The march through the bowels of the Pit was a tense silence, broken only by the creak of Davorin's sandals on the worn flagstones. The air, already heavy with the scent of metal and sweat, grew thick with a dull humidity.

  Marc followed, his shoulders slightly hunched under the invisible weight of accumulated fatigue, but his eyes were alert. Since his arrival, he had learned that every turn in these corridors could hide a lesson—or a threat.

  Davorin stopped before a rusted grate, older than the others, its bars twisted by decades of friction and blows. The lock, a primitive mechanism of blackened iron, hung open, as if no one dared—or wanted—to close it.

  Inside, the darkness was almost total, disturbed only by a bluish glow filtering from an oil lamp placed on the ground near the entrance. The flickering flame cast shifting shadows on the walls, and at the center, a hunched form.

  Marc narrowed his eyes. At first, he thought he saw a pile of discarded rags, or perhaps a heap of forgotten metal debris. Then the form moved. A shiver, almost imperceptible, like a breath of wind over a stone statue. But it wasn't the wind. It was breathing.

  — Look closely, Davorin murmured, his voice low, almost reverent.

  Marc stepped forward, his boots crunching on the dust- and oxidized metal-littered floor. The lamp's light slid over the thing in the cell, revealing contours that had once been human. Two arms, two legs, a torso.

  But the skin was no longer skin.

  It had the dull color of aged lead, streaked with dark cracks like veins of coal. The joints—knees, elbows, fingers—were frozen, fused by grayish growths that seemed to have sprouted from within, as if the body had tried to repair itself with the wrong material. Irregular, dented metal plates covered the forearms and shoulders, where flesh had given way to something harder, more final.

  And then, there were the eyes.

  They moved.

  Slowly, with visible difficulty, as if the eyelids themselves were petrifying. But they moved. And they fixed on Marc.

  Not a plea. Not really. Just awareness. An intelligence trapped in a cage of flesh turned foreign, hostile. The pupils, deep black, glowed faintly in the gloom, like two embers about to die out. The mouth—or what remained of it—parted in a dry rattle, a sound no longer quite human, but still carrying the echo of a voice. No words. Just breath scraping against hardened lips, a moan lost in the thick silence of the cell.

  Marc felt a shiver run down his spine, but it wasn't fear. Not yet. It was recognition. Raw, undeniable information seeping into him like a cold blade. He had seen men die. Men burned, torn apart, drowned. But never anything like this. Never a man still alive while his body had already begun to belong to something else.

  — What is this? he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

  Davorin crossed his arms, his gaze fixed on the creature in the cell. There was neither pity nor disgust in his eyes. Just a kind of professional resignation, like a blacksmith contemplating a poorly tempered blade.

  — Seven years... Davorin searched for the word in French — Dust. He gestured toward the walls. — Metal.

  He tapped his own arm, where the skin was streaked with gray.

  — Blood-Iron, he said in Korp. Blood-Iron, he repeated in French this time. He pronounced the word slowly, as if tasting it. — It's... He hesitated. — Bad. Very bad.

  He turned to Marc, and for the first time, something resembling compassion—or perhaps just a warning—crossed his gaze.

  — At first, it's good. The skin hardens. Cuts don't bleed. The bones become heavier, stronger. You become... stronger.

  — The Vektors say... Davorin gestured toward the sky — Gift of the sun. He sneered. — Liars. Curse, he said in Korp.

  A dry, joyless laugh escaped him.

  He nodded toward the creature in the cell.

  — A miner. Thirty years digging. And now...

  Silence. The dying man—if he could still be called that—let out another rattle, longer this time, as if trying to say something. His fingers, deformed into metal claws, weakly scraped the ground, leaving dark traces on the stone.

  — How long? Marc asked awkwardly in Korp.

  Davorin shrugged, his arm muscles standing out in the flickering light.

  — For you? You're new here, Davorin said, switching to French. A few months, and the permanent taste of metal. A few years and the veins turn gray. Not much. But it starts. Then the skin hardens. Not everywhere.

  He paused, giving Marc time to absorb it.

  — After... he said in Korp again.

  He didn't need to finish. The thing in the cell was answer enough.

  Marc remained motionless, his eyes still fixed on the dying man. The man's eyes—if they could still be called that—stared back, and in their black depths, Marc thought he saw a glimmer of recognition. Not fear. Not anger. Just a kind of tragic resignation, as if this creature knew it was nothing more than a warning to others.

  A warning he was receiving.

  Davorin turned away, signaling that the lesson was over.

  — Come. You need to see.

  Marc cast one last glance at the cell. The dying man—the man—didn't move again. Maybe it was already too late. Maybe he had simply exhausted the last remnants of energy he had for that desperate gesture, that final effort to communicate with a world that had already forgotten him.

  As Marc followed Davorin down the corridor, the smell of metal and rotting flesh clung to his skin like a promise.

  The corridor plunged deeper, the air growing hotter. The walls were now covered in a fine layer of soot, and in places, black fingerprints—like men had tried to cling to them as they passed. Davorin walked with a determined step, as if he knew every stone, every curve of this subterranean labyrinth.

  Marc, on the other hand, advanced with calculated wariness, his senses on alert. The atmosphere was different here. Heavier. As if the air itself was thick with something tangible, almost solid.

  — We're close, Davorin said without turning around.

  Marc didn't need to ask to what. The smell told him already.

  A dull, pulsing heat, like the breath of a sleeping beast, reached them before they even turned the last corner. Then came the sound: a steady, deep hammering that resonated in the bones long before it reached the ears. Clang. Clang. Clang. A hypnotic, relentless rhythm, like the beat of a mechanical heart. And over it, sometimes, a stifled groan, a rattle, a hoarse curse.

  They emerged into a vast vaulted chamber, lit by the red glow of four monumental furnaces arranged in a square at the center of the room. The walls, black with soot, were punctuated by niches where tools were piled—hammers of different sizes, tongs, chisels, files—all covered in a fine layer of metallic dust.

  From the ceiling, chains hung, some ending in hooks, others in empty rings, as if waiting. The air vibrated with heat, each breath burning Marc's lungs like a sip of strong alcohol.

  But it wasn't the furnaces that held his attention.

  It was the men.

  A dozen, maybe fifteen, lined up before the anvils, shirtless, their skin glistening with sweat and coal dust. Their muscles bulged with effort, taut as cables about to snap. Their arms raised and lowered heavy hammers, striking the incandescent metal on the anvils with mechanical precision.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Their faces were gaunt, their eyes ringed with black, their lips cracked. Some bore fresh scars—burns, cuts—like medals from an endless battle. None spoke. None looked up. They struck. Again. Always.

  — The Ferros don't forge all their metal here, Davorin explained, his voice barely audible over the din. — Just the Blood-Iron. The rest is for weapons, tools.

  He gestured broadly at the men and their anvils.

  — The forge of the damned.

  Marc stepped forward, his eyes drawn to a detail he had initially missed. Each blacksmith wore a collar—a Torq, but not like those of ordinary slaves. These were thick, made of raw iron, riveted to the neck like a second spine. And they weren't smooth. Patterns were engraved on them: spirals, broken lines, symbols Marc didn't recognize but that gave him goosebumps. Curses, perhaps. Or marks of ownership.

  — Not free, Marc tried in Korp.

  — No, Davorin replied. — Criminals. Traitors. Vektors who fled. Ferros who cheated on the metal. Skribor... lied in the records. Their punishment: to forge Blood-Iron.

  One of the blacksmiths—a man with shoulders as broad as a bull's, his skin marked by years of burns—finally looked up. His gaze met Marc's, and in his bloodshot eyes, Marc saw something like pure, concentrated hatred. As if this man had distilled all his rage, all his shame, into a single expression. Then he lowered his eyes again and struck. Clang. The sound echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap.

  — Two, maybe five. Their hands petrify quickly with Blood-Iron. Look.

  Marc followed his gaze. The blacksmiths' hands were no longer quite hands. The knuckles were thickened, covered in a grayish crust that recalled the dying man's skin in the cell. Some fingers seemed fused together, as if the flesh had melted and then hardened around the bone. Yet they continued to strike. Again. Always.

  Davorin let out a joyless laugh.

  He approached one of the furnaces, where a young man—barely more than a teenager—blew on the embers with a leather pipe. His face was covered in soot, his eyes wide, as if he saw things the others didn't.

  — A lesson, Davorin finished in Korp again. For the others. For us. For you.

  Marc felt a weight settle on his shoulders. It wasn't pity. It wasn't even anger. It was a cold understanding, the realization that on Akheros, everything—absolutely everything—had a purpose. Even suffering. Even death.

  — The Blood-Iron forged here is better, Davorin said in French, turning to him. — The purest. The hardest. Tempered in their own lives. Their sweat. Their blood.

  He searched for the word, frowning.

  — A curse. Or a blessing. The Sarkh call it "the soul of the metal."

  Marc watched the blacksmiths. Their movements were synchronized, almost ritualistic, like a macabre dance. Their hammers fell in rhythm, each strike sending up sparks that died before touching the ground. Their faces were empty. No anger for most. Not even resignation. Just absolute concentration, as if each blow was a prayer, a plea, a final attempt to give meaning to their fall.

  — And when they can no longer strike? Marc asked in French.

  Davorin didn’t answer right away. He waited until one of the blacksmiths—a gray-haired man, his skin covered in spiral-shaped scars—suddenly collapsed, his knees hitting the ground with a sharp crack. No one moved to help him. No one slowed their own rhythm. The old man stayed there, kneeling, his hands still clenched around his hammer, as if refusing to let go even in defeat.

  — We throw them into the furnaces, Davorin said, his voice as neutral as if he were talking about recycling a worn-out tool. — Their ashes feed the fire. Their bones become charcoal. Nothing is wasted.

  Marc's nails dig into his palms. It wasn’t rage. Not yet. It was tension, like before a fight, when the body knows violence is inevitable but the time hasn’t yet come.

  — Is this your justice?

  Davorin looked at him, and for the first time, something resembling irritation crossed his expression.

  — No, he replied. — Survival. The price to pay for cowardice. Or the dangers of lying.

  He stepped closer to Marc, close enough for Marc to smell the ash and sweat emanating from him.

  — Here, everything has meaning. Pain. Death.

  He gestured broadly at the blacksmiths, the furnaces, the chains.

  — ...Otherwise. Men become weak...

  He struck the stone with his fist, making the dust on the walls tremble.

  — ...the walls fall.

  Silence. Then Davorin turned away, signaling that the visit was over.

  — Come. We need to go back up.

  Marc cast one last glance at the blacksmiths. One of them—the youngest, the one blowing on the embers—looked up at him. Their eyes met, and in the boy’s gaze, Marc saw a question. Not a plea. A question.

  Do you understand?

  Marc didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

  But as he followed Davorin toward the exit, he carried with him the weight of that question, like a new chain around his neck.

  And for the first time since arriving on Akheros, he wondered if he was the barbarian.

  Or if it was them.

  All of them.

  The torchlight danced on the stone walls, casting shifting shadows that seemed to stretch like greedy fingers.

  Marc sat on the cold floor of the cell, legs crossed, forearms resting on his knees. The day’s dust still clung to his skin, mixed with dried sweat and traces of forge soot.

  He ran a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of metallic particles embedded in his pores beneath his fingers. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of furnaces and the sweat of men who worked without rest.

  He spat on the ground.

  A metallic taste in his mouth, like a shadow lingering over him. It wasn’t just the air, or the food—it was as if this world was trying to seep into him.

  He narrowed his eyes, focused, and held his hands up before him, palms open toward the ceiling. The flickering light of the torches played across his skin, revealing the reddish streaks of dust that striped his forearms, his knuckles. He rubbed his fingers together, as if trying to brush away invisible filth.

  Nothing. No gray patches. No blackening veins.

  He slowly clenched his fist, feeling the tendons tighten beneath his skin. His strength was still there, intact, anchored in muscles forged under heavier gravity, in a world that demanded more. He had spent years carrying loads that would have broken a man from here, marching kilometers with a forty-kilo pack on his back, sleeping on harder ground than this.

  His body was a terrestrial machine, built to endure, to resist. Maybe that would make a difference.

  Maybe this density, this mass accumulated under a heavier sky, would give him an advantage here, in this world where men seemed almost ethereal, where their bones were less dense, their flesh less resilient.

  Or maybe it wouldn’t matter at all.

  He exhaled slowly, his eyes fixed on his knuckles. Thirty years. Davorin had spoken of thirty years for men here to become living statues, petrified by their own blood, their veins turning into metal veins. Seven years for the first serious signs to appear—here—for the skin to begin hardening, for the joints to stiffen like rusted iron. A year, sometimes less, to feel the change setting in, for the body to begin rebelling against its own flesh.

  But he wasn’t from here.

  He hadn’t been born under this copper sky, hadn’t breathed this thick air since childhood. His blood was different. His bones were different. Maybe that difference would protect him. Maybe his body, forged in a world where gravity was unforgiving, where every step was a battle, would resist this slow invasion longer.

  Or maybe it wouldn’t matter at all.

  He closed his eyes, listening to the ragged breathing of the other sleeping slaves, the scratching—of rodents?—in the dark corners, the distant creaking of the blacksmiths’ chains as they worked on, somewhere in the depths of the Pit.

  The other slaves had already lain down, curled in worn blankets, their exhausted bodies seeking respite in sleep. Some snored; others moaned in their sleep, haunted by dreams they would never share.

  Marc, however, remained seated, his back against the stone wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. He wasn’t sleeping. He couldn’t find sleep.

  The cell was cramped, stifling, the air stagnant like a pool of stagnant water. The torches fixed to the walls flickered weakly, their shifting light casting shadows that danced across the sleeping faces.

  Marc watched these shadows. He listened to the nighttime sounds of the Pit: the breath of bellows in distant forges, the murmur of voices stifled by exhaustion.

  He had spent nights like this before. Nights where sleep was a luxury, where every moment of rest had to be stolen between missions, battles, forced marches. But here, it was different. Here, there was no mission to accomplish, no clear objective, no front line to hold. There was only this waiting, this time stretching like over-taut skin, ready to tear.

  He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to focus.

  His mind kept returning to Davorin’s words, to what he had seen in the forges, to the looks of the men who worked there, men who seemed to accept their fate as an immutable law.

  Do you understand? the young blacksmith had seemed to ask, the one whose eyes still held a glimmer of defiance despite his exhaustion. Marc hadn’t answered. He hadn’t known what to say. Because no, he didn’t understand. Not yet.

  But he was beginning to see the outlines of this world.

  A world where everything had meaning, where every action, every pain, every death was accounted for, weighed, evaluated. A world where weakness wasn’t an excuse, but a condemnation. A world where the walls held only because the men who built them believed in their necessity.

  And him, in all this?

  He was nothing. A stranger. A man from another world, thrown here without reason, without purpose, without allegiance. A man whose body might be more resilient, whose bones might be denser, but who knew neither the rules nor the rituals of this place.

  He opened his eyes, staring into the darkness before him.

  He didn’t have a plan. Not yet.

  But he had a method.

  Observe.

  Learn.

  Wait.

  He had spent years surviving in hostile environments, analyzing his enemies’ weaknesses, turning every obstacle into an opportunity. He wasn’t a born warrior, not a hero forged by this world’s gods.

  He was a soldier. A legionnaire. A man who knew that survival wasn’t a matter of strength, but of discipline.

  And discipline, he knew that.

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped before his face. He needed to understand the rules of this game. The real rules, not the scraps thrown to him like crumbs to a starving dog. He needed to see how men here earned their freedom, how they climbed the hierarchy, how they survived without breaking. He needed to find a flaw, a lever, something he could use.

  Because one thing was certain: he wouldn’t remain a slave.

  He stood slowly, silently, and approached the cell’s entrance. The guards were there, somewhere in the shadows, but they paid no attention to him. They didn’t even see him. To them, he was just another Karsak, another exhausted body, another number in the long list of slaves passing through here.

  But they were wrong.

  He wasn’t a number.

  He was a man.

  And here, men could rise.

  Or die.

  He hadn’t yet decided which it would be.

  But he knew one thing: he wouldn’t stay still, waiting for the world to decide for him.

  He stepped back, returning to sit against the wall, his eyes wide open in the darkness.