Bastion was a massive city built from the very stone of the Black Mountains. Its high and imposing walls made the city an impregnable fortress against monster attacks.
The sight stole Elpis's breath, a mixture of awe and dread. The walls weren't simply tall; they were monstrous. Hewn from the dark volcanic rock of the mountains, they soared over fifty meters high, their surfaces marked by countless scratches, acid burns, and impact craters: a grim ledger of past sieges.
Watchtowers, like stone fangs, protruded at regular intervals, their narrow slits promising death from within to any who approached from without. A single, colossal gate of reinforced black iron and aged bronze stood as the only entrance, etched with faded runes of protection and containment. The air around the city carried a permanent chill and a faint metallic aftertaste of old blood and ozone.
It wasn't a city; it was a gigantic maw, a stone beast built to bite back against the deathly wasteland that surrounded it.
Due to the vast number of slaves who arrived and perished on the battlefield, the city was never overcrowded. It operated on a macabre equilibrium: a constant influx of fresh meat was matched by a constant outflow of death.
As he was herded closer, Elpis, drawing on his creator's memory, began mentally recalling the inner workings of Bastion.
Although the law stated that slaves had to fight monsters on the front lines, generally only the most desperate warriors or those seeking a quick death did so. The system was based on merit points. The more monsters you killed, the more points you earned. Upon reaching a predetermined, nearly unattainable sum, you were granted amnesty and freedom.
But it was a bloody trap designed to consume lives. The most common monsters gave minuscule points, while the more powerful beasts, the ones that could offer significant advancement, were an almost certain death sentence for anyone who wasn't a hardened veteran.
To prevent escapes, all slaves were fitted with a magical collar upon entry. It was a dark metal choker, fastened around the neck, that could only be removed with the specific magic of the central tower's wizards.
Attempting to flee beyond a 10-kilometer perimeter around the city would cause the collar to detonate, turning the slave's head into little more than red mist. It was a physical and inescapable reminder of their status: disposable property of the kingdom.
However, within those walls of condemnation, Bastion was a complete and functional city, a perverse ecosystem that revolved around war and survival.
There were miserable barracks and lodgings for the newcomers and those of low rank, while veterans with points could access more decent quarters or even private residences, villas, and complexes. There were forges that echoed day and night, repairing and crafting weapons; noisy and sordid bars where people drank to forget; brothels that offered fleeting comfort; and black markets where everything from extra food to privileged information about raids was traded.
The ways to earn merit points varied. For many women, the "safest" option, though brutal in its own way, was to use their bodies, seducing or accompanying warriors with more points to obtain a share of their earnings, living as parasites in the food chain of desperation.
For the men, the direct route was battle: performing a great feat, such as eliminating a powerful monster, or, the more plausible option for some, winning the favor of one of the main clan leaders. A powerful patron could advocate for you, protect you on raids, or, in exceptional cases, even cede you a portion of their own points in exchange for absolute loyalty.
But joining a clan required demonstrating value, and here, value was measured solely in the capacity to kill and not be killed.
Elpis snapped out of his thoughts upon seeing the caravan finally stop at Bastion's gates.
With a grinding and squealing that resonated in their bones, the enormous metal gate slowly opened, revealing a dark, guarded tunnel. They formed lines and were herded inside by the city guards.
These were not simple soldiers like those in the caravan; they were knights hardened by battle, with cold eyes and visible scars, their armor stained and worn, watching the new slaves with the disinterest of someone seeing cattle arrive at the slaughterhouse.
When it was Elpis's turn, he was pushed toward a rudimentary table. He was asked basic questions and given a minimal physical assessment: age, approximate weight, name. There were no detailed records for cannon fodder like him.
Then, a guard with calloused hands placed the slave collar around his neck. The metal was cold and closed with a sinister click, automatically adjusting until it was snug but not suffocating. A faint, prickling sensation, like an electric tingle, emanated from it, reminding him of its magical nature.
Afterwards, they threw a basic set of clothes at him: pants and a loose tunic of coarse black fabric. On the chest, painted in faded white, was his new name: the number 722.
Without another word, a guard kicked him in the backside, sending him stumbling into the interior courtyard. "Go fend for yourself, scum!" he growled.
Elpis stumbled and fell to his knees on the cold stone floor. Around him, the chaos and murmur of Bastion began to envelop him: shouts, bitter laughter, the sound of metal, and the distant echo of what might have been a roar. He got up, rubbing the spot where he'd been kicked, and adjusted the clothes he was now wearing.
After changing quickly, he touched the collar around his neck, which presumably had his slave number on it. In Bastion, the collar served to identify slaves from non-slaves, and the number represented his code or his name.
Elpis looked around, thinking about where he should go first. His body was too young to join any campaign or hunt monsters, so he had to start earning credits another way.
But he had no money. He could ask for a loan from Bastion's bank. However, that was a very bad idea; the interest rate increased by 10% for each day the debt remained unpaid, entangling you in an inescapable cycle of debt.
Elpis began to walk. He could still feel the cold of the Black Mountains seeping through his clothes. Looking around curiously, he observed that other slaves like him wore various types of clothing, purchased with their merit points.
He saw an elven slave girl wearing only a black top, black pants, a bow on her back, along with a hidden dagger and a full quiver of arrows.
There were others. Elpis watched women in scant clothing who enticed warriors, offering a good night of company in exchange for merit points.
Of course, there were also organized alley gangs that extorted new slaves, robbing them of everything they had, including their clothes, or selling them to the clans, making them slaves of slaves.
Elpis ignored the alleyways and watched his step. He was small, and that would draw attention. He had to be cautious. He didn't want to be sold to a Bastion clan, or worse...
Elpis shuddered at the mere thought.
For now, Elpis had only one option, and the safest one: to become a potion brewer. He knew about very powerful plants and potions with different effects. If he managed to secure a shop, he could earn points and even hire a personal bodyguard.
"He should be in this area," Elpis thought, turning a corner and blending into the crowd, losing the first group of men who had tried to surround him. His goal was clear: to reach a specific apothecary.