Erin pointed to the black structure outside the window. "That's the Black Tower."
The landmark of Lycaeus was indeed that kilometer-tall black tower rising straight from the forge works, like a massive obsidian sword stabbing into the heavens, its many defense turrets forming the jagged teeth along the blade.
Around this metallic giant sprawled a tangled web of ancient prisons. Twisting bridges connected these buildings to the scarred mining pits on the surface. The entire region looked like a mechanical tumor grown out from the crust.
Lycaeus was a barren rocky moon, without atmosphere, its surface exposed naked to the torture of the vacuum.
But beneath the surface, dozens of enormous exhaust machines worked like rusted iron lungs, endlessly pumping unfiltered fumes into the deep underground.
Far below, in those winding, vein-like tunnels, millions of slaves clung to life on these poisonous "gifts" from above, struggling to survive in eternal darkness.
"The overseers of the Tech Guilds live in the Black Tower. They patrol the prison districts regularly but almost never go down to the mines, unless someone's been chosen to repair the exhaust systems."
Erin's voice was barely above a whisper. They were in District Eight on the surface.
Lycaeus enforced a brutal shift system. Slaves were forced to toil deep underground for a full week before earning a short return to the prison sector for rest.
They had to go back periodically for food and water. The overseers were cruel and rationed supplies tighter than a noose, but they dared not starve the slaves completely.
Not because they feared revolt, but because if all the miners died, who would dig ore for Kiavahr's factories?
"Kiavahr's ruling class is the Tech Guilds," Erin explained. "Each guild is governed by a Guildmaster, and these Guildmasters are the true rulers, wielding unimaginable wealth and almost unlimited political power."
He pointed at a colossal structure in the distance. "That's the gravity well, it connects the two worlds, sending refined ore non-stop to Kiavahr to feed its greedy factories."
Corax frowned, cutting to the core. "And who do they sell their goods to?"
Erin replied, "Kiavahr has free-trade agreements with nearby systems. Their products are already sold before they even leave the conveyor belts."
Corax frowned deeper. "But with the warp storms cutting off warp travel, they can only move at sublight speed. Wouldn't that take decades for every trade run?"
"Not that long," Erin recalled. "Each freighter returns about every five years."
Caelan interjected. "Then they must be using standard FTL drives."
In the Golden Age of Humanity, standard faster-than-light technology was already mastered, though it was largely abandoned due to the convenience of warp drives.
Even a short warp jump could cover five light-years in one or two days, with only an hour or two of perceived travel time, achieving speeds between 900 and 1800 times the speed of light.
With a Navigator's guidance, a ship could traverse tens of thousands of times the speed of light, or even millions under a master Navigator, moving precisely through the warp's turbulent currents.
Compared to that, conventional FTL was slow and inefficient. Golden Age engineers barely gave it a glance.
But when the Age of Strife came and warp storms rendered warp drives useless, the old FTL engines briefly returned to use.
Corax's brow furrowed. "Their technology is far beyond ours."
Caelan nodded. "That's exactly why they need you."
In the Stone Age, a slave with a sharp stone could still fight back against his master.
In the Bronze Age, even a sharpened spear could kill a king.
But in the grim darkness of the far future, the technological gap between the oppressed and their masters could no longer be measured by time.
This was the Matthew Effect, the strong grow stronger, the weak grow weaker.
The oppressed could not easily organize; they always needed a guide, a Primarch, a cult, or a Genestealer Patriarch, beings who possessed power enough to bridge the technological divide, overturning conventional warfare through asymmetric rebellion.
"Ephrenia," Erin whispered. "Quietly gather everyone, don't let the overseers' dogs catch wind."
Different prison sectors on Lycaeus held different kinds of prisoners. District Eight housed mostly political offenders. District Seven held the elderly and children, the only area exempt from work.
It wasn't mercy. The other prisoners simply worked longer shifts, shedding blood and sweat to keep District Seven alive.
Ephrenia returned with a group of children, some as young as five, none older than sixteen. But none of them were innocent anymore. Oppression had already taught them patience, hatred, and silence.
Give them weapons, and they would become warriors.
"You can teach them here," Erin said. "But only four hours at a time."
It wasn't stinginess. Each shift rotation only gave them twelve hours of rest, and even the bare beds here were better than the mines.
Caelan shook his head. "I can teach them underground as well."
Erin frowned. "They have to work there! If we don't meet the quota, even these twelve hours will be gone!"
"You've never thought about striking?" Caelan asked suddenly.
Erin stiffened. The word strike hit his mind like a hammer, foreign and dangerous.
"Have the miners from every district strike at once," Caelan continued. "Not a single grain of ore gets delivered."
Erin's face went pale. He glanced around nervously. "Are you insane? If we miss even a kilogram of ore, we lose rest time! If we stop delivering completely, they'll kill us all!"
"They won't," Caelan said calmly. "A strike means you have demands. If they meet those demands, production resumes. But if they kill you all, who mines the ore?"
Erin's voice trembled with fury. "You think the Tech Guilds care? There are billions on Kiavahr!"
"This is different," Caelan said, voice like a dull blade scraping metal. "If millions die, their corpses will rot, spread plague. Someone has to clean that up. The overseers? You think they could handle that?"
"Sure, Kiavahr has billions, but filling Lycaeus's mines with millions of new workers isn't as easy as opening their mouths. A strike only stalls the mines. A massacre collapses them."
"Besides," Caelan continued, "the overseers and the Tech Guilds have different interests. If millions die and mining halts for months, the Guilds will punish the overseers. The first ones sent down as new slaves will be them."
Erin hesitated. Caelan's words sounded almost… logical.
"No one will die?" he asked quietly.
"Some will," Caelan admitted. "They'll kill a few to scare the rest. That's inevitable."
Erin's throat went dry. "Then what do we do?"
"Unite," said Caelan. "That's the only answer."
"A strike is a zero-sum game," he explained. "It always ends in compromise. There will be sacrifice, but if you stay united and hold your line, they will be the ones who yield."
"The overseers will respond in three ways: Either they'll make an example of someone, blood to inspire fear. Or they'll bribe your leaders, corruption from within. Or both."
"But in every case, their goal is to destroy your unity."
"The real danger isn't the overseers," Caelan said coldly. "It's the traitors among you, those who sell their own for a few crumbs."
"When the slaves lose unity, the overseers need only stand back and watch you tear each other apart."
Erin swallowed hard. "Then… what should we demand?"
"That depends on what you truly want," said Caelan.
"At least four more hours of rest," Erin replied after a pause.
"Then demand twenty-four," Caelan said simply.
Erin blinked. "They'll never agree to that!"
"Exactly. You want four hours, but they won't agree to twenty-four. That's why they'll settle for four."
Erin gaped. "That… actually works?"
"What if we want to double the food rations?" another asked.
"Then demand five times," said Caelan.
Corax looked up. "What do you call that?"
"The House-Demolition Effect," Caelan replied.
"Imagine this, you say the house is too dark and want to open a skylight. They'll refuse. But if you demand to tear down the roof, suddenly a skylight sounds reasonable."
"It's human nature," he said. "Start big so the small seems acceptable."
"What if they don't compromise?" a child asked.
Caelan looked at him, a boy named Shalokin. "Then it means they're betting you will."
Humanity never lacked wisdom, only the means to connect and share it.
The Tech Guilds' deliberate ignorance campaigns ensured knowledge stayed fragmented, scattered, and disconnected, preventing the masses from seeing the light through the fog.
This was the curse of most human worlds in the galaxy, where the elite hoarded ancient technology and turned knowledge into walls of class division, while the masses drowned in ignorance.
Such systems, Caelan knew, were double-edged swords: they secured control in the short term but doomed entire civilizations in the long run, until even the rulers were devoured by their own stupidity.
Erin finally said hoarsely, "I'll contact the other district leaders. Any more advice?"
Caelan's eyes glinted. "The choice is yours. I'm just handing you the key. Patience is survival's wisdom, but too much patience rots courage."
A strike was always dangerous. In most societies, labor was replaceable, endless waves of unemployed ready to take your place.
But here, on Lycaeus, there were only two classes: overseers and slaves. No replacement labor. No market competition.
That made a strike far more powerful, cutting straight through the heart of production.
When every slave laid down their tools, the entire system would collapse like a building with its foundations ripped out.
Oppression had built its own trap. When it reached its extreme, it also forged the perfect weapon of rebellion.
"Resistance begins with unity," Caelan said. "And its price… is sacrifice."
Shalokin's eyes blazed like a spark in the dark. "So that's what you're teaching us?"
Caelan's gaze swept over them. "I'm teaching you civilization. And rebellion is where civilization begins."
"I'll learn," Shalokin said eagerly. "I can sleep only four hours, study eight!"
Caelan chuckled softly. "Four hours a day is enough. Knowledge without practice is useless."
"Wisdom alone never made perfect beings, even the Primarchs were flawed."
"Environment shapes personality. Class shapes perspective."
"The same theory in a slave's hands becomes revolution; in a master's hands, oppression."
"Teaching wasn't just about what to know, but how and why."
Caelan knelt, meeting Corax's eyes. "Do you understand?"
Corax nodded. He had to.
….....
Each district was an isolated island, its iron gates sealed tight. The overseers didn't know what the slaves were planning, but their instincts told them something, and they had already severed the paths between the lower castes.
Yet they couldn't block the tunnels below.
When the shift change came, the overseers herded slaves into a massive rusted lift cage that sank into the darkness.
But Erin slipped away, taking a narrow tunnel toward the other districts.
The overseers never went down, they knew the slaves hated them too much. Down there, a rock from behind could end their lives, and no one would ever know.
In the mines, death was always reported as a cave-in.
They didn't dare retaliate randomly, the slaves were private property, and the overseers had no right to destroy assets.
Their authority ruled the surface, but vanished in the depths.
Erin wasn't worried. The dark would hide him, and the maze of tunnels would keep him safe.
Ahead, the faint light of a mining lamp flickered. A line of exhausted miners trudged through the dark.
Erin called out softly to the one at the rear. "Beltan!"
The boy hurried over. "Uncle Erin!"
Erin grabbed his collar, pulling him close. "Listen. Tell Ferguson we're organizing a strike. It's dangerous, but it might work. Pass the word to the other districts. Three shifts from now, we meet at the base."
"Strike?" The word felt strange on the boy's tongue, but he nodded solemnly.
Erin watched him disappear down the tunnel and whispered, "Let's hope it works."
Then he turned and vanished into another passage. There were still others he needed to warn.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
[email protected]/DaoistJinzu