A group of people wake up in video game world and are forced to work together to survive and find out how to escape.

Chapter 41 Caged.

A rough shake jolts me awake. My eyes snap open, and for a split second, I forget where I am.

The wooden walls of the cart, the heavy chains on my wrists, the dim torchlight flickering outside—it all comes rushing back in an instant.

I glance to my side and see the person next to me, a man with tired eyes and a wary expression, pulling his hand away after waking me. “We’ve stopped,” he mutters under his breath.

I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep.

I sit up quickly, my body tense as I glance around. Everyone’s awake now, shifting, whispering, waiting. The air is thick with tension, heavy with the unspoken question hanging over us all.

Where are we?

Outside, I hear the muffled voices of guards, the sound of boots on dirt. A horse snorts, restless.

I take a slow breath, my heart pounding. This is it. Whatever’s next… it starts now.

The carriage door creaks open, letting in a rush of cold night air. A guard steps inside, his armor clinking softly as he moves. Without a word, he kneels and begins disconnecting our chains from the floor, one by one.

The metal links fall away with a dull clang, but the cuffs remain tight around our wrists.

The other prisoners shift uneasily, exchanging wary glances but saying nothing. No one dares to resist—not yet.

The guard finishes unhooking the last chain and steps back. “Out,” he orders, his voice flat and emotionless.

No one moves right away. Then, slowly, the first prisoner stands, stepping toward the open door. One by one, the others follow, moving cautiously into the night.

I take a deep breath and push myself up, my legs stiff from hours of sitting.

I step outside.

The night air is sharp against my skin as I step out of the carriage, my boots hitting uneven dirt. The torchlight casts long shadows across the ground, and as my eyes adjust, I take in our surroundings.

A high metal fence topped with jagged spikes looms ahead, enclosing what looks like a sprawling work camp. Several small, worn-down buildings are scattered inside, their walls battered by time. Guards stand along the perimeter, their weapons resting at their sides—but not far from reach.

Beyond the fence, the land stretches into rocky hills and dense forest, the terrain rough and unforgiving. Even if someone did escape, where would they even go?

The other prisoners shuffle forward, silent, their faces grim. The ones who had spoken in the cart now look even more resigned, as if seeing this place confirmed whatever fear they’d been holding onto.

A large man in dark armor stands near the entrance, his arms crossed. His face is partially covered by a helmet, but I can still see his piercing eyes scanning each of us as we’re led toward him.

The guard who unchained us from the cart steps forward. “New arrivals,” he reports.

The armored man lets out a low hum, stepping closer. “We’ll see if they’re worth the trouble.”

His gaze flickers over me for a brief moment before moving on. For now, I’m just another prisoner.

“Get them processed,” he says, his tone bored but firm. “Then put them to work.”

Work. The word settles like a stone in my stomach.

The guards begin pushing us forward toward the entrance of the camp, the cold metal gates creaking open.

I glance around, my mind already racing. First, I need to figure out what ‘work’ actually means. Then, I need to figure out how the hell I’m getting out of here.

The gates groan as they swing open, revealing the camp in full. The inside is even worse than it looked from the outside. Rows of makeshift tents and wooden shacks line the edges, barely standing. The ground is packed dirt, uneven and cold beneath my boots. A few torches are scattered around, flickering weakly, casting long shadows against the rough wooden buildings.

People move through the camp in slow, exhausted motions—some carrying tools, others hunched over in conversation.

How long have they been here? I wonder, my stomach twisting.

We’re shoved forward again, the guards moving us toward a larger structure near the center. It’s built sturdier than the others, with metal reinforcements on the doors. A processing area?

The group stops just outside the entrance, and one of the guards barks an order. “One at a time. You,” he points at the first prisoner, “inside.”

The man hesitates for half a second before stepping forward and disappearing through the doors.

I glance at the others, tension thick in the air. No one speaks. No one tries to run.

Shade’s voice finally returns, low and edged with amusement. “Not exactly five-star accommodations.”

I almost roll my eyes. “Not the time, Shade.”

“No? Because from where I’m standing—or rather, where you’re standing—you don’t have many options left.”

I clench my jaw. “I’m working on it.”

The door swings open again, and another prisoner is pulled inside. The line moves forward.

My heart pounds as I glance toward the fences, the guards, the tired prisoners moving like ghosts through the camp.

I need a plan. Fast.

The second the guard’s grip loosens, I bolt.

I don’t think—I just move. My legs push off the dirt, and for a split second, I think maybe, just maybe, I can make it.

I don’t.

A guard grabs me almost instantly, his hands like iron as he yanks me backward. My feet leave the ground for a moment before I’m slammed hard into the dirt. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, and I cough, struggling to push myself up.

The gate groans behind me, then slams shut with a deafening clang.

The only way out. Gone.

The guard barely spares me a second glance as he hauls me up and shoves me roughly back into the line. My wrists throb from where the cuffs dig into my skin, but I barely notice. My mind is racing, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

The line moves forward, one prisoner at a time disappearing into the building. I barely register what’s happening until suddenly, it’s my turn.

I step through the doorway, and before I can react—

Snap.

A cold metal collar clamps around my neck.

I jolt, my hands instinctively reaching for it, but the thick cuffs make it almost impossible to get a good grip. The collar is heavy, the same dark, dull gray as the chains around my wrists.

I glance up and see the others ahead of me, already collared, standing in silent submission.

Great. As if the cuffs weren’t bad enough.

I grit my teeth, my breathing shallow. My wrists are locked. My neck is locked. How much worse can this get?

Shade’s voice drifts into my mind, smooth as ever. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find out soon.”

The line moves forward, and I watch as one prisoner after another has their cuffs removed. The dull clink of metal hitting the floor should be a relief, should mean something—freedom, even in a limited sense.

But the moment mine are unlocked, I know something’s wrong.

I barely get a second to flex my hands before I try to move, try to do something—anything—but the second Shade attempts to help…

No power, no shifting shadows, no creeping sense of control like before.

“What—?” I start to think, but Shade cuts in, his tone dark and tight.

“They’re enchanted too,” he mutters, his voice laced with irritation.

My fingers twitch toward the collar, panic tightening in my chest.

The cold metal against my skin suddenly feels heavier, like a chain around my throat even tighter than the cuffs had been.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stay calm, to think. The cuffs were just a temporary restraint. But the collars?

These are meant to stay.

I guess this is how they deal with rogue witches or wizards, I think bitterly, fingers brushing against the metal collar.

The realization sinks in, and my mind flashes back to the quest we claimed right before breaking into the castle—the rogue sorcerer mission.

It suddenly feels a lot less like a coincidence.

If they use these things to control magic users, what does that mean for me? I never had magic in the traditional sense, but Shade’s powers—my powers—were something else entirely. And now?

Now they’re completely gone.

I try to push down the rising dread as the line keeps moving forward. Whatever’s waiting for us ahead… I have no choice but to face it.

As we move forward, the tension in the air thickens. The guards say nothing, their presence enough to keep everyone in line as we’re led deeper into the camp.

Eventually, we step into a large, dimly lit room lined with rows of wooden bunks. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and damp wood, the faint creak of beds settling as other prisoners shift restlessly.

A man stands at the front of the room, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as he looks us over.

“Welcome to your new home,” he says, his voice flat, void of sympathy. “Work begins at dawn.”

I swallow hard, my gaze flicking to the others around me. Some barely react, like they already knew what was coming. Others stiffen, their hands clenching into fists.

Looks like that guy in the cart was right. The mine. Just as bad as he’d said.

Lovely.

The man doesn’t say anything else. He just turns and walks out, leaving the heavy silence behind him. The door slams shut, and the sound of a bolt sliding into place makes my stomach tighten.

We’re locked in.

I glance around the room again. The bunks are rough, barely more than wooden planks with thin straw mats on top. The walls are lined with faint scratches, marks from those who’ve been here before us.

The other prisoners start moving, some heading straight for the bunks, others sitting against the walls, resigned. No one talks. No one questions anything.

I hesitate before walking to one of the empty bunks and sitting down. The wood creaks under my weight, but it holds.

Shade’s voice finally returns, quieter than usual. “So. This is the part where you accept your fate, huh?”

“What exactly am I supposed to do, Shade?” I think bitterly, my hands curling into fists.

“I can’t overpower them. I can’t run. You can’t help me. What other options are there?”

Silence stretches between us for a moment before Shade exhales, the sound more thoughtful than amused for once.

“You’re not screwed,” he says, his voice quieter but firm. “You just don’t have an easy way out. There’s a difference.”

I scoff under my breath. “No, Shade. I’m screwed. Simple as that.”

The collar is tight around my throat, a constant reminder of just how powerless I am. No shadows, no tricks, no way to escape. Even if I made a break for it, the guards would put me down before I made it ten feet.

Shade is silent for a moment before he finally speaks again.

“So… you’re giving up, then?”

I grit my teeth. “That’s not what I said.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters. “Because sitting here and waiting for things to get worse sure sounds like giving up.”

I run a hand down my face, frustration boiling beneath the surface. “I don’t have a choice!”

“There’s always a choice,” Shade says smoothly. “You just don’t like your options yet.”

I press my head back against the wooden wall, exhaling sharply. “Fine. Then tell me, Shade. What’s the move? Because I don’t see one.”

Shade chuckles, but there’s no humor in it this time. “That’s the thing, Artemis. This time… you have to figure it out.”

“Of course I do.”

Of course, it’s on me to figure it out. It always is.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to do something—anything—but nothing comes.

Just this sinking, crushing feeling in my chest.

I exhale shakily and shut my eyes, trying to block it all out. The cold air, the rough wood beneath me, the weight of the collar around my neck.

Eventually, exhaustion wins. My body gives in before my mind does, and I fall into uneasy sleep.

A loud bang jolts me awake.

My eyes snap open, my heart hammering as I sit up too quickly, my muscles aching from the stiff wooden bunk. For a second, I don’t remember where I am again—then it all rushes back. The mine. The collar. The feeling of being trapped.

The door to the barracks swings open, slamming against the wall as a guard steps inside. Sunlight spills in behind him, too bright, too harsh after the dim torchlight of last night.

“Up,” he barks. “Work starts now.”

Around me, the other prisoners groan and shift, dragging themselves from their bunks with sluggish, resigned movements. No one protests. No one fights it.

I rub my face, forcing myself to take a deep breath.

I step up as the line moves, everyone being led through the same dim corridor as the day before. The cold stone walls feel even more suffocating now, closing in as we march forward.

Eventually, we reach an open space where the guards shove the prisoners toward a stack of rough, dark tan clothing—thin, worn, and already covered in dirt and sweat.

One by one, the people who arrived with me are forced to strip and change right there in the corridor, under the watchful eyes of the guards and the blank stares of the more seasoned prisoners. No privacy. No dignity.

The air is thick with discomfort, but no one protests.

Then it’s my turn.

I move quickly, pulling off the clothes I’d stolen from the castle and replacing them with the rough, scratchy prison uniform. The fabric is stiff, the fit awkward, but it doesn’t matter. None of this is about comfort. It’s about control.

Once I’m done, the guards snatch my old clothes from the floor and toss them onto a growing pile—just another reminder that whatever I had before is gone now.

The corridor finally opens up, and I step back into the harsh morning light. The air is thick with dust, and the cold bite of the night has already been replaced with a dry, heavy heat.

Now that I can actually see everything, the layout of the camp starts to make more sense.

Scattered across the area are more buildings, some small and barely holding together, others larger and more fortified. Some are complete unknowns, but a few are obvious—prisoner barracks, just like the one I came from. I see more prisoners being led out, their dull, ragged uniforms identical to mine.

And everyone—all of us—is being herded toward the same place.

A massive cave entrance looms ahead, carved into the base of a rocky hill. Its jagged mouth stretches wide, swallowing up the prisoners ahead as they disappear into the darkness inside.

I tighten my fists as we march forward, my collar weighing heavy around my throat. So this is it. This is where they send people to break.

But I’m not planning on breaking.

I’m planning on getting out.

It’s just a matter of time, right?

That’s what I tell myself. That no prison is inescapable. That there’s always a way out.

But then I look at some of the others.

The ones who have been here far longer than I have.

Their clothes, once the same dull tan as mine, are now almost black with dirt and sweat. Their faces are hollow, eyes dull, shoulders slumped with exhaustion that seems permanent. Some of them move on pure instinct, their steps slow, mechanical, like they’ve already accepted that this is the rest of their lives.

Like they don’t remember anything else.

A cold shiver runs down my spine.

How long does it take to get like that? Weeks? Months? Years?

I swallow hard, my fingers twitching at my sides. No. That’s not me. That’s not going to be me.

I force my eyes forward as we reach the cave’s mouth. The darkness swallows the prisoners ahead one by one.

No matter what it takes… I’m getting out of here.

The closer we get, the more the cave seems to swallow the light. The air is thick with dust and something else—something old, metallic. The scent of sweat and damp earth clings to everything.

As I step inside, the temperature drops slightly, but the relief is short-lived. The walls are rough and uneven, torchlight flickering against jagged rock. The tunnel slopes downward, opening into a massive chamber filled with movement.

The mine stretches out before me.

Wooden scaffolding lines the walls, prisoners moving up and down makeshift ladders, some hauling sacks filled with heavy stones, others chipping away at the rock with rusted pickaxes. The sound is overwhelming—metal striking stone, the distant creak of a wooden support beam, the occasional sharp bark of a guard.

I scan the area quickly. There are no obvious exits other than the way we came in. No breaks in the walls. No weak spots.

A guard steps forward, holding a small sack. He starts handing them out to the new arrivals—inside are tools, mostly pickaxes and chisels, some of them so rusted I doubt they’re even effective.

When he reaches me, he barely even looks at me before shoving a pickaxe into my hands. “Work or starve. Your choice.”

I grit my teeth, tightening my grip on the handle.

What am I supposed to do? Just hit random rocks?

I glance around at the other prisoners, watching how they work. Some are chipping away at the walls, others hauling heavy sacks toward a cart near the center of the chamber. No one speaks unless absolutely necessary.

I turn the pickaxe over in my hands, the wood rough against my fingers. It’s dull, worn down from who knows how many years of use.

A guard steps past, barely sparing me a glance. No instructions, no explanation. Just the unspoken expectation that I’ll figure it out.

Fine.

I move toward an empty section of the wall and raise the pickaxe. My muscles protest, still sore from the rough chains and sleep, but I swing anyway.

The dull thunk of metal against stone reverberates through my arms, and barely anything chips off.

Great. This is pointless.

Shade’s voice hums in the back of my mind, amused. “Not much of a miner, are you?”

“Shut up,” I think back, adjusting my grip. “Like I have a choice.”

I glance around again, this time looking past the prisoners, past the guards. Searching.

If I’m stuck here, I need to figure out how this place works.

Eventually, the endless sound of pickaxes against stone comes to a halt as the guards start moving through the tunnels. One of them steps forward and barks out, “Enough. Time to eat.”

The prisoners around me don’t hesitate. They lower their tools without complaint, moving in quiet, practiced motions as they begin heading toward the exit.

I follow, my arms already aching from the repetitive swings. The weight of the collar around my neck feels heavier with every step.

We’re led back up, the air growing warmer as we leave the depths of the mine. When we emerge, the brightness of the sun is almost blinding after hours underground.

The guards direct us into a separate building, larger than the barracks but just as rough. Inside, long wooden tables stretch across the room, most of the benches already filled with prisoners from earlier shifts. The air is thick with the scent of stale bread and something vaguely resembling stew.

No one speaks. The line moves quickly, each prisoner given a bowl and a chunk of bread before being sent to sit.

When I reach the front, I take my portion without a word. The stew is watery, barely more than broth with a few chunks of something floating in it. The bread is hard, dry.

I glance around as I move to sit, watching the others. They eat in silence, heads down, focused only on finishing before the guards decide mealtime is over.

I grip the spoon tightly, my stomach twisting—not just from hunger, but from the quiet, crushing reality of this place.

This isn’t just a prison.

It’s a slow death.

The world begins to blur.

Days pass, but I stop keeping track. It’s all the same—wake up, work, eat, work, eat, sleep. Over and over and over.

The first few days, I try to pay attention, looking for patterns, weaknesses, something that could help me. But the exhaustion sets in fast. The endless swings of the pickaxe, the weight of the collar, the rough, sleepless nights. It wears me down, bit by bit.

Conversations are rare. The prisoners barely talk, only muttering when necessary. The guards never explain anything, just barking orders, keeping us moving like we’re parts of a machine.

And worst of all… nothing changes.

No opportunities. No mistakes I can exploit. No moments where I can act.

Just the slow, grinding routine of survival.

Even Shade is quieter than usual. He doesn’t taunt, doesn’t joke. He’s watching, waiting, just like me.

But for how long?

How long before I stop waiting?

How long before I stop hoping?

How long has it already been?

I can’t tell anymore. Days? Weeks? It all blurs together, one endless cycle of exhaustion and routine.

But something’s changed.

My swings feel stronger, my body moving more efficiently with the pickaxe. The first few days, every motion had felt awkward, forced. Now, it’s instinct. The weight of the tool, the rhythm of the strikes—it all comes easier.

Has it been long enough for me to actually gain muscle?

Or am I just imagining it?

I glance down at my arms. They don’t look much different, but there’s a slight firmness there, a tension in my shoulders that wasn’t there before.

Even if I am getting stronger, what does it matter? I’m still just another prisoner, stuck in the same routine, doing the same damn thing every day.

I tighten my grip on the pickaxe, exhaling slowly. It has to matter. It has to mean something.

Because if nothing changes, if this is all there is…

I don’t know how much longer I can take it.

Every day, a handful of people turn something in—something ‘valuable.’

I don’t know what they get for it. Extra food? A better bed? Maybe something else entirely. But whatever it is, it’s the only time I’ve seen anyone in this place actually look happy.

Just for a moment.

It’s rare. Most of us chip away at the rock endlessly, finding nothing but dust and exhaustion. But the ones who get lucky—who pull something worthwhile from the depths of this place—get ‘rewarded.’

I haven’t been lucky.

The one time I thought I found something, it was just a chunk of metal. They took it, but it barely earned me a second glance. Just another piece tossed into a growing pile of materials—useful, but not valuable.

I don’t know what they’re actually looking for.

But if I ever find it, maybe—just maybe—I can use it to my advantage.

More days pass. Maybe weeks.

I’ve given up on escaping anytime soon. The guards don’t slip up, don’t make mistakes. No one has left since I’ve been here—not a single prisoner freed, transferred, anything.

We wake up, we work, we eat, we sleep. That’s it.

The best I can hope for now is an outside force—bandits, monsters, something breaking in. Because nothing inside this place is going to give me an opening.

I tighten my grip on the pickaxe, my swings coming easily now. The motions are automatic. My body is stronger, but my mind feels heavier.

Trapped.

It’s a slow kind of death. Not a violent one, not a dramatic one. Just an endless, grinding fade.

And every day that passes, I wonder—how long before I stop caring about getting out?

Time keeps slipping by, and my body keeps changing with it.

My hair, once barely past my ear when I first became Alex again, has grown longer, now brushing below it in uneven strands. No mirrors here, but I can feel it when I run a hand through it, when the sweat makes it stick to my skin during long hours in the mines.

And then there’s the beard.

Rough, scratchy, and unkempt, it’s a constant reminder of how long I’ve been here. Another sign that I’ve been trapped long enough for the world to leave its mark on me.

I don’t know if I look stronger, or just worn down.

But either way, the person I was when I got here—the one who still thought they’d find an easy way out—is gone.

More days pass, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever escape anymore.

At this point, it has to have been weeks, maybe even months since I’ve seen the others, right?

My arms are visibly bigger now, the muscle built from endless hours of swinging the pickaxe. The weight that once made my arms ache in the mornings is nothing now—only by the time we stop for the day do I even feel it anymore.

But strength doesn’t mean freedom.

I still haven’t found anything valuable. I still haven’t found a way out.

Yesterday, an older man collapsed in the tunnels. He didn’t get back up.

The guards didn’t yell at him, didn’t kick him or try to wake him. They just dragged him away without a word.

This morning, there was no sign of him. No explanation. No one asked.

I can’t help but wonder what happened.

And I can’t help but wonder—when will it be me?

Then another man broke today.

He was sobbing, barely able to hold his pickaxe as he begged—pleaded—to go home, to see his kids. His voice cracked, raw with desperation.

No one said anything.

The guards didn’t even acknowledge him, just kept watching, waiting. And the prisoners… they barely looked at him. Like they’d seen it before. Like they knew what came next.

I kept working. Not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t know what else to do.

Eventually, his sobs faded. His words turned to quiet, broken whispers. And by the time we were led back up for the night, he was gone.

Just like the old man.

No one asked where he went.

And I didn’t either.

I can’t help but wonder—why me?

Why was I taken and not Kaida?

It’s not because I’m a guy again. There are women here, plenty of them. This place doesn’t discriminate when it comes to throwing people away.

So then… what is it?

My mind keeps circling back to that moment—the drink, the transformation, the way my body shifted back into Alex.

Does the game even know I’m here anymore?

The thought sends a cold shiver down my spine.

The moment I became Alex again I could feel something was different, and it wasn’t just my body. It was like I could feel the lack of what was there before, whatever abilities the game had given me felt… missing.

If the game stopped tracking me the moment I became myself again… if it no longer sees me as a player… then what does it see me as?

My grip tightens around the edge of my cot.

Does the game consider me just some NPC now?

It would explain why I was taken but not her.

I mean… the game wouldn’t throw a player in jail for this long, right?

Everything we’d done before had felt like part of some designed experience—something a normal player could stumble into and deal with. Or at least, that’s how it had seemed to me before.

But then again… this game was supposed to be incredibly realistic. Maybe this is just one more way it’s realistic. Actions have consequences. Maybe normal players could get arrested too.

But not like this right?

If I wasn’t trapped in the game, I could’ve had a friend help me. Maybe there’s some option to pay to get out, some real money escape route. Options I certainly don’t have while stuck in here.

I swallow hard, my hands clenching into fists.

So what does that mean for me?

Whether the game thinks I’m a player an NPC or whatever, I’m trapped.

I swing.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The pickaxe bites into the rock, sending dust into the air, coating my hands, my arms, my lungs. I don’t stop. I don’t think. I just move.

It’s all I can do.

My muscles burn, but I barely feel it anymore. My body has adapted, pushing through the ache, through the exhaustion. The rhythm is automatic—swing, pull back, swing again.

I don’t know how long I’ve been doing this. I don’t know how much longer I’ll keep doing it.

But at this point, it’s the only thing keeping me from breaking.

I swing again—thunk.

The sound is different.

I freeze, my grip tightening on the pickaxe. It wasn’t the usual dull crack of metal against stone. It was hollow, almost… sharp.

Slowly, I pull back, peering at the spot where my pickaxe struck.

The rock looks the same as before—dark, rough, layered with dust. But as I lean in closer, I see it.

A crack.

A thin, jagged break in the stone, just barely visible under the torchlight.

My pulse quickens. That’s not normal.

I glance around quickly. The other workers are still focused on their own sections, heads down, moving like machines. The guards aren’t paying close attention.

What did I just hit?

I tighten my grip on the pickaxe, flipping it to the side. The blunt edge isn’t made for prying, but I wedge it into the crack anyway, pressing down, testing the weakness.

The rock shifts.

Barely—but enough.

My heart pounds as I push harder, twisting the handle, trying to force the crack wider. The stone resists at first, but then—

A small snap.

Dust spills from the fracture as the crack deepens, widening ever so slightly. There’s something behind it—something different.

I glance around quickly. No one’s paying attention.

I press in harder, muscles straining as I try to break it open. If there’s a weakness in this place—if there’s anything behind this wall—

I need to find out what it is.

I push harder, twisting the handle, my breath tight as I strain against the rock.

Come on.

The crack widens, the stone grinding against itself. A few more desperate twists, and then—

Snap.

A fist-sized chunk of rock breaks loose, tumbling to the ground at my feet. I freeze, heart hammering, waiting to see if anyone notices.

No reaction.

I exhale slowly and peer into the small gap left behind.

Darkness.

But not just the shadowy depths of the mine—empty space.

The wall isn’t solid. There’s something behind it.

Adrenaline spikes through me. What the hell is this? Another tunnel? An air pocket? An exit?

I don’t know. But I need to find out.

I grip the pickaxe tightly, angling it against the crack. One more swing—just enough to widen the opening.

If this is anything more than just another dead end…

Then maybe, finally, I’ve found my way out.

I take one last glance around. The guards aren’t watching. The other prisoners are too busy working. No one notices as I press my hands against the rough edges of the crack and squeeze through.

The jagged stone scrapes against my arms as I push myself into the opening. It’s tight at first, but after a few feet, the space widens just enough for me to move more easily.

Best case? I’ve found a way out.

Worst case? I’ll say I slipped in by accident.

I take a slow breath, my pulse pounding in my ears as I press forward into the darkness. Dust fills the air, thick and dry, clinging to my skin as I crawl deeper. The tunnel—or whatever this is—feels untouched, the rock around me rough and uneven.

I don’t know where it leads.

But wherever it is…

It’s somewhere the guards don’t know about.

The passage is narrow, the air thick with dust as I move forward. My fingers brush over jagged stone, feeling out the uneven surface as I inch deeper into the unknown.

The darkness is absolute. No torches, no flickering light, just an endless void stretching ahead of me. My breathing feels too loud, every small movement echoing faintly off the tight walls.

I have no idea where this leads.

But I keep moving.

A few feet in, the passage starts to slope downward. My heart pounds as I steady myself, carefully sliding along the rough ground. If this tunnel does go somewhere, I can’t afford to get reckless.

Then, up ahead—space.

The walls widen slightly, the air shifting around me. I can’t see it, but I feel it. A larger chamber? An old part of the mine?

I press forward until the tunnel finally opens into something bigger.

I reach out, feeling the emptiness around me, my pulse hammering as I listen.

Silence.

Then—

A faint drip of water.

I exhale slowly. I found something.

But the question is… what?

I freeze.

At first, it’s just the slow, steady drip of water somewhere in the darkness. Then—something else.

A sound. Faint, but unmistakable.

Breathing.

Ragged, uneven. Alive.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. My fingers clench against the stone as I listen, every nerve in my body on edge.

I’ve made a mistake.

I thought I was slipping into an abandoned passage, something forgotten by the guards. A way out.

But I’m not alone down here.

And whatever’s with me…

It knows I’m here.

Or at the very least… it will soon enough.

I move carefully, inching backward, my muscles tight with tension. I don’t turn away—even though I can’t see anything, the thought of exposing my back to whatever’s lurking in the dark sends ice through my veins.

The breathing continues, slow and ragged.

It isn’t moving. Yet.

My heartbeat pounds in my ears as I slide my foot back, careful not to make any sudden noise. Every instinct is screaming at me to run, but if I bolt blindly through the tunnel, I’ll trip, fall—or worse.

I keep my breathing slow and controlled, forcing myself to stay calm.

Just get out. Get back to the mine. Act like nothing happened.

I take another step back.

And then—

The breathing stops.

For a single, agonizing second, there’s nothing but silence.

Then—movement.

A faint scrape against stone. A shift in the air. The unmistakable sound of something getting closer.

I don’t wait.

I take another step back, faster this time, my pulse hammering in my throat. My back bumps against the narrow walls of the passage, the rough stone scraping against my skin.

I still can’t see it, but I feel it.

Something is coming.

And I don’t know if I can outrun it.

Move. Now.

I push off the rough stone, turning and scrambling back the way I came. My breaths come fast, shallow—I don’t care about being quiet anymore.

Behind me, something shifts. Faster.

I don’t dare look back. I don’t need to. I can hear it. The scrape of something dragging across the rock, the faint sound of breath—too low, too deep.

What the hell is down here?

The tunnel is tighter now, pressing in as I force myself through. My hands scrape against jagged stone, but I don’t stop. The entrance—the mine—it’s not that far.

Please, please tell me someone’s noticed I’m gone.

Light.

A faint sliver, barely there—but real. The crack in the tunnel. My way out.

I push harder, lungs burning, scraping my hands raw as I claw my way toward it. The air feels tighter, the walls pressing in, but I can’t stop.

Behind me, the sound of movement grows louder.

Too close.

The light spills through the crack, growing larger as I near it. Just a few more feet—just a little more—

A sharp scrape behind me. A shift in the air.

Whatever’s in the dark is right there.

I lunge for the crack, shoving myself through.

I shove myself forward, twisting, pushing—but only my head and arms make it through. The rest of me is still trapped in the narrow opening, the jagged rock digging into my ribs.

No, no, no—

“Help! Help!” I yell, my voice raw with desperation.

A prisoner nearby turns, their eyes widening as they take in the sight of me—half-stuck in the wall, panic in my face.

Then they see what’s behind me.

Their expression shifts from confusion to horror.

“Guards!” they shout. “Someone’s in the walls! There’s something in the walls!”

I struggle, kicking, trying to wrench myself free. My breath comes in frantic gasps as the sounds behind me grow louder—closer.

The guards are coming. But will they get here before whatever’s behind me does?

I thrash, twisting my body, trying anything to force myself through the crack. My ribs scrape against the rock, pain lancing through my side, but I don’t stop.

Behind me, the tunnel is alive with sound.

Scraping.
Shifting.
Breathing.

Too close. Too damn close.

The guards’ heavy footsteps thunder toward us, metal armor clanking, voices shouting—but they’re not fast enough.

It’s right behind me.

I shove again, my shoulders burning as I force myself through the opening. My waist catches—too tight!—but then, suddenly, I lurch forward.

I hit the ground hard, gasping, my hands scraping against the dirt as I twist onto my back.

The crack behind me is still open. The darkness inside moves.

Then—

A shape slams against the opening.

A twisted, clawed hand lunges through, jagged nails scraping against the stone, reaching blindly.

Screams erupt around me. Prisoners scatter, guards rush forward, weapons drawn—

And all I can do is stare in horror.

It’s big.

Too big to fit through the crack—but that isn’t stopping it.

Its claws, long and jagged, tear at the stone, scraping, breaking it away. The crack grows wider with each frantic swipe, dust and rock crumbling to the ground.

The air is thick with panic.

Prisoners scatter, shoving past each other in blind terror. Guards rush forward, drawing swords, spears—but they hesitate. They don’t know what they’re dealing with. Neither do I.

I scramble backward, heart pounding as I push myself to my feet. The thing behind the wall lets out a deep, guttural hiss, like air being forced through something wrong.

A guard steps forward, sword raised. “Back away!” he shouts, more at the prisoners than the thing behind the wall.

A few of them listen. Most don’t.

Because it doesn’t matter.

It’s still digging.

Still breaking through.

And if it gets out…

I don’t think anything in this camp can stop it.

“Stab it or something!” I shout, my voice raw with panic.

The guards hesitate for only a second before one of them lunges forward, driving his sword toward the exposed clawed hand.

The blade sinks in.

A horrible, wet screech erupts from the crack, high-pitched and wrong, like metal twisting and bones snapping all at once. The creature jerks back, its massive form shifting violently in the darkness behind the wall.

But it doesn’t stop.

The wounded hand disappears—only for another to shove through, claws swiping wildly, slamming against the rock hard enough to send cracks spiderwebbing outward.

It’s still breaking through.

Another guard thrusts with a spear, jamming it into the crack—another shriek, another lurch backward—but the wall keeps crumbling.

I stumble back further, watching in horror as the hole gets wider and wider.

It’s not stopping.

We’re running out of time.

“We need to leave—now!” I shout, stumbling back as another chunk of rock crumbles away. “Or it’s going to kill everyone!”

The guards hesitate, torn between orders and survival, but the prisoners don’t wait. They’re already running, shoving past each other, scrambling for any exit.

Another horrible screech erupts from the tunnel, and the thing inside slams against the crumbling stone. Deep cracks spread across the surface like veins, dust and debris spilling out as the opening widens too fast.

A guard finally snaps out of it, turning on his heel. “Fall back!” he yells. “Get to the surface!”

The rest don’t need to be told twice. They turn and run.

And I don’t stay to watch.

I bolt, my heartbeat a frantic drum against my ribs. Footsteps pound around me, prisoners and guards alike racing for the tunnel entrance.

Behind me, the stone shatters.

And then comes the sound.

A deep, inhuman roar that shakes the air, vibrating through my bones, rattling the very walls of the mine.

I trip—because of course I do.

My knee slams into the rough ground, my hands scraping against the dirt and stone as I barely catch myself. Pain shoots up my leg, but I can’t stop.

I scramble to push myself up, but—

No one stops.

No one even notices.

The prisoners are gone. The guards keep running, their armored boots pounding against the tunnel floor. One of them rushes right past me without a second glance.

I’m the only one left this far down.

I grit my teeth, forcing myself upright, my muscles screaming in protest.

And against my better judgment, I turn back.

The tunnel behind me is barely visible through the dust and dim torchlight. But I see it.

A shape. Huge.

The creature is a dark brown, its body covered in armored plates.

Its massive frame presses against the jagged opening, its limbs unnatural, twisting as it pulls itself free. Clawed fingers dig into the stone, dragging its body forward inch by inch.

The collar around my neck suddenly feels so much tighter.

It’s free.

And I’m so, so screwed.

I don’t waste another second.

I run.

Pain shoots through my leg where I hit the ground, but I don’t care. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my heart slamming against my ribs as I sprint up the tunnel.

Behind me, I hear it move.

The scrape of claws against stone. The deep, inhuman breathing. The air itself seems heavier, thick with something wrong.

I push harder, my feet pounding against the dirt, lungs burning. The tunnel ahead curves, the light growing brighter—almost there!

Another roar erupts behind me, a sound so unnatural it sends ice through my veins.

The walls tremble. Rocks shake loose from the ceiling, tumbling down around me.

It’s coming.

And I don’t know if I’m fast enough.

But then I see it—a cart, half-filled with barrels, faintly marked with a symbol I think means something explosive.

This is a bad idea.

A really bad idea.

But it’s my only one.

I can’t outrun that thing. I can feel it gaining on me, its presence suffocating, pressing against the air like a storm about to break. If I keep running, it’s just going to cut me down before I ever reach the surface.

I skid to a stop beside the cart, my hands fumbling as I grab hold of the nearest barrel.

Please be gunpowder, please be something useful, I think desperately.

I don’t have a weapon. I don’t have magic.

But I do have fire.

A torch flickers against the tunnel wall just a few feet away.

Behind me, the creature moves, the sound of stone tearing under its claws making my blood run cold.

I don’t have time to think.

I grab the torch.

And I throw it.

I don’t stop to see if it hits. If it doesn’t, I won’t be alive long enough to care.

I run.

For a split second, there’s nothing—just the sound of my own frantic footsteps, my breath tearing from my lungs—

Then—

BOOM!

The explosion rips through the tunnel behind me, a violent, deafening roar of fire and shattered stone. The force nearly knocks me off my feet, heat licking at my back as I stumble forward.

The creature screams. A horrible, twisting sound, furious and inhuman.

Then the cave starts collapsing.

The walls crack, ceiling crumbling, dust and debris rushing past me in a choking cloud. The ground trembles beneath my feet as I push forward, lungs burning, vision blurring—

I see light.

The exit—so close!

I dive forward as the final, deafening crash sounds behind me.

Then—silence.

I cough, dust filling my throat as I pull myself up on shaking arms. The tunnel entrance—gone. Just a pile of rubble, sealing off whatever was left behind.

I did it.

I’m alive.

But as I kneel there, gasping for breath, one thought cuts through the haze of adrenaline and exhaustion.

What the hell did I just bury?

I kneel there, gasping, my arms shaking as I press my hands against the dirt. My whole body feels wrecked—lungs burning, muscles aching, dust clinging to my skin.

But I’m alive.

I turn slowly, looking back at the collapsed tunnel. The entrance is completely sealed, jagged rock stacked high, smoke and dust still drifting from the impact.

It’s buried.

But is it dead?

My chest rises and falls with each shaky breath as I stare at the wreckage. That thing… whatever it was… it wasn’t just some mindless beast. It was trying to escape.

A sharp voice cuts through my spinning thoughts.

“What the hell just happened here?”

I snap my head up to see a cluster of guards—spears in hand, eyes locked directly on me.

And just like that, my relief vanishes.

I might’ve just saved everyone.

But I’m still a prisoner.

And I just caused an explosion.

The guard who spoke moves toward me, his sword still drawn.

I tense, my body too exhausted to fight, too wired to run. Is this it? After everything, they’re just going to cut me down?

But then—he stops.

Slowly, he slides his sword back into its sheath. His expression is still sharp, still cautious, but he doesn’t attack.

Instead, he extends his hand toward me.

I stare at it, my breath still ragged, my mind still catching up.

What?

I just blew up part of the mine. I should be getting dragged away, beaten, maybe even executed—not this.

I swallow hard, glancing up at him, searching his face for any sign of what he’s thinking.

But I don’t see anger.

I see something else.

Something closer to respect.

I take his hand hesitantly, and he pulls me up with surprising ease. My legs are shaky, my body still running on whatever scraps of adrenaline I have left.

The guard looks around, scanning the wreckage—the collapsed tunnel, the lingering dust, the stunned onlookers. Then he turns back to me.

“Come with me.”

I hesitate. I don’t understand. I should be in trouble—I should be back in chains. But the way he says it… it’s not a threat. Not quite.

I’m too exhausted to argue. And, honestly, I don’t think I can refuse.

So I follow.

End of chapter 41.