«Strength invariably distinguishes itself from weakness (this much is evident). Yet hierarchy is infinite: for every dominant force, a greater one looms. To endure, one must master discretion, never revealing true capability to those above, while deftly maneuvering those below. Play the subordinate to the powerful; command the pliant strength of lesser players. Only through such calculated asymmetry can one ascend beyond the grasp of the ostensibly stronger....»

«Do you understand?»

The sky was void of light, creeping with clouds of inky black, enough to dull the soul.

But if that failed to do so, the chill of the constant icy drizzle would.

The black rain never fully stopped, it just increased and decreased.

"Gru-gru-gru!" Friction, the sound of it jarring could be heard as Mr. Valen stood calmly atop a wooden platform.

Looking up, he could make out certain gleams from atop the hill, arrowheads obscured by the mist.

The soldiers had led them to a cliff base before blowing a specific whistle and shouting coded phrases.

In response, a platform was slowly dropped which seemed to be able to carry one person at a time.

Mr. Valen was the last to board.

After he had ascended, he was exposed to a sight no less grueling than what he had been previously exposed to.

Yet it did not phase him; rather, he was intrigued by the mechanics of it, specifically the pulley system: A vertical shaft bored through the cliffside, operating on modified Spanish windlass principles.

'The mechanism seems to convert horizontal slave labor into vertical transit through a series of deliberately inefficient conversions.' Mr. Valen thought.

«In other words it's torture, but for whom?»

Before him were twelve people, malnourished, bloodied, and exhausted.

They stood in permanent stations along a sunken trench, each ankle shackled to iron stakes driven into the bedrock.

On their necks were braided collars connected to the main lift via interlocking slipknots, ensuring compliance.

Mr. Valen looked to the main rope and noted that it made a 90° turn over a sapphire-coated pulley.

«Reduces friction to 8%»

Observing the pulley once more, Mr. Valen mused. 'From the pulley to the lift platform would be a 30m vertical climb, on the other hand, from said pulley to the slave collars is about a 2.5m horizontal run.'

The slaves had to pull hand-over-hand with perfect synchronization.

Assuming each person they were carrying weighed 82kg on average, then it would require 275kg of collective pull force to lift, that is, if one added the weight of the platform below, which was 171kg, or at least an estimate of it.

«Each slave must maintain exactly 22.9kg of tension, and the sapphire pulley ensures 92% of their efforts translate to lift, but that isn't even the best part.»

A single stumble would trigger a domino effect strangulation; the 2.5m collar ropes allow exactly 1.3 seconds between slack and asphyxiation.

Mathematically there was a 98.7% chance of slave mortality within 18 months.

It was truly a beautiful contraption. He could see it, the pain, the weariness, the pleading in their eyes, but he did not falter.

Why build a contraption like this when there were other, less cruel options?

'Of course, it is punishment,' Mr. Valen thought, these people were either traitors or enemy soldiers.

One oddity he did notice was the fact that two of these twelve people were normal humans as attributed to the fact that their eyes did not glow. It was just dim, normal.

Their eyes, however, were larger than a normal human's, as attributed to living in a world where light was scarce.

The remaining slaves were Wizards, their eyes aglow with hues of green or red.

«Where did they get the sapphire, though? Even if they had the tools to mine the mineral, it's usually used as jewelry.»

"Thwack!" A sound could be heard as Olga slapped Mr. Valen's head, breaking him from his trance.

"You answer when spoken to, slave!" Her voice sounded out, making Mr. Valen aware of the people around him.

They stood on rocky, uneven terrain, with dirty, leather tents restricting visibility, the smell of mold mixed with burnt food.

Tall wooden watchtowers stood at intervals, the structural integrity of the things questionable.

At each tower, two armored men with long bows stood erect, ready to strike at any given time, at least Mr. Valen now knew where the gleams had come from.

Olga stood beside the High Scioness Sophia, with Cerberus doing so as well.

At the moment, they awaited an armored man approaching from one of the larger tents, several men trailing in his wake.

Sophia had regained consciousness long ago, but ever since then, she had not spoken; she just remained quiet.

It would seem that the incident in the Misty Marsh had scared her in some way, but she wasn't broken; in fact, Mr. Valen could see more determination in her gaze, like she had not been affected by the unfortunate event.

«Fascinating.»

"So you are Commander Olga," the armored man scoffed upon arrival, his voice a deep rumble.

Unlike the soldiers around him, this man did not wear a helmet. His face was rough, his doe eyes narrowed to slits, like he was peering into you.

He stood tall with a robust frame, his rain-slicked dirty blonde hair clinging to his scalp, the scar bisecting his left eyebrow a stark testament to past battles.

"I am Knight-Arcanist Holdo," the man declared, offering a hand without warmth. "A pleasure

At the gesture, Olga and Cerberus frowned in unison. Sophia's eyes also narrowed before she spoke, her voice cutting the damp air for the first time since the marsh. "Is that how one salutes a Commander appointed by the Archduke himself?"

"The issues of the Archaemus domain matter not to me," the man intoned before bowing to Sophia, a dismissive gesture at best. "Greetings, High Scioness."

"Preposterous!" Olga yelled immediately and unsheathed her sword, the sound echoing as the surrounding soldiers did the same.

The Archers above also shifted their attention to the situation.

'We are significantly outmatched,' Mr. Valen thought as he stood, while Sophia sighed.

"At ease," she commanded with a yell, one that prompted Olga to lower her blade. Holdo and his men, on the other hand, did nothing, while he stood there, the surrounding soldiers still brandished their weapons, ignoring Sophia's orders.

"At ease," Holdo finally commanded, his voice laconic. Only then did his men lower their weapons.

It was then that he took a deliberate step closer. "Your name circulates among the Knight-Arcanists, Olga. You were one of us. But Archduke Von, desperate, saw you as the strongest blade to hand in an emergency. Thus, he granted you a Commander's title-"`

"How is that relevant?" Olga spat, her brows furrowed, her chest heaving with suppressed fury.

There was brief stillness, until Holdo turned back, his voice dangerously low and steady. "You were never ready to be a Legion Commander, you are just a high-level Hellfire Novice like the rest of us, unfortunately, making you the strongest at the scene of the crime, you are not worthy, which is why you are a Commander without a legion."

With that final barb, he walked away, pausing only to murmur briefly into the ear of a masked escort.

It was then that the masked soldier walked up to them with two other men, his voice assuming a veneer of respect. "High Scioness, Commander Olga, Sir Cerberus," the soldier intoned, "if you would follow me to your prepared accommodations? We have sent messenger kites to the main army.

As they spoke, the other two soldiers shouldered Mr. Valen aside, guiding Olga, Sophia, and Cerberus away. Sophia noticed the exclusion instantly

"And Valen?" She demanded, halting despite the urging hands, her brows arched imperiously.

Mr. Valen was also curious as to why he had been excluded, but his curiosity was satiated when the soldier answered. "The Slave will be put to better use elsewhere."

«The fuck is elsewhere? Em... forgive my language.»

"Argh!" A rough shove from behind elicited a grunt from Mr. Valen.

"MOVE!" The soldier commanded, forcing him to walk in the desired direction, like all the other soldiers around, this one wore a helmet that obscured his face, but that did not stop Mr. Valen from trying to engage in conversation.

"Good-" he was shoved again forcing him to swallow whatever words he may have had.

By now, he had lost sight of his original group completely and was now walking towards a busy pathway.

Beside them, soldiers marched through, some carrying material; sometimes, a beast-drawn carriage would pass them, carrying materials like wood and supplies.

Though the surroundings were dark, Mr. Valen could still see, his eyes reflecting light from the specks of glowing fungi here and there.

After walking for more than an hour, they strayed from the main camp and Mr. Valen began to wonder if he was being taken away to be killed.

Of course, he knew that was unlikely but not impossible.

"In there," the guard suddenly spoke, pointing to a large, hole in the earth.

«I feel like this is a trap, but I'm quite curious.»

Without a word, Mr. Valen complied, and immediately, he stepped into that hole. He felt heat, intense heat like he was standing under the sun on a hot summer day.

Unfortunately, it was still dark, but the heat, the smell of mineral and rotten eggs, the jagged stumps of the ground beneath his feet.

There was no denying it, he was in a volcano.

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