Chương 8: The Flame in the Abyss of Enslavement

Erumes awakened with a jar. My head slammed against the rough wooden floor of the moving carriage. The night's darkness pressed in on all sides, beautiful yet suffocating, broken only by thin slivers of moonlight leaking through the gaps in the boards in our despairs hollowed. My first reaction was confusion as I tried to scratch my cheek and realized my right arm was gone.

I had to come to terms that the single remaining left arm which hung from the iron chain locked around my wrist, the links rattling with every violent shake of the moving wagon. The fresh branding where my arm had been throbbed through my skull, as if I were trapped in a fevered dream. I wished it were a nightmare not reality. I just had lost my father, my only accepting homeland, and now it seemed I had become a slave. I could not understand how everything we fought for had ended like this.

In my disbelief and sorrow, something dark settled inside me, a fire from the abyss that would never leave my heart has just manifested in my Heart... Moans and complaints filled the air around me, rising like the drunken chorus of Rhertia, yet we were the damned.

"On Michaelanius, this road will break my spine before we even reach the destination," an old man groaned from the back.

"Slow down, you bastards."

"Every bump feels like a hammer to the ribs!" The complaints grew louder until a whip cracked from outside the carriage with a sharp snap.

"Shut your whining. You are our by‑product now, and I will hea´r none of this. If you keep it up, I will make you taste my whip again. You should be grateful Lord Himmel wanted you. If I were in charge, I would let our rods fill the female goods (ahhhhhh) and leave the rest of you to rot. So in Michaelanius' name, be glad our benefactor shows mercy, ya´r trash." I wanted to throw a retort back at him, but I was too weak and hollow to spark anything in my heart.

The heavy shackles around my ankles and the short chain linking me to the others kept me pinned in place anyway. The carriage struck a rock, harder this time, and a fresh wave of groans erupted. Someone nearby vomited, and the sour stench mixed with sweat. Made others whom lost control of their bladders letting the piss run free... dripping down of their wet pants onto the floorboards. Fear has now thickened the air more than any storm outside ever could therefore mood became muddier than ever outside could.

My mouth felt dry as bone dust. It seemed I had been unconscious for a long time. I turned to the man beside me, who mumbled to himself, "It's over… it's over… it's over." I tapped his shoulder with my left hand, but he did not respond. He would not even acknowledge a young one like me. I had to wait. I was nothing now. Just a broken boy in a rolling cage. Tears blurred my vision as I closed my eyes.

I saw again the brute teen, who had flayed my father's head, dancing on the corpse while laughing that he had enjoyed every moment they shared. Then he turned his emerald green eyes towards me, and the sharpness of his gaze pierced my inner world. I opened my eyes again, and not even a minute had passed. The memory alone left me shaking, I was so destroyed by his mere enjoyment of torment, the defeat in his eyes of clear apathy alone leaving me shuddering in pain.

My heart squeezed as my left hand clutched my chest in response... one part forming into hatred the other in a never ending obsession hidden inside... I no longer knew what would become of me, but I knew what I had been. Every thought led to the same conclusion. I was weak. I was a failure. And now I was a slave. A one‑handed slave trapped in the den of my coming nightmares, a moving and perhaps never‑ending torment.

I listened to the endless symphony of suffering around me as the road stretched on into the black unknown region called Metia. And so the journey continued. Two days bled into one another like an open wound that refused to dry. The smell of self‑loathing grew stronger as we slaves received little to no food, fighting over scraps of bread. Only days ago these men would never have struck each other for leftovers, yet now they beat one another as if their past lives had vanished all in once.

Only the present mattered, a broken cycle with a renewed purpose: survival in itself. The air inside the rolling coffin thickened with the stench of filth and despair. Most men had stopped struggling against their chains. Many had stopped speaking altogether, viewing each other as new enemies. Only the occasional dry sob or fevered muttering about Michaelanius' trial broke the silence between the wagons.

Some believed our god had placed us here as punishment, that our enslavement was our own doing, our weakness made manifest. On the morning of the third day, the carriage finally slowed down its tempo. The long road ground to a halt with a drawn‑out, exhausted sound of relief. For a moment there was only heavy breathing and the muffled noise of soldiers unpacking their loads. Then the doors were pulled open. The once friendly sun had turned into a harsh glare that stabbed into our eyes like spears.

Rough hands dragged us out one by one, chains clanking around our feet. My legs buckled the instant they touched the ground. The warm, soft grass pressed against my knees, and for a heartbeat I felt something close to comfort. I had missed that feeling. My left arm trembled as it tried to hold me upright. We had reached Metia, but not its capital, Met. They had brought us to the original capital, the one that now lay half in ruins around us. Blackened stone towers leaned like broken shoes.

Fresh scorch marks scarred the walls, clear signs that war had recently swept through this place. Banners of the new lord, Heinrich Himmel, flapped above the gate to display his triumph. He was the same lord who had crushed his younger brother's rebellion, the one who had tried to preserve their humble noble life only to lose everything in the chaos that followed.

Now Heinrich sat on a rapidly growing throne, reclaiming what had been briefly lost with Siegfried as his sword´s tip, just as he had crushed us fools who dared to resist him. I saw it in the eyes of the guards who kicked us forward into the old city. I felt it in the tight chains that bit into my skin. This land carried the same cursed spark we did, the bitter and stubborn refusal to die even when every bone begged for it. They lined us up in the rebuilding square. My knees sank deeper into the dirt.

My vision swam from hunger and thirst. A guard shouted orders, but the words blurred together. All I could think was that I had fought my best, yet I had lost. Now I was here, broken, starving, parched. Even so, that quiet, foolish heart of mine still tightened behind my ribs, cursed to feel his sphere in my mind even at the bottom of life. His presence lingered, and I was cursed to carry it with me.

Even as they marched us toward the slave barracks of Mat, the reconquered city that mirrored our own defeated souls, I dragged one foot forward and then the other. Chained and one‑armed, I was nothing more than another fool who had dared to struggle for a life that no longer belonged to me. The heavy wooden doors of the branded slaves' labor barracks creaked open as we were shoved inside like cattle into a house built on rotting stone.

The air was thick with the scent of damp walls, old sweat, and faint traces of piss that clung to every surface. Torches flickered weakly along the rough beams, casting long shadows over rows of narrow wooden bunks and a central table meant for meals, though it looked far too small to serve its purpose. We collapsed onto the benches, chains rattling as our bodies sagged with exhaustion.

A figure moved among us with quiet purpose: a monk wearing the traditional robes of the Order of Michaelanius from the holy region of Latiume. His garment was a long robe of pure, undyed white wool embroidered with golden lines that traced sacred patterns across the fabric. Thin golden threads bordered the wide sleeves, and on his shoulders shone the crests of Latiume's holy order. At the center of each crest lay a red field marked with a golden cross, the sigil of Michaelanius.

The monk's face was aged yet softened by something the rest of us had nearly forgotten. His presence felt gentle as he introduced himself as Berntraut, a servant of Michaelanius, the very god many of us followed in the Bener region, though his name felt meaningless here. It was hard to believe such a god would allow despicable beings like them to let us suffer in a place like Metia, the region as whole in meaning.

While I grumbled in silence about Michaelanius, Berntraut carried a large iron pot filled with watery soup. Steam rose from it as he scooped portions into chipped wooden bowls and handed them to us, shackled and weakened newly arrived slaves. As he moved among us, my view of him shifted. He walked into this stinking dump of a barrack and sat with us, giving out food without looking down on us, as if we were still equals, as if the last few days had not stripped us of everything... that made us humans...

Not fully understanding the gentleness in this man, I tasted the soup he offered with a faint smile. It tasted of little more than the boiled roots, a few grains of wheat, and the faintest hint of salt with thin slices of carrot it had inside it. Yet with my cracked dry lips followed by an empty stomach, it tasted like mercy itself. Berntraut set the last bowl down and spoke in a low, steady voice.

"Eat slowly, children." His eyes lingered on the fresh branded crest burned into the stump of my missing right arm. Then he looked into my eyes and continued.

"Michaelanius does not abandon the righteous or the harmed," he said.

"He does not forsake the old, the young, or the wounded. He is present in both the good and the bitter moments that life places before us. He can only guide you, but he cannot change the order of circumstance. I know many of you are broken, angry, or have already given up on this current path, but understand this. I will not. I chose this path because I seek the good in all things, even when it hides behind suffering. Even in these chains that bind you, the soul of each of you may yet find its true given path."

I clutched the bowl with my trembling left hand, wanting nothing to do with it. I had lost my home, my country, and my father in such a short amount of time. I refused to accept the path that had been forced upon me. Around me, the other slaves slurped greedily, some coughing as the hot liquid hit empty stomachs too quickly. No one spoke. The fight for scraps in the wagon had left its mark. Eyes darted with suspicion even now, though the soup had been portioned equally.

Berntraut moved from man to man, offering a quiet word here, a steady hand there, or a gentle gospel on a shaking shoulder. His presence left small sparks of clarity in the broken. When he reached the mumbling fellow who had sat beside me in the carriage, the old man finally lifted his head. Tears carved clean tracks through the grime on his cheeks.

"It is not over," the monk said softly.

"Not while your breath remains. Your path will show itself, believe it... like i believe you." For a brief stint in time, the barracks felt almost human again. But shown mercy in Mat never lasted long. At dawn, the doors burst open again. Guards in Heinrich Himmel's colors hauled us out before the sun had fully risen. Our overseer, Sir Görlitz, a thick‑necked brute with a scarred face and a blood‑stained whip coiled at his belt like a sleeping serpent, lined us up in the central square of the half‑ruined city.

Citizens watched from a wary distance, most wearing the hollow relief of people who knew the slaves were here to rebuild their once‑proud capital back to its glory days. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Listen well, you stinking maggots," Görlitz shouted, his voice carrying across the square.

"Lord Himmel has shown you mercy by letting you be useful to our nation's recovery. You will repay that mercy with your sweating backs and your pumping blood! Work hard, and you may live a comfortable life here, perhaps even regain your freedom as a new citizen of Metia. But if I see you slack, complain, or look at us... pointing at his fellow overseers and soldiers... the wrong way, you will learn the true taste of obedience."

The whip cracked so loudly in his demonstration that it split the air and made every spine stiffen. Several men from the defeated rebellion were dragged forward and lashed across the back for trying to run from their responsibilities. The blows were not meant to kill, but they drew blood and screams for all of us to see. The message was clear. We were to be broken publicly so the citizens would see there was nothing to fear from the newly conquered.

We were whipped into shape, our bodies jerking under each strike, until even the proudest among us kept his eyes fixed on the dirt. Then the tools were thrust into our hands, or into my single hand, for that matter. Pickaxes. Shovels. Baskets for hauling rubble and filling the craters left by the siege. The work began in earnest. We cleared debris from collapsed walls, leveled ground for new foundations, and rebuilt what Siegfried's sword and Himmel's ambition had shattered. I gripped the pickaxe with my left hand.

The handle felt alien, too thick and too heavy for a single grip, especially my non‑dominant one. Every swing was awkward and off balance. Each movement sent burning shocks through my stump, leaving me in agony while my left arm swung in half‑hearted measure. I was painfully slow. My body, already weakened by days in the wagon and nights of despair, refused to obey with any real strength. Each strike barely chipped the earth. My mind drifted in and out.

I saw my father's head again, speaking to me while he hammered ore in the mine, smiling as if that world had been real and not this one that tore at the heart. The will to push harder drained away. I was giving up. A shadow fell over me. Görlitz snarled at me.

"You lazy one‑handed young dog." The whip struck before I could even rise. The first lash tore across my stomach, splitting the thin tunic and opening my skin. The second landed on the same spot with cruel precision, curling around my ribs like liquid fire. I staggered and curled in on myself, rolling like an armadillo without its shell. The third and fourth blows came in rapid succession, each harder than the last.

"Get up. Work or die, one armed trash." The whip fell again and again. I tasted blood. The world already felt unbearable, yet Görlitz continued, the sound of leather striking flesh echoing through the work yard. My vision blurred. Somewhere distant, I heard other slaves gasp, but I could not rise. My body had surrendered long before my heart. Görlitz raised the whip for what felt like the final blow, one that might end this nightmare and send me to the mines with my father. But a calm voice cut through the chaos.

"Enough, Görlitz." Berntraut stood there, his robes dusty from the morning's labor, his hand resting gently but firmly on the overseer's arm. His face was resolute, his eyes steady with the quiet fire of faith.

"This one has already lost more than most," Berntraut said.

"Michaelanius teaches mercy even to the conquered. If you kill him now, you waste Lord Himmel's property and might anger Michaelanius himself." Görlitz glared at him, the whip still raised. For a terrible moment, everyone thought he would strike the monk in defiance. Instead, with a disgusted snort in my direction, he lowered his arm.

"Fine. Take this useless whelp. But if he doesn't pull his weight tomorrow, monk or no monk, I will finish what he refused to do working and punish him according to Metian Law." Rough yet careful hands lifted me. Berntraut half carried, half dragged me back toward the church while the square resumed its rhythm of pickaxes and shovels. My back burned as if the abyss itself had claimed my flesh, but through the haze of pain I felt the monk's steady heartbeat against my side.

"Rest now, child," Berntraut whispered as we crossed the threshold.

"The road before you is long and dark, but even the deepest night must yield to dawn. Never forget that. You may have given up your current walk on the road, yet I can still see the shine you carry inside you, the fire that still smolders in your heart. Small as it is, it remains active." I wanted to believe him. But as unconsciousness claimed me, all I could see were the emerald green eyes highlighting in the wide darkness laughing at my situation, and the endless night stretching across the cursed horizon.

As dawn carried on and the light of the old church fell across the hay bed where I had slept, I awakened with a start. For a moment I was still in the mine, turning toward the strong, comforting presence of my father.

"Erumes Flamma," his voice echoed warmly in my heart.

"You are now nine years old. You are too young to mine that dark ore you currently lust after. Do not give in to its alluring glow." In the dream I stubbornly tried to stay, desperately digging for the sparkling dark ore which was pulling me onto it with strong fragrance of sweetness like never smelt before. My only goal was to remain there with him. Sacrume Flamma smiled and patted my head with a heavy, reassuring hand.

"Son, you are not meant for this place yet. Just because my story has ended does not mean yours must end too. You must not give in to this state of life. Take this as inspiration, as I did in the Colosseum many years ago when I won my freedom... forcefully may i add. There were many times I planned to take my life, to give up entirely, but every time I came close, I held myself together with my spirit intact. And then you came into my world.

That alone made my life worth living even when i perished at Samae, my last thoughts were of you.. my beloved mining son." He paused, his smile softening.

"As a human, you always want more. You want to see your child grow, to watch him carve his own record into the world. So stand up, son. Carry the Flamma spirit within you as I did. Carve it into your heart... if you must. I believe one day you will stare into Siegfried's emerald green eyes again, not as a scared boy, but as the one who triumphs over him. Would that not be a sight to behold?" As soon as I nodded in the dream, I awakened in the cold church, heart pounding.

It had felt far too real to be a simple dream, yet it had rekindled something inside me. The small, smoldering flame in my chest grew a little brighter, pushing back against the current dark abyss inside me. I rose and approached Berntraut, who knelt in quiet prayer at the simple altar. His white robes, lined with golden Latiumian patterns, seemed to glow softly in the morning light.

"Thank you," I said, my voice rough but stronger than before.

"For yesterday. For the herbs that are smeared on my wounds." Berntraut rose and offered a calm, knowing smile.

"The pain remains, but the herbs have done their work.. it seems, also it looks like Michaelanius has sent you a strong vision to strengthen your spirit as well." Before i could give an response to Berntraut, an overseer arrived to collect me.

"On your feet, slave. You are back on the fields today. Görlitz wants those outer ditches cleared and leveled. Keep up, or he will have another go at you." I was led out with the others. Under the open sky I took up a heavy pickaxe with my left hand and began striking the hardened ground in a steady, determined rhythm. The work was brutal. Every swing sent jolts of pain through my wounded back and the stump of my missing arm, but this time I did not falter. The dream had lit a quiet fire in me.

I moved with renewed purpose. Clumsy and one‑handed, yes, but no longer broken. The flame in my heart burned steadier now. I would not surrender. Not today. And so a month slipped by in the scarred city of Mat. Day after day I swung the pickaxe and hoe with my left hand until the motion no longer felt foreign. What had once been a source of shame and mockery became second nature. My muscles hardened, my balance improved, and the stump of my right arm, though still aching at night, no longer threw me off rhythm.

The other slaves began to notice. Even the guards stopped calling me useless quite so often. In the evenings, when the day's labor ended, Berntraut vouched for me. Because I was only nine years old and already a cripple, the overseers granted me a measure of leniency they rarely showed others. They nicknamed me "Little One‑Arm," half in jest and half in dismissal, and allowed me extra tasks that took me away from the heaviest labor. When I proved reliable, I boldly asked for different duties.

The overseers, seeing my growing strength and willingness, granted them. Soon I was helping Berntraut carry the evening meals to the slave barracks. Together we hauled heavy pots of thin soup and baskets of hard bread. The work was lighter than breaking stone or digging ditches, yet it still built my endurance. Every trip strengthened my legs and back, and the quiet conversations with the monk slowly mended something deeper than flesh ever could for my mind.

Exactly one month and one week after my arrival in Mat, during a private prayer session in the small chapel, I finally found the courage to speak what had weighed on my heart. I knelt beside Berntraut at the simple wooden altar. His white robes, lined with golden Latiumian patterns, glowed softly in the candlelight.

"Berntraut… who is Michaelanius, really?" I asked quietly, my voice hesitant.

"I have heard the name all my life, but I was never a true believer. I know the stories, but I want to hear them again from someone who actually represents him. What is he, truly?" Berntraut remained silent for a moment, eyes closed in thought. Then he turned to me with a gentle, patient smile. He answers my burning desire formed as a question:"Michaelanius is a majestic being, the Bringer of Mercy and Justice," Berntraut began, his voice carrying a reverent tone.

"He came from the skies, falling from nowhere like a sun made flesh. Exactly one thousand and twenty years ago, he landed in the holy city of Koszian in the region of Polonia. At that time, Koszian was little more than a humble settlement with little to offer.

"When he fell, he was in great pain... stories told he bled; others say he lit up like a burning match. A simple farmer named Sanginus found him on his farm land. The winged being had skin like polished white marble and eyes that held the light of a distant sun in him. Weak and wounded, Michaelanius asked only for water to recuperate as much as he can. Sanginus gave it freely, without fear. In that small act of kindness, the majestic being began to recover.

The God than humbly asked to be accompanied by the kind stranger so they went.

"Together they journeyed to the Spring of Romanu's, a sacred place deep in the Latiume region, said to quench any pain and grant swift recovery to the flesh. At the time, Latiume was wild and dangerous, filled with roaming beasts such as the cyclopes, one‑eyed monsters strong enough to tear apart mountains and spit noxious fumes that could numb the senses. Yet Sanginus loaded the god angel onto his wagon and braved the journey. They crossed dangerous plains, endured hardship, and finally reached the spring.

There, Michaelanius was healed.

"Once restored to his full radiance, he returned to the heavens. But before he ascended, he granted Sanginus an awakening, a divine " benison". Sanginus received a greatly extended lifespan so he could spread the gospel of Michaelanius, the Shining God of Orbis Terrarum.

"Those who truly accept Michaelanius and follow his teachings receive their own benison. For me, it is the ability to create virtue from food and extend its effects. That is why I can stretch meager supplies to feed so many, why the soup never seems to run out completely, and why even the weakest among us find enough strength to see another day. It is not magic. It is grace given to those who walk the path of Michaelanius."

Berntraut placed a warm hand on my shoulder, his golden‑trimmed sleeve brushing my scarred back.

"Michaelanius does not demand blind faith, young one. He only asks that you believe in him and live the best way you can. The flame you carry, the Flamma spirit your father spoke of, may yet become part of that greater light. It may guide your path." I stared at the flickering candle, the dream of my father still fresh in my mind. The small flame inside my chest stirred again, warmer now, though doubt lingered at the edges. I was not yet a believer.

But for the first time, I understood why so many followed/worship him.