Rearing Demons
Chapter 128: Endless

Chapter 128: Endless

Lugging enormous boulders over the steep hill, pausing briefly only to repeat the grueling effort—that constituted the majority of his day. His second task forced him into the nearby salt mines, the worst of all his duties.

He was compelled to remain in those dismal caverns until he managed to fill two large crates; whether he would spend hours or days depended entirely on the speed of his labor.

Moreover, no tools were provided—they were forced to extract the salt with their bare hands, for using implements might shatter the salt blocks and generate even more waste.

"Yur, you must work a bit faster, or they won’t feed you," came the urgent call from nearby.

His father, bound to a wall by heavy chains, was assigned the same dreadful task.

Unfortunately, a guard stood close by, forbidding them from sharing the work; instead, his father was forced to fill a total of five crates.

On the ground lay a solitary bottle of water for each of them. The water was murky and stale, and in the salinated environment, particles of salt clung to it, giving it an overwhelmingly repulsive taste. There was no food, no proper rest.

"Ouch!" As Yur nodded at his father’s urging, he accidentally nicked his finger, causing it to bleed.

"Hisss!"

The burning sting of salt seeping into the wound intensified the pain, and when he glanced over his shoulder, he found the guard staring at him with dull, monotone eyes. He knew he couldn’t stop, for even a moment’s pause would invite a brutal whipping and beating. Being whipped in the salt mines was one of the most harrowing punishments imaginable—open wounds amidst salt were nothing short of a death sentence.

"Just a bit more," he gritted his teeth silently.

Why am I doing this? Wasn’t I in Glythoria?

As he forcefully extracted chunks of salt and tossed them into the seemingly bottomless crate, he absentmindedly scratched the back of his head.

Wait, what is Glythoria?

Confusion etched deep in his mind, he continued working mechanically.

"Yur, why are you distracted?" his father called out as he labored slowly, lost in his own thoughts.

Looking up, Yur saw that his father had already filled one of his crates, while he had managed barely a few pieces in his own.

"Sorry," he replied quickly, though doubt and confusion still laced his tone.

Determined to catch up, he began pulling the salt with greater urgency. The sharp, relentless pain seeped through his fingers, yet he dismissed it with only the occasional wince.

"Both of you, if you don’t finish in an hour, you will spend the night in these mines. No food," the guard barked from the sidelines, irritated by their slow pace.

Yur was only halfway through filling his first crate, while his father deliberately slowed his own progress to ensure his son did not fall behind. As a result, neither of them accomplished as much as they should have.

"We will speed up," his father declared, sweat dripping from the side of his head.

His gaze then fixed on little Yur, who was still struggling with the salt, his eyebrows knitted into a deep frown. Whether it was the sting of his cuts or another hidden torment, he could not say.

What am I doing here?

The question kept reverberating in his mind.

I feel like I was somewhere else before this. Before I woke up.

No matter how hard he tried to recall, everything from before that moment remained an indistinct blur. There was something—a life, perhaps—but what exactly? He couldn’t pinpoint it.

"Yur..." he murmured as he looked down at his fingers, now caked in the stench of salt crumbles, his mind dazed by the realization.

I swear these hands were once larger. Right?

"Yur!" A sudden shout snapped him out of his distraction. Turning around, he looked at the source.

"Yeah?" he asked, confused by the presence of the middle-aged man who stared at him with weariness.

Wrinkles marked a face that should not have aged so prematurely; stretched skin revealing a bone structure lined with irritation and stress.

"What are you thinking about? You’re working much slower today. Are you alright?" the man inquired gently.

For his son’s sake, he had even slowed his own labor; he could not stand by and watch his child suffer in the mines.

"Did you want some water? Here, take mine," the man offered, walking over to the nearly untouched bottle. Though his chapped, white lips betrayed the harshness of his existence, he always ensured a generous share of water was available for his son. After all, Yur was but a child—still growing—and though he could not offer much himself, he made sure to conserve every resource for Yur.

"I’m not thinking about—" Yur began, but was interrupted.

"Yur, look," his father insisted, pointing to the now desolate expanse of the mines. "It’s only you and I here, and we will be here all night. You won’t be able to eat until morning." A deep sigh escaped the man’s lips, heavy with resignation.

"I see," Yur replied slowly, still distracted. Observing his son’s distant demeanor, the man grew increasingly worried.

Although he was chained to a wall a short distance away and unable to draw near, his concern for Yur was palpable.

"Does your head hurt?" he asked, his tone thick with concern. "Check if it might be bleeding." It was not uncommon for the slaves to be beaten so severely that they suffered brain damage; concussions and head injuries were all too normal.

When such injuries occurred, the slaves were often relegated to the role of essential mules—tied with ropes and dragged about without rest.

Even food was severely restricted, as the slave owners and warden believed that these broken bodies would soon perish anyway. He worried that Yur might have sustained a head injury; at his tender age, they would not assign him any important tasks. Not only was he weak and scrawny, but he was far too young to be entrusted with the heavier work—so much so that they might even feed him to the beasts to satisfy their hunger, or worse.

"What?" Yur mumbled, scratching his head in confusion at his father’s words. Yet in his father’s eyes, this was a serious matter.

"Touch your head. Is there any pain? Any cuts? Any bumps?" The man paused his own work, anxiety rising.

Obediently, Yur ran his hand over his scalp without much thought. Finding nothing amiss, he replied,

"Nothing."

Exhaling shakily, his father slumped slightly.

"I’m glad," he murmured, though he couldn’t be entirely sure until he checked himself; if the initial inspection was clear, then it likely meant nothing was wrong.

"Listen, son," his father said wearily, meeting Yur’s eyes. "Since the guards have moved on, pass me your crate. I’ll finish filling it up so you can sleep."

"What about you?" Yur asked, his voice edged with concern.

"I’m faster than you at this, so there’s no need to worry about me. If I fill your crate, I might even get some sleep," his father replied, even though he still had three more crates to complete.

He extended his calloused hands, beckoning Yur to slide the heavy crate over. The crate, fitted with wheels to ease its movement, rolled toward him as Yur pushed it without hesitation. Grabbing it as it came, he carefully balanced it next to his own.

"Here, take these two as well. They should help you meet your quota," his father said, pushing his own two crates toward him and signaling for Yur to pass over the remaining one. Complying without protest, Yur looked at his father, who—once in possession of both crates—resumed his arduous work.

Yur? That is me. But, I swear, I once had a different name, a different life.

Still confused, he decided to collapse onto the cold ground. Closing his eyes, he tried desperately to steal some rest. His body was utterly exhausted, and with the torrent of thoughts in his mind, sleep came quickly. He was too young for these burdens.

His father looked on with a heavy sigh; though born into slavery himself, he had long become accustomed to its toll. Every morning he awoke in pain—groaning as his bones locked in stiffness—yet he dared not complain.

Complaining meant a beating, a loss of food, and even greater suffering, a relentless cycle of pain and torture that they were doomed to endure, day after day. Although his own hands and fingers were marked by countless tiny cuts, his skin had grown rough and resilient, accustomed to the constant abrasions.

This allowed him to work with somewhat greater speed, even as time dragged by slowly for him, Sunder.

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Chains rattled as Yur’s vision began to blur in and out. "What? What’s going on?" he cried.

It took a long moment for his sight to adjust to the new scene. Once again, he found his bony wrists locked in chains, his skinny legs dragged by heavy metal clamps, and enormous, thick ropes forcibly pressed into his grasp around his thin waist.

"Hey! What are you doing?!" came a shout—a familiar sound.

Before he could even turn his head, a sharp sting erupted along his back, throwing him violently to the ground. His knees buckled as he hit the hard floor, pain surging through his back.

What is going on?! he shouted inwardly desperately, the confusion and agony mingling as he struggled to comprehend the sudden change.