He ran without looking back, gasping for breath as he pushed through the crowd... until he stopped in front of the gate—unaware that what awaited him wasn't a job, but the beginning of a descent into a hell from which there was no return.
———
Akainu stood before the gate.
His breath raced to match his pounding heart. Cold sweat slid down his temple, as if fleeing a body that knew what lay beyond. The stench of burnt coal, dust, and the sweat of men soaked into the walls formed a choking blend that coiled around his throat.
He stared at the gate.
Massive, corroded—as if it had devoured more from those who stood before it than from the earth beneath it.
(In his mind)
"Every day, I tell myself this will be the last... then I come back."
"I run, I gasp, I fight... for a handful of coins... for medicine, so she can keep breathing."
His mother's image crept into his mind—pale, motionless on the bed, her voice thin like a stream of wind fading into nothing.
"They say life is about choices... but no one tells you the poor don't get to choose."
"If you don't work, you starve... and if you're tired, no one listens."
He looked at his hands—dirty with dust, cracked from never healing, scarred by firewood, running, and digging.
"Berzelius? A good man, yes. Gave me a job that wouldn't kill me—or so I thought."
"But being good isn't enough in a kingdom that drinks sweat and spits out souls."
A sound from inside... a heavy bell.
Then footsteps, followed by the creaking of chains.
The gate began to open.
The light faded gradually, as if ashamed to enter such a place.
Here, the shadows told the truth more than the light ever could.
"I don't want to be a slave... I've told myself that a thousand times."
"But a man who works just to survive is not free—he's a slave bound by invisible chains."
He took a step forward.
"I don't dig for money... I dig to keep a frail body from decaying in front of me."
"I can't stand these sounds... but I don't have the luxury of escape."
The sound of rock shattering slapped his ears. Thick smoke billowed from deep within the tunnel, and the air felt like it carried some ancient torment.
He looked ahead and whispered:
"I'm not strong..."
"But I've lost the right to be weak."
---
He stepped inside...
The dampness slapped his skin, and the darkness slowly devoured his features.
Bent men, stiff bodies, relentless strikes on rock... no one looked, no one spoke.
Here, time was measured in sweat, not words.
He walked among them.
Each step echoed like a guilt that never faded.
(His thoughts returned)
"I didn't mean to..."
"It wasn't supposed to come to this."
"Nothing was supposed to happen…"
"I only wanted knowledge, not a curse on the world."
"But how do you convince the world that you were just a fool chasing what should've been left unknown?"
"How do you tell them their curse began… but it wasn't your intent?"
"That now they dig in the same earth poisoned by my blood, dreaming of a future that doesn't exist?"
"The writings on the walls said something ancient could free us—from sickness, hunger, this endless hell…"
"But they didn't say it was feeding something else... something that had slept beneath us all this time."
He gripped his hammer, his hand still trembling despite all it had endured.
He passed a worker missing half his fingers, and another trembling for no apparent reason.
The sound of metal split the silence—but it meant nothing… for real pain makes no sound.
"No one knows... and no one should."
"This mine is my penance, this torment is my sentence, and the voices screaming in my head every night... won't stop until it's over."
He paused, placed his hand on the wall, and felt a faint pulse... as if the rock itself still ached.
He raised the hammer.
The crack in the stone was no deeper than the one inside him.
But he dug, just like every day.
Not because he wanted to—
—but because he couldn't stop.
Akainu swung the hammer, then paused.
He leaned his forehead against the wall and whispered, broken, like a man condemning himself:
"I just wanted to… I just wanted..."
But the sound of a body hitting the ground cut through his thoughts.
He turned quickly to see a group of young men circling an old man collapsed on the dirt.
One of them had pushed him moments earlier. Now they surrounded him like wolves around prey.
Their leader stepped forward—a narrow-eyed youth whose gaze bled contempt—and said:
"If you can't pay, then at least let us have some fun with you, old man."
The old man lifted his head with difficulty:
"Son… I have children waiting for food. Don't wrong me, I have nothing to give… I'm old enough to be your father."
The leader leaned in with a mocking smile:
"If my own father doesn't pay, we have fun with him. So what chance do you think you have, stranger?"
A guy behind him laughed and said:
"Finally, someone to entertain us today!"
Another added, twirling a short stick:
"We won't take his money—we'll take his voice, his pride, maybe even a few teeth!"
The old man trembled, clutching the ground like clinging to life itself:
"Please... I swear I have nothing!"
One of them stomped on his hand:
"Enough talk! You all say that… until your bones start confessing!"
The leader stood over the old man, his eyes narrowing like he was staring at something worthless.
He reached behind him silently.
The others understood—silence born of routine.
A thick wooden club was placed in his hand. Its head bore sharp, jagged metal teeth, stained with dark patches of rust... or something else.
He held it with strange gentleness, as if touching an old memory.
"There was a man... looked just like you."
He said it while looking down at the hunched figure.
"He was stubborn. Had money. Thought silence could protect him... thought we wouldn't notice."
He stepped closer, raised the club slightly... then offered it to the old man.
"Here. Take it."
The old man hesitated, his fingers trembling, but he took it—like grabbing hold of despair.
He stared at the jagged tips and the dark stains. His lips trembled.
"Do you see the blood?"
The old man replied in a faint voice:
"Yes..."
The leader smiled, but his eyes stayed cold:
"It belonged to that man."
"He was kind. Too kind. That made him a fool."
Suddenly, he snatched the club back violently, his voice exploding with cold finality:
"Sadly... you're just like him."
The words hit the old man like a verdict.
His knees buckled, breath caught in his throat...
He wet himself.
The smells mingled with fear. The ground beneath him bore witness.
One of the boys in the back laughed:
"A nice, easy catch for today!"
Another clapped in a mocking rhythm:
"Looks like he started the humiliation party on his own!"
The leader raised the club, gripping it with both hands, eyes locked on the helpless figure before him.
"It's time..."
A strike came down!
But it didn't land.
A sudden clash.
Like metal hitting stone... but it wasn't stone.
The old man opened his eyes slowly, fear still etched on his face.
Then he saw him.
A broad back, unmoving like a wall.
A bloody hand clutching the weapon by its spiked head. The jagged metal dug deep into the palm.
Blood streamed down in thin lines, but he didn't flinch. Didn't retreat. Didn't tremble.
He slowly raised his head, turned one eye toward the leader.
"You want to strike a man who can't defend himself?"
"Aren't you ashamed?"
His voice was calm... but beneath it, a mountain of suppressed fury.
Akainu.
To be continued…