Pain coursed through his body like never before—every muscle screaming in protest. But Zarathos was not someone who collapsed under pain. On the contrary, pain reminded him of the brutal truth of this world. A world that showed no mercy to the weak, a world that gave no room to rest.
Every step he took while carrying the heavy stones only fueled his rage. It wasn't mere frustration at his current situation. It was deeper than that—a rooted emotion, a fire that burned within him, igniting a desire for revenge… and a thirst to rise to the top, no matter the cost.
As he walked through the narrow tunnel, sweating and exhausted, he couldn't help but recall every moment of defeat from his previous lives.
When he was Eymond, the boy who knew nothing of the world, killed simply because he wasn't strong enough.
When he became Zarathos, the man who ruled as an emperor in the demonic path—yet was still killed in the end, because his power wasn't enough.
And now, in this third life, he was Adrias—a weak, helpless slave.
But he would not accept it.
"This life will not be like the others."
"This time… I will rise to the top and stay there."
There was something else boiling inside him.
Belgrade.
That name alone was enough to further ignite his hatred.
He didn't know much about that name. The Belgrade family wasn't among the strongest on the demonic path, but they held significant influence.
And now… they were the reason he was here, in this filthy place.
He clenched his fingers around the heavy stone he carried, nearly crushing it in rage.
"I promise you, Belgrade, I'll repay the debt tenfold."
"I won't forget what you did to me."
"You'll wish you had killed me instead of sending me to this hell."
There was no doubt in his heart.
He would become stronger.
No matter how much he had to suffer, no matter how many enemies stood in his way—he would reach the top.
No… not just the top.
The very throne of the demonic path.
Only then would he rule the world as it should be ruled.
Only then would he reclaim his stolen dignity and take revenge on all who thought he was just another weak slave.
But first… he had to survive this place.
He had to become stronger.
And the fastest way?
It was clear...
Violence.
---
The constant clanging echoed through the mine—the sound of metal striking rock, and the heavy breathing of exhausted slaves who had no choice but to continue. Zarathos—or rather, Adrias now—was no exception.
He stood among a group of slaves, lifting heavy stones. His frail body screamed from the strain, but he didn't care. The pain was just a reminder of his current weakness—and weakness was something he could no longer afford.
"How long has it been since I came here? A day? Two? A week?"
Time had lost its meaning. The only thing on his mind was how he would escape this hell stronger than he entered.
He knew the body he now possessed had potential—but talent alone meant nothing. Without training and discipline, it would remain wasted potential.
He lifted another stone, pushed it into a cart pulled by other slaves, then wiped the sweat from his brow. His eyes scanned everything around him, studying every detail—every weakness, every opportunity that might give him even a sliver of advantage.
But he wasn't the only one watching.
From a dark corner of the mine, there was a large man—broad-shouldered, with gloomy eyes—silently observing Adrias.
This man was known among the slaves as "Goran the Butcher." He wasn't a guard—just another slave. But he was different.
There wasn't a single slave here who didn't fear Goran.
His strength was monstrous for a slave—even some of the guards avoided provoking him.
And now, he was staring at Adrias, as if contemplating something.
Despite his current weakness, Zarathos wasn't ignorant of those kinds of stares.
"He's testing me…"
"This man suspects me."
He turned slowly, pretending not to care, but he knew Goran wouldn't leave him alone for long.
But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.
"If Goran is this strong, then him testing me might be my first opportunity."
"If I survive him… I might accelerate my growth."
Opportunity always came with risk.
But he didn't have time to think more.
"Adrias! Move it, you lazy bastard!"
The voice of the guard who had been watching him all day made him clench his teeth.
This guard was named Roman—and he was one of the worst people he had met in this place. Not exceptionally strong, but cruel. He enjoyed torturing slaves for the smallest reasons.
Adrias looked at him, his eyes glowing with a cold glint—but said nothing.
Not yet.
"You too… I'll make you pay one day."
He lifted another stone and continued working, but inside, the flames of hatred burned brighter and hotter.
Everything here reminded him of one truth:
The world does not spare the weak.
But he would not remain weak forever.
---
As the slaves continued their grueling labor, Adrias began to carry out a small plan. He moved slowly, feigning fatigue, gradually falling behind and slipping out of sight—heading toward one of the mine's darker corners. He knew that any careless move might attract the guards' attention, but he relied on the surrounding chaos.
The deeper he ventured into the tunnels, the colder it became—the air grew heavier, as if something lurked in the dark.
"Why all the caution around this place? Even the guards seem uneasy here."
There were rumors among the slaves. Whispered tales of things happening deep within the mine—of workers who vanished and never returned. Of shadows that moved where nothing should exist.
Adrias wasn't one to believe stories easily, but he had learned from past lives that fear often masked the truth.
"If this place is dangerous, why are only slaves forced to work here?"
If there were valuable resources, why not send soldiers or specialists? Why use weak, expendable slaves instead of trained guards?
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that a secret lay hidden here.
And as he moved cautiously, he noticed something strange.
The walls… were different.
Instead of ordinary rock, there was a faint shimmer—barely visible in the dark.
He stepped closer, reaching out to touch the cold surface.
"These aren't ordinary rocks… they contain energy."
He felt a faint tingling in his fingers—an ancient energy, like a hidden heartbeat pulsing through the wall.
"This isn't just a mine… it's a forge for something powerful."
He raised his head, his eyes glowing in the dark.
"That's why they send slaves."
If these stones held energy, it made sense they wouldn't want to risk their own men.
"But energy isn't the only reason… there's something else here."
Before he could think more, he heard footsteps approaching.
He quickly retreated into the shadows, hiding behind a large rock.
He saw a group of guards walking by, speaking in hushed voices. One of them carried a heavy bag on his shoulder.
"Sir, do you think Lord Karon knows about this?"
"Shut up. No one must hear."
"But… if we keep smuggling these stones without his knowledge, he might—"
"I said shut up! Do you want us all dead?"
Adrias held his breath.
"So even the guards are hiding something from the lord?"
"This just got more interesting…"
He waited until they disappeared into the depths, then emerged from his hiding place, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
"If I can uncover more about this place… maybe I'll find something that can grant me the power I need."
But there was another thought in his mind.
"These fools think slaves are just tools to be used and discarded… but they forgot one thing."
He raised his hand, staring at the fingers that still tingled with the wall's energy.
"I am not just a slave."
A cold smile formed on his lips.
"I am Zarathos… and I'll make them regret the day they thought I was just another broken prisoner."