"Wake up, filthy beast! I said wake up!"
A gruff voice tore through the fog in Azrael's mind, dragging him from unconsciousness.
"John, water! Now!"
A heartbeat later—splash.
Cold.
So cold.
That was the only thing Azrael could process as freezing water drenched him, snapping him fully awake.
"Chough—chough!" He coughed violently, his body shivering from the shock. His head pounded, and a bitter taste clung to his tongue.
What… happened?
The last thing he remembered was those bastards forcing some kind of drug down his throat—something to make him more docile.
His unfocused eyes blinked open, and the first thing he saw was the twisted face of the man in front of him. Scarred. Ugly. Cruel.
Who the hell is this ugly shit? The thought slipped through his groggy mind before the guard's boot slammed into his face.
Pain exploded in his cheek, snapping his head to the side. His body slumped, but his gaze sharpened.
"Why the hell are you sitting there, talking to yourself? Don't you see the other slaves lining up to go down the dungeon? Go join them! Now!" the guard barked, spit flying from his cracked lips.
But Azrael just stared at him. Silent. Unmoving. His dark amber eyes were flat, unblinking as his memories came flooding back like a brutal tide.
So I was sold to this ugly bastard, huh?
Why couldn't it have been to some gorgeous older elf woman? At least then I could have had a little fun before escaping…
Before the thought even finished, another kick came flying at his face—yet to Azrael, it moved in sluggish, slow motion.
He tilted his head, narrowly dodging the strike with a lazy grace that only made the guard more furious.
"Are you deaf, beast?! Go line up! Now!"
Azrael said nothing. His expression didn't even twitch. He simply turned and strolled toward the line of shivering slaves, bare feet scraping against the cold, cracked stone.
The rough ground bit into his skin with every step, but he didn't flinch. His shoulders were relaxed. His gaze was distant, but his mind burned sharp and hot.
Around him, the other slaves stood stiffly, their eyes sunken and vacant, their breaths shallow in the cold air. The faint clinking of chains echoed softly like a dirge.
From the corner of his eye, Azrael noticed a squad of guards approaching—steel boots pounding the earth in perfect rhythm.
A man stepped forward to address the slaves.
He was tall, built like a boulder, with a grotesque scar slashing across his right eye. His mere presence demanded attention. His deep, gravelly voice rumbled through the air like distant thunder—cold, hard, commanding.
"From this moment on, you worthless insects will work here in this beginner dungeon," the man growled, "You will mine blue mana crystals on the 40th floor for Lord Vancount Thompson."
He paused, sweeping his gaze across the trembling line of slaves. When his eyes landed on Azrael, they narrowed with clear disgust.
"You should feel honored to be given this opportunity… even though you're nothing but lowly slaves. Some of you," his lip curled, "are less than even that."
Honored? Azrael sneered silently. What idiot would fall for that crap? We're just disposable labor he doesn't have to pay. I'm done listening to this nonsense. Status
Suddenly, something shimmered in his vision.
StatusName: Azrael Morningstar
Race: Werewolf & Kitsune Hybrid (Beastborn)
Age: 18
Lineage: ###### (Locked)
Class: —
Level: 1
Affinity: Sun, Moon, Gravity, Dream
Strength: 10
Stamina: 15
Vitality: 10
Mana: 30
Intelligence: 10
Skills:
— Freedom of the Broken (Level 1)
Grants an unnaturally strong mind. Resistance to mental collapse.
Greatly enhances resistance to poisons, addictive substances, and drugs.
— Body of Pure Devastation (Level 1)
Automatically adapts the host's body to the optimal form for survival.
Clan: ???
Quests:
Become a Successor
Right now, you are just aware, but to participate, you must ???? within one year or you will be expelled.
Reward: Depends on time taken to complete quest.
Escape Slavery
No worthy descendant of ###### will remain in chains. You are destined for far greater things. To fully escape, you must reach Level 10, form your mana core, and strengthen Freedom of the Broken.
Reward: Fusion and purification of bloodlines (Werewolf & Kitsune)
What the hell? When did I become level one?
Before Azrael could process it, he caught the voice of Scarface speaking quietly to a man in fine clothes—the one who had purchased them.
"So, the lower floors have been cleared, yes?"
"Just last week," Scarface replied, "Took a full team of D-rank adventurers. Had to burn out a nest of mana beasts and collapse a few unstable corridors."
"And the artifacts? Have they been activated?"
"Of course. You think I'd risk losing your investment, my lord? Warding runes are stable. They'll suppress mana flare and delay mana beast respawn. The mine veins are exposed, but the mana density won't be enough to spawn anything…
unless some idiot dies down there and leaks too much blood."
They both laughed. Laughed like this was a game. Like their lives were cheap.
Keep laughing. Let's see if those artifacts protect you when your own blood starts summoning worse things than beasts, Azrael thought darkly, a feral grin twitching at the edge of his mouth.
One of the guards—a brutish man with a coiled whip dragging lazily behind him—walked down the slave line, inspecting each of them like rotten meat.
"As I said, you worms are going into floor 40. You'll work until the stones shine or your arms break. No food until the quota's met. No rest until we tell you. And if you even think about hiding a mana shard…"
He stopped in front of them and raised his hand.
The flesh was shriveled and blackened, charred down to the bone in some places, his skin melted and fused in a grotesque web.
"This," he hissed, "was the last thief's reward."
His boots scraped against the stone as he moved on, leading the line of slaves toward the gaping maw of the dungeon. The heavy iron doors groaned open, releasing a blast of cold, unnatural air that bit into Azrael's skin.
Up ahead, the Vancount's carriage rumbled away, pulled by towering drake-horses, their clawed feet striking sparks against the cobblestone.