korp he had picked up:

  — Breathe... nose. Not mouth. Legs... He pointed to his thighs, then his back. — Not back.

  The boy blinked, perplexed. Then he nodded slowly, as if he had grasped the idea despite the broken words.

  The guard grunted, kicked Marc’s block.

  — Move your ass, Karsak. Or I’ll have you fitted with a lead collar.

  Marc obeyed. But as he walked away, he felt the new one’s gaze burning into his shoulder. A thanks. Or a curse.

  He didn’t turn around.

  The days blurred together, identical yet different. The Pit knew no rhythm of seasons, only the beat of hammer strikes and stifled gasps. Each morning, Marc woke with the same stiffness in his shoulders, the same taste of dust and metal on his tongue. But something had changed: the new one, Soren, was still standing.

  He no longer collapsed after two hours. His arms, once trembling like branches in the wind, had begun to find their rhythm. His fingers, once blistered and raw, had hardened into rough calluses. He still breathed in ragged bursts, but his inhalations were no longer the desperate wheezes that made guards turn their heads. Now, he exhaled through his teeth, as if counting blows to keep from losing track.

  Marc did nothing overt. A poorly balanced block that he steadied with a shoulder as he passed. A waterskin left just a little too close to Soren’s parched lips before a guard snatched it away. A tool he "forgot" to put away, left within the boy’s reach when he needed to saw through a stubborn stone. Nothing that would draw attention. Nothing that could justify punishment. Just enough to keep Soren on his feet.

  The guards saw nothing. Or rather, they saw what they wanted to see: one Karsak working, another adapting. No one noticed the micro-gestures, the fleeting glances, the synchronized breaths. No one, except Davorin.

  The old Karsak watched from his corner, his eyes half-lidded beneath his graying brows. He said nothing. He didn’t move. But Marc felt his gaze, heavy as a stone placed on a scale. Not a look of disapproval. The look of a man who weighs, who calculates, who searches for the blind spot in an equation he doesn’t yet understand.

  And then there were the nights.

  When the oil lamps finally guttered out, when the guards’ mutterings dissolved into drunken sleep, Marc could hear Soren’s breathing. Steadier now. Less panicked. Sometimes, a muffled murmur, as if the boy were dreaming aloud. Marc didn’t turn around.

  He stared at the rock ceiling, listening to the silence that wasn’t one.

  It was the fifth night.

  Marc sat with his back against the damp wall, his muscles aching from a day of lifting blocks. Black stone still clung to his palms, leaving gray streaks where sweat had dried. He absently massaged his left forearm, where a scrape was beginning to fester. The smell of pus mingled with the softer scent of the bandages wrapped around it.

  Davorin sat across from him without a sound. Just the whisper of his tunic against the stone. He moved with the fluidity of the old, who know where to place each joint to avoid waking old pains. He held out a waterskin to Marc.

  — Drink.

  Marc took it, drank a swallow. The water was tepid, laced with the bitterness that reminded him of the wells in Djibouti. He returned the skin without a word.

  Davorin waited. The dying lamps’ shadows danced across his hollowed face, carving his cheeks as if someone had sculpted his skull from the inside. Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, gravelly, as if each syllable had to push through layers of accumulated dust.

  — The boy.

  It wasn’t a question. Not really.

  Marc shrugged. The motion made the chains around his wrists creak.

  — He would’ve died otherwise.

  — Many die.

  Davorin didn’t seem to be looking for an answer. Just confirmation. His eyes, dull gray in the flickering light, fixed on Marc as if trying to pierce invisible armor.

  — You can’t carry them all, Terran.

  Marc felt the weight of the old man’s gaze. There was no judgment in it. No pity. Just that cold, clinical curiosity, like a blacksmith examining a blade that refused to break.

  — I’m not carrying everyone, he said at last. Just the ones I can.

  Silence. Davorin drank in turn, slowly, as if measuring each drop.

  — You’re strange.

  It wasn’t a compliment. Not an insult, either. Just an observation, as neutral as saying "the stone is hard" or "iron rusts."

  — Here, men like you don’t end well.

  Marc almost smiled. A grimace, really. His cracked lips bled slightly from the movement.

  — Maybe.

  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a reddish streak on his dust-grayed skin.

  — But I sleep better this way.

  Davorin didn’t answer right away. He studied Marc for a long moment, as if searching for a flaw in his armor or a crack in his skull. Then he nodded, once, sharply.

  — You’ll understand eventually, he murmured. Or you’ll die trying.

  He stood, as silently as he had sat, and vanished into the darkness of the secondary tunnels. Marc remained still for a moment, listening to the sound of his footsteps fade.

  Somewhere in the dark, Soren coughed.

  Marc closed his eyes.

  He knew Davorin was right.

  But for now, it didn’t matter.

  The heat from the depths rose in waves, thick and clinging, laden with the sour sweat of broken men.

  Marc had learned to ignore it, the way one grows accustomed to the ache of an old wound—it’s always there, but you stop noticing it, except when a sudden movement jolts it back to life.

  That night, it was a gaze.

  He didn’t hear him approach. The Pit’s guards moved heavily, their studded boots ringing against the stone slabs worn smooth by centuries of dragging chains.

  This one didn’t.

  His steps were those of a man who knew silence, who had practiced it as a weapon. A whisper of leather against rock, the barely audible scrape of a Tulwar against a thigh, and then nothing. Just presence.

  Marc lifted his head.

  The Vektor stood three paces away, motionless as an iron statue.

  He wasn’t there to oversee the work—the Karsaks were already bent under the weight of mineral sacks, their straining muscles glistening in the flickering lamplight.

  No, this one was observing. Evaluating.

  He was older than the other guards, those who barked orders and lashed out with their Skarls, reveling in the petty cruelty of men drunk on fleeting power.

  This one had moved beyond that. Forty years, perhaps more, with the massive build of a man who had survived enough battles for his body to be nothing but scars and hard muscle.

  One eye was missing, replaced by a whitish mass of scar tissue, streaked with fine gray veins that snaked like metal threads beneath the skin. The other eye, pale blue and almost translucent, gleamed with cold, calculating light. His arms, bare despite the chill of the galleries, bore the marks of advanced Hematosis—those gray-blue streaks running along his veins, as if his blood had begun turning to metal.

  His silver insignia—a stylized Tulwar, its lines sharp and clean—glinted faintly in the lamplight, pinned to the right shoulder of his black leather tunic.

  Not an ordinary guard, then. Not just another Pit overseer.

  This one came from elsewhere. From the upper levels, perhaps even the Terraces. A man who had the right to descend here whenever he pleased, answerable to no one.

  He said nothing. He didn’t need to. His silence was a weapon in itself, more effective than the Skarl hanging from his belt.

  Marc felt the weight of that gaze like a blade resting against his collarbone. He didn’t lower his eyes. He didn’t look away. He met that pale blue stare, cold, and waited.

  A smile briefly split the weathered man’s face, so quick Marc thought he might have imagined it. A crack in the stone, nothing more.

  Then the Vektor turned his gaze away, as if Marc were no longer worth his attention, and continued his rounds between the rows of Karsaks, pausing here and there to observe a hunched back, a trembling hand, a glance that might lift.

  When he was far enough away, Marc exhaled slowly. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

  Behind him, Soren coughed, a raw, wet sound that echoed in the relative silence of the gallery. No one spoke. No one moved. But Marc knew, without needing to turn around, that they had all seen.

  Two days later, the one-eyed Vektor returned.

  This time, he didn’t just observe. He stopped in front of Marc, arms crossed, the Tulwar at his belt gleaming like a silent threat. The other Karsaks instinctively stepped back, leaving an empty circle around them. Even the guards retreated a pace, as if the air around this man carried a tension they didn’t want to confront.

  — You.

  His voice was rough, worn. A single word.

  An order. Not a question.

  Marc straightened slowly, his muscles aching from hours of loading mineral sacks.

  He didn’t salute. He didn’t bow. He waited.

  — You start tomorrow, the Vektor said. At dawn. Level one.

  He turned and walked away, leaving Marc alone with the burning stares of the other Karsaks on his back like a brand.

  Somewhere in the shadows, Davorin coughed. Once. Sharp.