My death on Earth was undramatic.
No trailer truck, no lightning strike, no heroic fight against thugs. Just a packet of stale mixed rice, given to me by a grandmother who probably took pity on me scavenging for vegetable scraps in the trash behind the food stall.
Food poisoning. My body, already weakened by hunger and despair, simply gave up in a slum.
I, Wa Lang, died with the same inglorious and forgotten name on Earth. Then I woke up. And this new hell was far, far more painful. The first pain was the smell. Pungent ammonia mixed with the scent of rusted metal and something sweet that made me nauseous—like rotting meat soaked in honey.
The smell pierced straight to my brain. The second was the sound. A rhythmic, resonant metallic thud, punctuated by groans and, occasionally, short, abruptly cut-off screams. The third was the taste.
Dust and dirt filling my mouth. I lay face down on the damp, rocky ground. With great effort, I pushed my unfamiliar body—younger, but so weak—up to a sitting position.
My surroundings were dark, illuminated only by the faint reddish glow of strange crystals embedded in the walls of the stone cave.
The air felt heavy and filled with fine dust particles that shimmered red. "Hey, is this one awake?" a rough voice echoed. A large man, dressed in rags and covered in sweat, stood in front of an iron door. Not a guard. He was a slave, like us, but his demeanor was like that of an executioner. His hand held an iron rod. "You lazy bastard. He fainted after just a day's work," he grumbled, approaching.
He wasn't speaking to me, but to another, older slave, whose face was blank and his eyes were blank. "Old Bangka, take care of him. If he can't work tomorrow, report him to the Overseer. So he can be used as fertilizer early." The man called Old Bangka only nodded slowly, expressionless.
The Head Slave left, leaving us. I tried to stand, but my legs were shaking. My body felt like it wasn't my own.
Old Bangka came over and handed me a glass of murky water. "Drink," he said, his voice hoarse like stones grinding against each other. "Where... is this?" I asked, my voice hoarse. My modern knowledge—physics, chemistry, all those theories—felt utterly useless in the face of this primitive and torturous reality. The old man stared at me blankly. "Bloody Soul Mine, Sector 9. Satan's Servant Clan." He spoke as if he were pronouncing a death sentence. "We are fertilizer." "F-Fertilizer?" He didn't answer. Instead, he pointed to a tunnel across the room where we were gathered.
From there emerged two slaves pulling a wooden cart. On the cart lay a young man. His body was intact, but something was terribly wrong. His face was waxy, his eyes wide and blank.
There was no light of life in them. But most terrifyingly, from the pores of his skin, a faint golden light emanated, like a thin mist blown by the wind toward the roots of strange plants that crawled along the cave walls.
The plants, as they absorbed the golden mist, seemed to pulsate and radiate a brighter light. "His soul and spirituality were absorbed to nourish the 'Nirnroot,'" the old man whispered, his voice flat. "He's dried up. Now his body will be taken to the Lower Chamber, to be used as another raw material." I sat paralyzed, the nausea I'd been suppressing flooding back.
They were using people as fertilizer! My modern mind rebelled. This was beyond any cruelty I'd ever imagined. "Why... why didn't we fight back?" I hissed, the despairing voice of my old life creeping back. The old man turned his wrinkled face toward me.
For the first time, there was a hint of emotion in his eyes: bitter irony. "Fight back?" He touched his own chest, right at the pit of his stomach. "You haven't felt it, have you? The 'seed.'" As he mentioned it, I became aware of a strange sensation in my stomach. A cold spot, like burning ice, nestled just below my navel. It felt foreign, parasitic, and... hungry. "It's the 'Seed of Darkness' the Clan planted in our dantian," the old man explained. "It will grow, consuming our spirituality bit by bit. In ten days, if we don't receive 'Nutrition' from the Overseer, it will begin to consume our souls. And when we die, or are deemed useless, the Seed is harvested. It is the ripe fruit, full of the energy it has stolen from us." My chest tightened. This wasn't just slavery. This was a farm. We were livestock being raised for a harvest.
Suddenly, the Head Slave returned, this time with two others. His face contorted as he looked at me. "You piece of trash. Get up, get up! There's dirty work to do!"
He and his men dragged me into a smaller side room. There, a drain clogged with thick, purple-black sludge. A pungent stench emanated from it. "Clean it. With your hands," the Head Slave ordered, grinning.
"That Spirit-Clog sludge can burn your skin, but you have the Seed, so it should last." He pushed me forward. My knees were barely touching it. I could feel the heat and corrosiveness it was emitting.
This is insane, I thought, my modern brain spinning. I just died, and now I'm going to die again in an even more horrible way? But something inside me, perhaps a survival instinct from my miserable life on Earth, or perhaps a deeper despair, made me stare at the sludge.
Mud. A basic element that most people avoid. But... mud can also be manipulated. My limited knowledge of basic chemistry swirled in my head. Hot mud, perhaps a strong base or acid. If there was something that could neutralize... My eyes swept the room, and I spotted a pile of broken pieces of rock containing a whitish mineral in the corner.
Calcium carbonate? Chalk? That could neutralize acid. It was a guess. A lifeline at first. In a voice bolder than I felt, I said, "I need those white stones. It'll make the job go faster." The Head Slave burst out laughing. "Here, he's negotiating! Think this is your office, Earthling?!" Earthlings. They knew.
But to my surprise, Old Bangka, who had been standing by the door, suddenly walked over and began gathering the white stones without a word. He placed them beside me. I picked up a few, crushed them with a larger stone into fine shards, then carefully sprinkled them onto the edge of the purple mud.
Shhh! White steam rose, and the stench lessened slightly. The mud on the edge hardened and no longer emitted heat. The Head Slave stopped laughing. His gaze shifted from mockery to astonishment, then to something deeper—suspicion.
I took a deep breath. My guess was right. My Earth Knowledge was working. But before I could feel any relief, the Head Slave approached, knocking Old Man to the ground. "You cunning slave," he growled, bringing his face close to mine.
His breath reeked. "What's your trick?" "No trick," I replied, trying to remain calm. "Just... logic." He grabbed me by the collar of my tattered shirt. "You think you're smarter? You think you're special?" He shoved me hard, my back hitting the rough stone wall. "Here, you're just fertilizer.
Tomorrow, I'll assign you to the Toxic Tunnels. I'll see how long your 'logic' lasts there." He left, leaving me alone in the room, my body aching, and the coldness of the "Spring" in my stomach growing more and more biting. I stared at the partially cleared tunnel. I had won a small battle, but I might have just brought on a much larger war. In this world, my common sense may be my only weapon.
But in a place where power is everything, being "smart" can be the most dangerous thing. I, Wa Lang, the grasshopper of Earth, am one step away from becoming fertilizer. And the only way to survive is to learn to bite back.
------