"I heard," Tarvek gasped, forcing the words through his clenched teeth. "I heard, master. Forgive me."

"Forgive you?" The overseer laughed, a sound like grinding metal. "I'll forgive you after you learn your place."

The whip came down again. And again. And again.

Tarvek stopped counting after the fifth strike. His back was on fire, his vision blurring from pain and the tears he couldn't stop from forming.

The pickaxe had fallen from his hands. He was on all fours now, reduced to an animal.

"Please," he whispered, hating himself for begging but unable to stop. "Please, I'll work harder. I'll…"

The whip rose for another strike.

And then blood showered across Tarvek's face.

It sprayed like a geyser. It filled his mouth, his eyes, soaking into his tattered clothes with a warmth that was shocking against the perpetual cold.

For a moment, Tarvek couldn't process what had happened. The whip hadn't landed. The pain hadn't increased. Instead, there was just... blood.

So much blood.

He wiped at his eyes frantically, clearing enough of the crimson to see.

The overseer was still standing in front of him. Or rather, the overseer's lower half was still standing. From the waist up, the demon was simply... gone.

No, he wasn't gone when he looked up. He was scattered. Chunks of flesh and bone and armor spread across the ice in a radius of ten feet, painting the black surface in shades of red and pink.

The overseer's legs took two more steps before collapsing, blood still fountaining from the severed torso.

Tarvek's brain tried to understand. Tried to make sense of what his eyes were showing him.

The overseer had been whole. Now he wasn't. Between those two states, something had happened.

Something fast and violent.

A figure stood where the overseer had been.

Tall.

Armored in black and crimson.

A helmet with a T-shaped opening that revealed nothing but shadow and those same yellow eyes Tarvek had glimpsed before.

And where the figure's right hand should have been, there was instead a massive demonic claw, black scales gleaming wetly, ten-inch talons dripping with the overseer's blood.

The figure looked down at Tarvek, those yellow eyes studying him with the same predatory focus from before.

Then the claw vanished, the demonic transformation receding until only a normal armored gauntlet remained.

The figure crouched, bringing himself closer to Tarvek's level, and when he spoke, his voice was surprisingly calm. Almost gentle.

"That looked painful," the figure said. "I apologize for not intervening sooner. I was trying to remain unnoticed."

Tarvek couldn't speak. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Fear had locked his throat shut, his body frozen between the instinct to run and the knowledge that running was impossible.

The figure tilted his head slightly, and through the blood covering Tarvek's face, those yellow eyes seemed to soften just a fraction.

"I'm not going to hurt you," the figure said. "Unless you give me a reason to. Do you understand?"

Tarvek managed a jerky nod, his entire body trembling.

"Good." The figure glanced around the immediate area, noting the other slaves who had frozen in their work, their eyes wide with terror and confusion.

"I need information. I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're going to answer them honestly. If you lie to me, I'll know. If you try to warn the other overseers, I'll know. And if either of those things happen, what I did to him…" he gestured at the scattered remains of the overseer.

"...will look merciful compared to what I'll do to you. Are we clear?"

Another nod, this one even more frantic. Tarvek's survival instincts were screaming at him. This was a demon.

A monster in demon's clothing. Whatever had killed the overseer so effortlessly could kill Tarvek even more easily. And unlike the overseers, whose cruelty at least followed predictable patterns, this creature was unknown.

It was terrifying for him.

"Please," Tarvek finally managed to whisper, his voice breaking. "Please, I don't... I can't... I don't want to die."

"Then don't make me kill you," the figure replied, his tone still carrying that strange gentleness that somehow made him even more frightening.

"I told you, I'm not here to hurt the slaves. I'm here for something else. But I need information to accomplish that goal, and you're going to provide it."

The figure reached out with his normal hand, and Tarvek flinched violently, convinced this was the moment. The creature had been playing with him, and now the real violence would begin.

But the hand didn't strike. Instead, it grasped Tarvek's shoulder, the grip firm but not painful, and pulled him to his feet with casual strength that suggested the armored figure could have just as easily torn Tarvek's arm from its socket.

"Breathe," the figure instructed. "You're hyperventilating. Slow down, or you're going to pass out, and I don't have time to wait for you to wake up."

Tarvek tried to obey, forcing air into his lungs in shaky gasps that gradually steadied.

The panic didn't leave. How could it?

But it receded just enough for rational thought to return.

Around them, other slaves were beginning to notice the commotion. Heads turned. Work slowed.

Whispers started to spread through the immediate area like wildfire. But no one approached. No one tried to help or intervene.

They'd all learned the same lesson.

Survival meant minding your own business.

The armored figure seemed unbothered by the attention. If anything, he appeared to be evaluating the situation, his yellow eyes scanning the pit's layout with the methodical focus of someone conducting a military assessment.

Finally, his gaze returned to Tarvek.

"First question," the figure said, his voice carrying clearly despite the ambient noise of the pit. "Who runs this place? I don't mean the overseers with the whips. I mean who's actually in charge? Who's the strongest demon here?"

Tarvek's mind raced. This was information he knew, but sharing it felt like stepping into a trap. If he told this creature about the Pit Master, and the Pit Master found out he'd talked, the punishment would be worse than any beating.

But if he didn't tell this creature, the punishment would probably be fatal.

The figure's eyes narrowed slightly, reading Tarvek's hesitation. "I understand you're afraid," he said quietly. "But let me be very clear about your situation. The demon who was beating you thirty seconds ago? He's dead. I've killed Nightmare-rank demons, Terror-rank demons, entire armies of demons. Whatever protection you think your Pit Master offers, whatever fear you have of his retribution, it's misplaced. Because I promise you, I am much more of a threat than he could ever be."

The yellow eyes seemed to glow brighter for just a moment, and Tarvek saw his death reflected in them. Not a possibility. A certainty, waiting to be activated if he made the wrong choice.

"So I'll ask again," the figure said, his gentle tone now carrying an edge of steel. "Who runs this pit, and what do I need to know about it?"

Tarvek swallowed hard, his throat dry despite the blood still coating his face. Every instinct screamed at him to stay silent, to protect himself by refusing to betray information.

But stronger than those instincts was the primal understanding that this armored creature standing before him was death incarnate, and death was asking nicely before it stopped being nice.

"The Pit Master," Tarvek whispered, his voice barely audible. "His name is Kragoth. He's... he's Nightmare-rank. Close to Disaster-class, or so they say. Three meters tall, carries a greatsword that's as thick as a man's torso. He oversees the entire operation here… the mining, the processing, the punishments. Everything."

The figure nodded slowly, processing this information. "Where can I find him?"

Tarvek pointed with a shaking hand toward the northern section of the pit, where a raised platform stood overlooking the mining zones. "There. That's his command post. He watches from there, makes sure the quotas are met, and deals with any... problems that arise."

"What are you mining?" the figure asked. "The ice and crystals. What does Pho need them for?"

"I don't know," Tarvek admitted. "We just mine. They don't tell us why. The ice goes to the forges. The crystals go somewhere else. That's all I know, I swear."

The figure studied him for a long moment, those yellow eyes seeming to pierce straight through flesh and bone to examine Tarvek's very soul.

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