The man raised his hand and examined his palm. Blood seeped through his fingers in thin red threads. The silvery fibres of silkweed had left their mark—dozens of microscopic cuts that burnt as though someone had drawn a red-hot blade across his skin. Each movement of his fingers brought a fresh wave of pain.

  New wounds lay atop old scars and half-healed cuts left by previous harvests. The pain was dull, ingrained—the kind that ate into skin and bone, never allowing him to forget it for a second.

  A curse tore through his teeth.

  He crouched beside the woven basket, rummaged inside and pulled out a piece of cloth—once white, now brown with ingrained blood and grey with dust. He unfolded it, clamped the edge between his teeth and tried to wrap his left palm. The cloth slipped, slid down. Blood immediately soaked the material, turning it into a sticky, useless rag.

  "To hell with it." He muttered, dumped the cloth on the ground and tried again.

  The second attempt came out slightly better. The bandage lay tighter, held. Bandaging his right hand proved harder—he had to work with the fingers of his left, which didn't obey particularly well. The cloth slipped, unwound, tangled. The man snarled, clamped the knot in his teeth and jerked. It came out crooked, but held.

  His neighbour watched silently, making no attempt to help. He stood with his hands braced on his knees, observing with such an indifferent expression on his face, as though watching a scene to which he bore no relation whatsoever. Nothing could be read in his eyes—only complete emptiness, burnt out by long months of plantation labour. That very emptiness when a person ceases to be human and becomes a mechanism for harvesting crops.

  "Thanks for the help, mate!" The wounded man sneered, twisting his lips in the semblance of a smirk.

  And was immediately punished for his chatter. The sound of a whip slicing air cut through his brain before the pain reached his body. That whistle—dry, lashing, treacherously familiar—already lodged somewhere in his subconscious, in that part of consciousness that reacted to danger faster than thought.

  The blow crashed down on his back, traced a fiery stripe across his shoulder blades. The pain was double—not only physical, searing, spreading through his body in a wave, but moral too. Pain not so much from humiliation as from his own helplessness, from the striker's impunity, from the impossibility of answering back, of hitting back, of even swearing aloud.

  "What's this, Jackie?" The overseer's voice rang with mockery, drawing out each syllable, savouring the moment. He stepped closer, the whip dangling casually in his hand like a living snake ready to strike again at any moment. "Seems you've got strength left for talking? For witty remarks? Well then, you can manage another row! Show us what a worker you are."

  The smirking overseer was clearly enjoying the moment, his gaze boring into the man with unhealthy interest, awaiting a reaction. He wanted to see rebellion, a flash of anger—anything that would give cause for another blow, another lesson.

  And what could Jackie do in response? What could he do when the entire system interface was completely blocked by the cursed slave collar sitting as a heavy band round his neck? Abilities couldn't be activated, skills couldn't be checked, not even basic health information could be accessed. All that remained was to grind his teeth, clenching them so tightly his jaw began to ache, holding back the oaths tearing to get out. Words stuck in a lump in his throat, scratching from within, but he didn't let them escape. Only nodded silently, lowering his gaze. Submission—the only thing required of him.

  Tonight he'd have to find a way to kill himself. This was the only bright thought amongst the dark ones spinning in the man's head as he began harvesting the new row. Find something sharp in the barracks, cut his veins or simply not breathe long enough—though that was harder than it seemed.

  The main thing was to resurrect at the reincarnation stele with healthy hands, without these ragged wounds, without pain in every finger. That's all the man thought about as he bent over the next silkweed bush, gathering the silvery threads on overtime. His hands trembled, his fingers barely obeyed, and the sharp fibres cut his skin again and again, adding new cuts to the old ones.

  True, afterwards he'd have to endure three days' starvation. But even that seemed better than continuing to exist in this body, sliced to the bone, groaning through clenched teeth from pain at every slightest movement of his fingers, feeling how his hands shook from exhaustion and tearing agony when he had to reach for another handful of threads.

  Memory struck sharper than the overseer's whip.

  His first day on the plantation would have faded long ago, were it not for that cursed post in the middle of the yard. Wooden, old, soaked with the blood of previous "newcomers". Elren remembered how they'd tied him to it—roughly, without ceremony, tightening the ropes so that his wrists immediately went numb. They tore off his shirt, leaving his back bare.

  "Well then, Jackie?" The overseer walked before him, twirling his whip. "Let's see how long you last."

  Elren hadn't understood then that this wasn't execution. Execution would have been mercy—quick, clean. This was a performance. Entertainment for the shift resting after the working day. About ten men gathered round the post, passing a bottle of murky liquid between them, laughing, placing bets.

  The first blow tore the air from his lungs. The second made him clench his teeth. By the tenth, Elren stopped counting—the pain merged into a solid hum pulsing in time with the blows. His back burnt, skin split, blood ran down his lower back. The ropes dug into his wrists, holding a body that jerked forward reflexively with each new strike.

  The overseers changed shifts. One tired—another took over. The whips changed too. Sometimes something heavier bit into flesh, leaving not simply cuts but ragged wounds.

  "One hundred!" Someone shouted the number, and approving guffaws rang out all round.

  Elren remained silent. Didn't scream. Didn't beg. He bit his lips till they bled, refusing to give them the pleasure of hearing even a sound. Thoughts scattered, consciousness swam, but stubbornness kept him afloat. That very stubbornness for which they hadn't promoted him in Arma Concordia. That very quality that wouldn't let him break beneath their laughter and whips.

  "Two hundred!"

  The laughter grew louder. Someone clapped another on the shoulder, shouting something about bets. The bottle emptied, a second appeared.

  "Three hundred!"

  This cry sounded rapturous, almost reverent. The blows ceased. The ropes were untied, and his body crashed to the ground, unable to stay on its feet. The earth was cold, rough, but felt like salvation. Elren lay trying to breathe through the waves of pain rolling over him one after another.

  The overseers stood above him, their voices reaching him from somewhere above, distorted, as though through a thickness of water.

  "Bloody hell, he lasted to three hundred!"

  "I said so! Said this one was tough!"

  Then came darkness—calm, enveloping, carrying him away from the pain.

  He came to at the stele in the barracks. Light from the stone was soft, almost soothing. His body was whole—his back didn't burn, his hands obeyed. But the collar remained. The heavy band sat on his neck, reminding him of itself with every turn of his head.

  Elren seized it with both hands, jerked. The metal didn't yield. He tried to find a lock, a clasp—anything. Nothing. A smooth surface, without a single seam.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  An attempt to open the menu or summon the interface resulted in text before his eyes.

  [Remove the chain of punishment or atone for your guilt.]

  "How the hell do I remove it if..." The man jerked the collar again, then once more, with greater force. The skin on his neck chafed, but the metal didn't shift a millimetre.

  [Remove the chain of punishment or atone for your guilt.]

  The barracks door burst open. Two overseers entered, talking between themselves.

  "Look, he's come round already." One jabbed a finger towards Elren.

  The second burst out laughing, extended his hand.

  "Give me my money. Told you—he'd start trying to remove it!"

  The first muttered something indistinct, dug in his pocket and counted out several coins. Tossed them to his companion, who caught them mid-air and clinked them in his palm, satisfied.

  "A bet's a bet, mate."

  They didn't even look at Elren; to them he was like an insect underfoot.

  He planned his escape for three days. Sought out weak spots in the fence, memorised when the overseers changed shifts, where they turned their heads, which of them was too lazy to patrol the plantation's far corners. The man gathered this information piecemeal whilst his hands were cut by silkweed again, whilst his back burnt under the sun, whilst each evening he collapsed on the bunks without strength.

  He told none of the other slaves. Why bother? Around him were only empty shells that mechanically gathered the harvest, chewed their slop and fell asleep. Some muttered to themselves in their sleep, some wept quietly in corners. But most simply existed—silently, indifferently, as though they'd long since died but their bodies and minds didn't know it.

  Elren tried to speak with one of them when they sat in the barracks after supper. A lad about twenty-five stared at the wall, unblinking.

  "Listen, haven't you thought about getting out of here?"

  The lad didn't even turn his head. His gaze remained fixed on the wooden board, as though all the world's wisdom were written there.

  "Hey, I'm talking to you!"

  No reaction. His lips barely moved, but there was no sound. Elren waved his hand and turned away. Useless.

  The other slaves behaved the same way. One nodded at everything, the second simply shook his head, the third pretended not to hear. No one wanted to help, no one cared. Each stewed in his own hell, and others' problems didn't concern them.

  The first attempt failed that very evening when the man tried to dig under the fence. There was no spade; he dug with bare hands. The earth yielded poorly, his nails broke, his fingers bled. An overseer spotted him almost immediately—evidently one of the slaves had informed. The punishment was swift and brutal: twenty lashes with a whip right in the yard, in front of everyone. The rest didn't even watch. They continued sitting, faces buried in their bowls of food or in the emptiness before them.

  The second attempt was cleverer. The man waited until the shift ended and one of the overseers headed towards the storehouses. He slipped after him, keeping to the shadows, until the overseer disappeared round the corner of a building. Then Elren bolted in the opposite direction, towards the plantation's edge, where the fence was lower and the undergrowth thicker.

  His heart pounded so hard it seemed about to burst from his chest. His hands trembled, but he forced himself to move faster, to clamber over the low fence, ignoring the scratches and cuts. His legs carried him forward, away from this cursed place, from the whips, from the empty stares, from the pain.

  The grass thickets swallowed him almost instantly. Tall stalks blocked the view, gave at least some semblance of cover. Elren ducked, crawled further, trying not to make noise. His breathing escaped in jerks, but he forced himself to breathe quieter, slower. Just a bit more. Just a little longer.

  The siren wailed so suddenly he flinched with his whole body.

  The sound was piercing, cutting to the ears, carrying over the entire plantation. Elren froze, pressing himself to the ground, his heart plummeting. They knew. How the hell did they know?

  The collar. The thought came belatedly, when it was already too late. That cursed collar tracked his every step.

  The overseers' voices reached him from somewhere to the left, then from the right. They were coming from both sides, surrounding him. Elren tried to crawl deeper into the thickets, but the grass rustled beneath his weight, giving him away.

  "Over there! The marker points there!"

  Footsteps quickened. Boots trampled grass, breaking stalks. Elren jerked forward, but a hand seized him by the collar, pulled him back. He tried to break free, but a second overseer kicked him in the ribs, and the air flew from his lungs.

  "Well then, Jackie?" The voice was mocking, satisfied. "Thought you'd escape?"

  Hope left Elren somewhere between his hundredth flogging and his thousandth cut on his palms. Perhaps earlier—when he realised the collar tracked his every movement. Or later—when he understood that the other slaves had become walking corpses long before he'd arrived here.

  Nearly six months. One hundred and seventy days gathering silvery threads that cut skin to the bone. One hundred and seventy nights in barracks that reeked of sweat, blood and despair. One hundred and seventy mornings when he didn't want to wake.

  Elren stopped planning escapes. Stopped seeking weak spots in the fence. Simply worked—mechanically, dully, like the empty shells around him. His hands moved on their own, gathered silkweed, laid it in the basket. His brain switched off, stopped thinking. It was easier that way.

  Simpler.

  Until he appeared.

  They brought the kaldrun on an enormous cart, shackled with chains as thick as a grown man's arm. Four metres of pure muscle and stone, with skin the colour of granite and eyes that glowed dull red. Elren had seen kaldruns before, but only in holofilms and online. In the flesh they made a completely different impression—as though a mountain had decided to rise and walk.

  Gromhar. That was his name. The overseers bellowed it when trying to force him to climb down from the cart. He was in no hurry. He looked down at them from above with such an expression on his face, as though ants crawled before him that he could crush with one movement of his foot.

  The chains clinked when he finally jumped down. The earth beneath his feet subsided.

  "You'll be working over there!" The head overseer jabbed his cane towards the far corner of the plantation, there where they were planning to plant new silkweed bushes. They'd brought the giant to plough the earth.

  Gromhar remained silent. Simply walked, dragging chains behind him that scraped the ground, leaving furrows.

  An elf appeared behind—thin, pale, with such empty eyes it made one uneasy. He didn't speak, didn't threaten. Simply rode on a deer beside the kaldrun, hand on his belt where, besides the standard whip, hung some artefact. When Gromhar slowed his pace, the elf touched the stone with his fingers, and the giant flinched with his whole body, clenching his jaw.

  Elren understood immediately—without this elf, no chains could hold the kaldrun.

  They spoke on the third day.

  Gromhar worked silently, but in his movements could be read stubbornness that Elren recognised instantly. The same stubbornness that wouldn't let him break in the first days. The same stubbornness that made him argue with generals and commanders, even knowing it would end badly.

  "You're not like them." Gromhar spoke without preamble when they ended up side by side at supper.

  Elren raised his head, met the red gaze.

  "They're dead. You're not yet."

  "The difference isn't great."

  "It is." Gromhar tossed the slop into his mouth along with the clay bowl. "The dead don't get angry. You get angry."

  They became friends quickly—two stubborn souls in a sea of submissive shadows. Gromhar told of his escape attempts, Elren of his own. Neither had achieved results.

  "But I won't give up." Gromhar spoke this so confidently, as though stating the sun would rise. "I'll find a way."

  Yesterday he'd found one.

  "Someone made contact with me." Gromhar leant closer, lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Some lads. They're planning an attack on the plantation in five days."

  Elren froze, his fingers gripping the bowl.

  "The target's the silk stores. But if we help with the overseers..." Gromhar bared his teeth in a grin. "They promise to remove the collars."

  "And you believe them? Who are they?"

  "What difference does it make?" The kaldrun shrugged—a movement heavy as a shifting cliff. "Either it's a trap, and they'll laugh at us. It won't get worse. Or it's a chance."

  The man remained silent, digesting the giant's words. A chance. Possibly the only one. Or a trap set by the overseers for entertainment.

  "I agree." The words flew out on their own, before his brain could consider them.

  Gromhar grinned wider.

  "Knew I wasn't wrong about you, Blackjack."

  Having finished harvesting, the man returned to the barracks where his friend awaited him. Having told him what had happened, he asked for his help and the giant didn't refuse.

  The stone came away with a crunch, as though Gromhar had snapped off a piece of dry twig rather than his own flesh. Silver blood sprayed onto the ground, hissing when it touched the soil.

  "Take it."

  Elren carefully accepted the fragment with both palms—heavy, like a piece of real cliff, with sharp irregular edges, still retaining warmth from the kaldrun's inner heat. The stone pulsed with a faint silvery glow, as though Gromhar's life continued flowing within it.

  The man dropped to his knees and set about digging a small hole in the barracks' packed earth. The soil yielded with difficulty—hard, mixed with stone chips. When the depression seemed sufficient, Elren set the fragment vertically, sharp end upward, and carefully tamped the earth round the base, checking its stability.

  The stone held firm, didn't wobble.

  He stepped back a pace, assessing height and angle. Then checked the distance once more, mentally calculating the trajectory of his fall. He needed to hit precisely—so the point would pierce his temple on the first attempt, without suffering or misses.

  Elren drew a deep breath, turned sideways to his improvised instrument of death and crashed down with his whole body, aiming his head at the stone point.

  Barracks. Stele. Whole hands. Joy that it had worked on the first attempt.

  The man unclenched his fingers, checking. No cuts, no scars. His skin smooth, as though he'd never touched the cursed silkweed.

  In the morning the plantation looked different. Elren walked between rows, gathering threads, but his eyes picked out details that might help them during the attack. Inside ignited something he'd thought long extinguished. Thirst for action. Thirst for freedom.