As the platform groaned its way down, a new world opened up below them. Sound came first - the rhythmic thunk, thunk of pickaxes biting metal.
Then came the light.
Not sunlight - that was a fairy tale down here, something the men dreamed of while they bled into the earth. Not firelight either. Fire ate air, and air was precious when you were buried this deep. The Empire wasn't stupid enough to suffocate its workforce before they'd finished dying slowly.
The light came from Winkers.
Captured in glass cages, the bio-luminescent bugs glowed with their own cold fire. The mages had fancy names for them - probably something with too many syllables and not enough sense. But down here, the folks called them Winkers. Simple name for a simple purpose. The bugs were tough little bastards, surviving on kitchen scraps and grain dust. Perfect for a place where everything else died quickly.
'Even the light is trapped down here.' Russ thought.
What the Winkers revealed was a sight to make the gods weep - if the gods gave a damn about holes in the ground filled with broken men.
A vast cavern stretched out before them, supported by pillars thick as ancient oaks. At the far end, dozens of tunnel mouths yawned like hungry throats, each one leading deeper into the mountain's belly. Some led to riches. Others led to cave-ins. Most led to both, eventually.
This was Quarry Eleven.
The largest iron ore mine in the Empire. Hell, maybe the largest in all of Astralis. The kind of place that built kingdoms and buried the men who dug them out.
It was the Pride of the Empire, built on bones.
But before Russ could appreciate the engineering marvel that was slowly killing hundreds of men, his remaining eye caught something more interesting.
A crowd.
Men pressed together like wolves around fresh meat, voices rising in that particular way that meant blood was being spilt.
When he squinted - hard to focus with just the one eye - he could see what had their attention.
Bodies on the ground. Several of them. Most were painted red, some clutching their groins, like they were praying to the gods of pain, while a few others had found the mercy of unconsciousness.
And in the middle of it all was… a bloody little bastard.
That's the first word that came to his mind. A boy, maybe sixteen or eighteen - hard to tell when they all looked like scarecrows. He was perched on a man's chest, fist wrapped around something that might once have been a chunk of ore. Now it was just another tool for painting faces red.
The boy was hurt too - blood-traced lines down his cheek like war paint. But the wetness coating his hands? That wasn't his.
The man beneath him looked like he'd been kissed by a sledgehammer. Repeatedly. His face was a red ruin, consciousness long since fled for safer ground.
A chill ran down Russ's spine. Not fear - he'd seen worse in the capital's dungeons, much worse. The boy looked half-starved and completely mad, but that wasn't what made Russ's pulse quicken.
It was the eyes.
Crimson as fresh blood, burning with the kind of madness that made smart men step back and stupid men step forward. They reminded Russ of something. Someone.
He knew a man with similar eyes. Not the appearance but the intent behind them. The kind of eyes that saw opportunity where others saw only horror.
'Now there's something interesting.'
His lips curled upward before he could stop them.
Whatever thoughts were brewing in his skull got cut short by Sarkas, who apparently decided this was the moment to remember he was in charge.
"What the hell is going on here!"
The captain's voice cracked like a whip across the cavern, bouncing off stone walls, and everyone, including Eighty Seven, turned towards the descending elevator.
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Captain Sarkas was fuming.
His face had turned that particular shade of purple that meant someone was about to have a very bad day. The fact that this chaos had erupted while he was hosting Russ was bad enough-but being forced to waste a precious essence stone to power the elevator, which was meant to run only twice a day, made it a hundred times worse.
"You little shit!" he roared, stomping out of the elevator, his voice echoing off the cavern walls. "I told you to stay put last time, didn't I?"
The soldiers scrambled behind him, boots clattering against stone as they tried to keep pace with their furious captain.
Eighty-Seven stopped his methodical beating and looked up, blood dripping from his knuckles. "They were the ones who picked a fight with me." He spat out blood, the metallic taste coating his words. "They wanted the ore I mined-I just gave it to them."
He threw the blood-stained ore at their feet, climbing off his victim's chest and wiping his knuckles on his torn shirt.
The crowd parted like water before a ship's prow as Sarkas stormed through, his face purple with rage. The watching miners scattered to safer distances, suddenly finding their pickaxes fascinating to examine.
"I don't give a flying fuck who started what!" Sarkas roared, spittle flying from his lips. "Look at this mess! Five men down because of you!"
"They got what they came for, didn't they?" Eighty-Seven gestured at the scattered ore with mock politeness. "I'm a generous man, Captain."
One of the unconscious men groaned, trying to roll over. Blood pooled beneath his ruined face.
"Generous?" Sarkas' voice climbed higher. "You call this generous? These men won't be able to work for weeks!"
"Then maybe they shouldn't have tried to steal from me."
The casual way he said like discussing the weather, made Sarkas even more furious. The captain looked ready to explode. His hand went to his belt, fingers wrapping around his baton. But then his eyes flicked back toward the elevator, where Russ stood watching with obvious amusement.
Sarkas forced his breathing to steady. He couldn't lose face in front of a paying guest, could he?
"Right," he said through gritted teeth. "That's enough entertainment for today. Guards! Drag this little shit to the black cells. Three days. No food, just water. Maybe that'll teach him some manners."
Two soldiers moved forward, but Eighty-Seven held up a hand.
"I can walk."
He started toward the tunnel that led to the cells, wiping his knuckles on his shirt. The soldiers flanked him, hands on their weapons, but he didn't seem to care. His crimson eyes stayed fixed straight ahead as he passed the elevator, completely ignoring Russ's presence.
Then he was gone, swallowed by the tunnel's darkness.
"And get these wounded fools patched up!" Sarkas bellowed at the remaining soldiers. "Use whatever bandages we've got. If they die, it comes out of the weekly quota!"
The men scrambled to obey, dragging the unconscious bodies toward the makeshift medical station-really just a corner with some dirty cloth and rotgut alcohol that passed for antiseptic down here.
Sarkas turned back to Russ, his face still flushed with embarrassment and anger.
But the man seemed… entertained. That scarred face wore something that might have been amusement.
Sarkas shifted uncomfortably. He felt like he'd been caught naked among madmen, but he didn't show that one his face.
"My apologies, Sir Russ. That boy… he's been nothing but trouble since he arrived. Complete savage."
"Is he now?" Russ's voice carried genuine interest. "How long has he been here?"
"Six years." Sarkas shook his head. "A menace, I tell you! Most men learn to keep their heads down after the first beating. But not him. Every few weeks, same damn thing."
Russ nodded thoughtfully, watching the soldiers tend to the wounded with the kind of care usually reserved for broken equipment.
"He must have been quite young when he arrived."
"Barely twelve, if I remember right. Little bastard looked like a starved rat when they dragged him down here."
While Sarkas reminisced, Russ grew curious about something else.
"What did a twelve-year-old do to earn a place in the Empire's deepest pit?"
Sarkas let out a bitter laugh. "The mad little shit threatened to kill a noble. In public. Had the balls to look Lord Jarang straight in the eye and tell him he'd cut his throat."
Russ's remaining eyebrow raised slightly. "Lord Jarang? The Lord Jarang?"
"The very same. Should've been executed on the spot, but maybe Lord Jarang found it amusing-wanted him to have a slow death instead. So he sent the bastard to the mines." Sarkas spat on the ground. "Six years later, and the boy's still refusing to die proper."
Sarkas cursed his fate silently and turned back toward the elevator.
"Shall we proceed to your quarters, Sir Russ? I'm sure you're tired after your… journey."
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