Path to Dominance in the Demonic Realm

Zarathos woke up before the guards reached his hut. He didn't need the crack of whips or shouted orders to rouse him. His body may have been weak, but his mind was already at work. The morning sun had barely begun to carve its path through the bleak sky, yet there was an unmistakable tension in the air.

There were whispers among the slaves, an unusual edge of anxiety in their voices. Even the guards, despite their efforts to appear unaffected, betrayed their unease in their eyes.

He didn't need to ask anyone to understand why.

Today was the day.

Lord Caron was coming.

The man whom even the guards feared would arrive in person to select a group of slaves for the Mines of Shadows.

The Mines of Shadows… The place where slaves were sent, never to return.

Zarathos stood at the entrance of his hut, gazing at the pale sky, contemplating the cruel turn of fate that had brought him here.

In his past life, he had been like Caron. He had been the ruler, the one everyone feared, the one who decided the fates of others. But now, he was on the opposite end of that equation. Now, he was the slave. Now, he was the one who could be chosen, the one who could be sent to his death without the power to resist.

But would he allow it?

His thoughts were interrupted by the deep, solemn sound of drums echoing throughout the valley—a sound heavy and grim, like the resonance of death itself.

It was the announcement of his arrival.

As the slaves emerged from their huts, they found themselves herded toward the valley's main square, where Lord Caron would stand to choose those he would take.

The guards were harsher today. There was no leniency. Even the usual troublemakers, those who feigned sickness or resistance, didn't dare delay.

Zarathos stood among the gathered slaves, his eyes scanning their faces—expressions of terror and helplessness dominating every one of them.

Everyone knew that those chosen today… would never see the sunlight again.

But why?

Why did everyone fear these mines? Even the guards, even the overseers of the valley—why did they send slaves there but never go themselves?

If there was one thing Zarathos had learned in his past life, it was that fear, when it grips even the strongest of men, means there is a deeper secret hidden beneath.

—

The drums stopped abruptly.

A heavy silence fell upon the gathering, a silence more terrifying than the sound of the drums themselves.

Then, moments later, a small procession appeared at the valley's entrance.

Leading them was Lord Caron.

A tall man with broad shoulders and features as sharp as a blade. His eyes were dark, like two endless pits, carrying something far more terrifying than mere cruelty.

He wore black armor, lined with silver threads, and a long cloak billowed behind him.

There was nothing excessive in his appearance, yet he possessed a presence that was deadly.

Without uttering a single word, everyone already understood—this was a man who could take their lives in an instant, without hesitation, without thought.

Zarathos was not one to fear easily, yet he couldn't deny that this man was different.

He carried something… something familiar.

"Oh?"

Caron's steps halted for a brief moment, his eyes sweeping across the rows of slaves until, suddenly, they locked onto Zarathos.

For a single moment, he paused, as if seeing something unusual.

But in the next second, he moved again, as if nothing had happened.

It was a fleeting interaction, but enough to put Zarathos on high alert.

Did he sense something? Did he notice that I am different?

—

The selection began.

It was simple. Caron walked slowly, examining the slaves as if they were mere goods, then pointing to the ones he wanted.

Each person chosen nearly collapsed, knowing exactly what it meant.

"You."

"You."

"That one."

He picked five. Then seven. Then ten.

Zarathos remained still, showing no reaction, keeping himself as inconspicuous as possible.

But he knew that might not be enough.

If Caron had sensed something strange about him, he might choose him out of sheer curiosity.

And indeed…

When Caron chose the sixteenth slave, he stopped once more.

Then, for the second time, he turned his gaze toward Zarathos.

"You."

It was a simple command, just one word, but it struck like the swing of a sword.

It meant Zarathos had been chosen.

—

A murmur spread through the slaves, as if they hadn't expected him to be among those selected.

But Zarathos showed no expression. He didn't look afraid. He didn't even look concerned.

He met Caron's gaze directly, then slowly bowed his head, like a mere slave accepting his fate.

But inside, only one thought remained.

"The Mines of Shadows? Good. This might be better than I expected."

Because if those mines held a secret… it was better for him to be there to uncover it.

—

Lord Caron glanced at the chosen slaves with cold eyes, as if he saw not living beings, but tools—meant to be used until they broke. Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he gave a low but authoritative command:

"Have them cleaned. I don't want to smell decay in my carriage."

His words were sharp, carrying not just disdain, but an order that was absolute.

The guards moved at once, shoving the selected slaves forward like cattle being led to the unknown. No one resisted—resistance here meant only death.

Zarathos did not fight back. It was not the right time. But as he walked among the other slaves, his eyes observed everything, analyzing every movement, every reaction, every detail.

The guards carried whips but barely used them today. Perhaps because they knew Caron didn't want to see the slaves injured or weakened—at least not yet.

That was an interesting detail.

"Does that mean they need us in good condition for a reason?"

Nothing here happened without purpose. Caron did not seem like the type to waste effort without gain.

Which meant… these chosen slaves were not just ordinary laborers.

But why?

Zarathos didn't have an answer yet, but he knew he would find out soon.

—

The guards led them to a stone building at the edge of the valley, a place no ordinary slave had ever entered before. This was clear from the way the remaining slaves watched them with a mix of curiosity and fear.

Inside, the scent of strong soap filled the air, steam rising from large basins of water.

"One per basin! I don't want any disorder!" a guard barked, shoving a slave toward the water.

Some hesitated, perhaps unaccustomed to bathing in clean water—or perhaps unsure if it was poisoned.

Zarathos did not hesitate.

He stepped forward, removed his tattered clothing, and submerged himself in the cold water.

It was freezing, yet strangely refreshing. His body was weak, but for a moment, every muscle relaxed.

"This body… is too frail."

He glanced at his arms, his chest, the sharp outline of his ribs.

In his past life, his body had been sculpted like a warrior's. But now?

Now, he was a mere shadow of what he once was.

But that wouldn't last long.

—

As he washed, he focused inward, seeking the faint traces of power he had felt the night before when he resisted the guard.

They were there.

Weak, barely perceptible… but present.

"This body may be weak, but it holds something unique. A raw talent—something I never had before."

If he could harness it, understand it… it might become the key to making him even stronger than before.

When he opened his eyes, he found another slave watching him—a young man, his wet hair clinging to his forehead, worry written across his face.

"You… seem too calm."

It wasn't a question, more of an observation.

Zarathos studied him for a moment before replying in a low voice:

"Worry changes nothing."

The young man looked as if he wanted to say more, but shut his mouth when a guard entered.

"Enough delay! Wash up and get dressed!"

Zarathos obeyed, but as he stepped outside, he looked toward Caron.

Wherever they were going, whatever awaited them…

He would not remain just a slave in this story.

To be continued…