The long night in the crowded pit finally ended when faint, smoky light filtered down from cracks high in the cavern ceiling. The air still carried the heavy smell of bodies pressed too close and the sour remains of the grey slop from the feeding. Overseers began their morning rounds with loud shouts and heavy boots kicking at any slave who moved too slowly. One overseer, a tall figure in dark metal armor that covered his entire body, swung a thick leg and connected with the side of a sleeping demon near the wall. The kick landed with a dull thud, sending the slave rolling across the stone floor with a low groan. The message was clear and simple: wake up, stay alert, or face pain. Velrith felt the cold stone under her back as she pushed herself up quickly. Her muscles ached from the huddle, and bruises from the previous hit throbbed with every shift. The chain around her neck pulled tight when she stood, but she avoided the whip by moving fast enough. Fear pushed through the deep tiredness in her bones, making her heart beat quicker and her hands shake slightly as she joined the line of slaves forming near the pit's exit.
The routine started without delay. Overseers barked commands in short, rough words that everyone understood from repetition. Velrith was one of a small group pulled out first—those judged strong enough for the early work shift. Guards attached longer chains to their collars, linking several slaves together in a line that restricted movement. They marched up a narrow, winding tunnel carved into the rock. The walls here were rough and uneven, with tool marks visible from years of digging. Water dripped from the ceiling in steady drops, landing on shoulders and heads with cool splashes. The tunnel opened into a larger cavern where mining happened. Piles of broken rock and ore sat in heaps, glowing faintly with a dull red color from minerals inside. Slaves already at work swung heavy picks against the walls, the metal heads striking stone with sharp, working sounds that echoed everywhere. Dust filled the air, making it hard to breathe without coughing, and the ground was slippery from loose gravel.
Velrith's job was to carry buckets filled with chunks of ore from the mining area to a sorting section deeper in the complex. The buckets were made of thick wood bound with iron, heavy even when empty. Guards filled them from carts pushed by other slaves, then handed one to each carrier. The chains on her wrists allowed just enough reach to lift the handle with both hands, but the weight pulled her shoulders down and forced her to walk with short, awkward steps. Her ankles had iron bands connected by a short chain, making her shuffle instead of stride. Each step sent a jolt up her legs, and the bucket swung slightly, banging against her thighs. Sweat formed on her pale skin quickly, mixing with the dust to create streaks of grey dirt down her arms and chest. Other slaves in the line grunted with effort, their breaths coming in heavy puffs. One male ahead of her stumbled on a loose rock, spilling some ore from his bucket. An overseer nearby cracked a whip across his back without warning. The leather tip left a red line that welled up with blood, and the slave straightened up fast, biting his lip to stay silent. No one stopped to help; work continued, respecting the power of the guards who held the whips and keys.
The group moved through several connected caverns, each one lit by torches stuck in wall holders or glowing stones embedded in the ceiling—special rocks that gave off a steady, cool light without flame. These glowing stones were part of the world of Kravesh, a vast underground network of mines and pits ruled by powerful demon lords far above. Slaves like Velrith were the lowest level, captured from weaker clans or born into service. The ore they carried fueled forges that made weapons and armor for armies in endless wars on the surface. Conversations among slaves were rare and quiet, only whispers when guards looked away. Two females behind Velrith muttered about a guard who favored one section over another for easier tasks. "He lets the strong ones rest more," one said in a low voice, her chained hands gripping the bucket tight. The other nodded, her scarred face twisting in envy. "Better to look useful than weak." Their words were practical, focused on survival, not complaint.
After hours of carrying—buckets emptied into large carts, then refilled and carried again—the group reached a processing area. Here, slaves sorted the ore by size and quality, hammering larger pieces into smaller ones on stone tables. The air was thicker with dust, and the sounds of metal on rock never stopped. Overseers shouted orders to keep the line moving, their voices booming off the high ceilings. During a short shift change, when one group of slaves was led away to another tunnel and the next had not arrived yet, a small break happened. Guards gathered near a cart, talking in their deeper demon language, laughing about something from the night watch. The slaves stood in place, buckets lowered to the ground, chains resting heavy on the floor. Velrith's throat burned with thirst. Her lips were dry and split in places, small drops of blood forming where cracks opened. The taste of dust and old bile lingered in her mouth, making every swallow painful. She scanned the area with careful eyes, not moving her head too much to avoid notice.
Near a dark, moist wall where water seeped from a crack, a small stone basin sat unattended. It was crude, carved from a single block of rock, used for washing tools after sorting. Dirty hammers and chisels lay beside it, but a thin layer of water had collected in the bottom from the drip above. It was not clean—grey with rock particles and bits of ore—but it was liquid. The need for water overpowered caution. Velrith waited until a guard turned to shout at another slave, then moved slowly toward the shadow of a large support pillar. The pillar was thick, made from stacked stones to hold up the ceiling, casting a deep shadow in the torchlight. Her chains rattled softly with each shuffle, but the noise blended with the distant hammering from other workers. She dropped to her knees beside the basin, the impact jarring her sore joints and sending a sharp pain up her legs. Ignoring it, she cupped her chained hands and dipped them into the cool water. The liquid felt wonderful against her hot, grimy skin, washing away some of the sticky ore dust.
She brought her hands up carefully, water dripping from her fingers, and sipped slowly. The taste was metallic and gritty, like licking a rusty tool, but it soothed the rawness in her throat immediately. A cool, working relief spread down her chest as she swallowed. She lowered her head for a second drink, this time deeper, letting more water fill her mouth before gulping it down. Droplets escaped the corners of her lips, running cool paths down her chin and neck. As she leaned over the basin, her eyes caught the still surface of the water. It was murky, but calm enough to show a reflection. She had seen parts of her new body before—in quick glances during the cell torture or the pit's dim light—but never like this, clear and unbroken. The cold survival mind of Velrith demanded a full check. She needed to know every detail of this form, like a soldier inspecting a new weapon.
Velrith paused, her hands still in the water, staring down. Fear tightened her stomach, but she forced herself to look longer. The face in the reflection was beautiful in a dark, dangerous way, nothing like the ordinary human one Joseph remembered. The skin was pale white, like fresh snow, smooth and flawless except for the bruises and dirt marks from the pit. Even with the swelling around one eye and the cracked lips, the paleness made her features stand out sharply. She turned her head slightly, watching how the light caught the skin, making it almost glow in the shadows. It was too beautiful, this white skin, especially on a body covered in welts and chain marks. If not for the bruises, it would look perfect, untouched. She appreciated the quality for a moment longer than needed—the elegant lines, the way it contrasted with her crimson hair that fell in tangled waves over her shoulders.
Her eyes drew her in next. They were not normal colors like brown or green. They were a deep, unsettling purple, rich and intense. As she squinted to see better, the purple seemed to brighten, the centers glowing faintly like small, cold lights inside. It was a sign of power, something built into this demon body. The glow was not bright, but steady, showing energy working beneath the surface. She blinked, and the glow dimmed a little, but it was always there. Her face was heart-shaped, with high cheekbones that cast small shadows and a narrow chin that gave her a sharp, commanding look even when scared.
Raising a trembling hand, she touched the sides of her head. Fingers brushed against the twin black horns rising from her brow. They were smooth and cool, like polished stone, curving backward in elegant arcs that framed her face like a natural crown. She traced one horn slowly, feeling the hard surface. Under the black exterior, fine lines of red and purple veins ran just below, visible when she looked close. These veins carried a tiny, inner energy, making the horns feel alive, not just dead bone. They were refined, not rough like the broken stubs on many slaves. This meant high blood, or at least potential for great power, even if chained now.
Her lips were full and shaped in a way that looked ready to sneer or command. Bruised now, but naturally strong. The crimson hair flowed down, thick and vibrant, brushing against the prominent curves of her chest. She looked at her body, Those curves were large and perfectly formed, part of a body that was curved and seductive overall—hips wide, waist narrow, legs long despite the chains. It was a form built for attraction and dominance, young and full of life, Even though she didn't how tall she.
Velrith stared for a long time, taking inventory. This was a weapon, not just a body. The beauty could be used, the power in the eyes and horns waited to be unlocked. But the thought lingered—she looked more, appreciating the white skin's smoothness, the elegant horns, the glowing purple eyes. It was high quality, valuable in this world.
Then the truth hit hard, like a fist to the gut. Joseph—the man who sat at a computer, read books about magic worlds, talked with friends online—was gone forever. The void that swallowed him had erased everything. This reflection proved it. No trace of the old face, the old life. Joseph is dead. The body was about eighteen years old, young and strong, highly fertile. She was a young demon girl of rare beauty and latent power, a prize that made her a target for every stronger slave or guard.
The realization cracked the walls she built. Grief rushed in, the pain for lost mother, lost home, lost self. Velrith tried to stop it, clenching her jaw until teeth hurt, willing the emotions back. But the purple eyes in the water, the curved horns, the full feminine chest—it was too much. There was no return.
Tears started without sound. She bowed her head lower over the basin, shoulders shaking. Hot tears fell one after another, splashing into the water and rippling the reflection. They would not stop, streaming down pale cheeks, tracing clean lines through the dirt. Her chest heaved with silent sobs, the large, soft breasts pressing against her knees as she curled forward. The movement hurt, a physical reminder of the changed form, the dysphoria mixing with deep loss. She pressed her face into her folded arms, body rocking slightly on her knees. The chains clinked softly with each tremble.
She cried for sometimes, though time blurred in the shadows. No wails or loud gasps—just quiet, endless tears that wet the stone floor. The grief tore at her inside, worse than any whip. It was for the man erased, the comforts gone, the brutal life ahead as this demon girl. Slaves passed nearby, but none noticed in the dim light and noise. Overseers shouted in the distance, moving groups, but her spot stayed hidden.
Conflicts continued around without her. In the sorting area, two male slaves argued over a hammer. One claimed it was his turn; the other pushed him away with a shove. They grappled briefly, chains wrapping around arms, until a guard intervened with a whip crack. The loser backed down, head low, respecting the guard's power. Females nearby whispered about water rations, one sharing a secret sip from a hidden crack. Life went on in Kravesh's depths.
Velrith wept until no tears remained. Her eyes burned dry, throat raw from swallowed cries. Chest ached from heaving. She lifted her head slowly. The reflection was blurry from ripples and tears, but the face was set now—cold, hard, resolute. Purple eyes stared back, no moisture, no weakness.
The tears of Joseph were the final sacrifice. They christened Velrith fully. She would remember the pain but never cry again. Standing up, chains rattling, she felt resolve radiate from her core, cool and strong. Sorrow ended; survival began. She wiped her face with a dirty hand, turned back to the work line. The body was hers now, a vessel for calculation and revenge. Power waited, and she would claim it step by step.
The march resumed soon after. Buckets lifted, steps shuffled. Velrith carried her load without stumble, mind sharp. The cavern complex stretched endless, but her path was clear. In this world, the powerful ruled—she would become one, or destroy those who tried to stop her.