The next day, Astar, keeping calm just as Dalanar had instructed, made his way to the mines. He played his role to perfection—his face wore the same vacant indifference, he muttered incomprehensibly as if trying to recall something, and lazily sucked on a rock he’d picked up on the way to the communal shaft, maintaining the persona everyone had grown used to.

  When he first picked up the pickaxe, it felt lighter than usual. But he dismissed it, chalking it up to his effort not to draw attention. However, the moment he struck the rock wall, he froze in shock.

  BAAM!

  A thunderous crash erupted, so loud that several nearby prisoners instinctively looked up. The chunk of stone before Astar didn’t just crack—it exploded into fragments, scattering shrapnel across him and those nearby.

  He stared at the shattered debris in disbelief. His breathing quickened, but he forced himself to suppress the shock. Around him, startled whispers began to stir.

  “What the hell…”

  “What did he just do?”

  “Quiet,” one of the inmates hissed sharply—one who knew of Dalanar’s plan. His eyes met Astar’s, and he gave a subtle nod, urging him to continue as if nothing had happened.

  Astar wrestled back control over his emotions and acted like everything was fine. He raised the pickaxe again, though inside, his mind was screaming in a mix of awe and fear.

  “What the hell is this?! Can a person really be this strong?” he thought, struggling to keep his face calm. “Is this the strength of a Premarch that Dalanar talked about yesterday? It’s absurd… Can I get even stronger? No—this isn’t the time...”

  The next strike was more cautious, but even then, the rock split apart as if it were brittle glass. This time, Astar could feel the power coursing through him, filling him with a deep sense of control. His muscles moved with fluid precision, like a perfectly calibrated machine, and the effort he applied felt almost effortless.

  “Dalanar was right. This… this is more than I ever imagined. I really could punch through a wall if I wanted. Were there even people on Earth with this kind of physical strength? It’s not just about the force of the blow—but the resilience of the body… Before, hard hits would tear my skin and rattle my bones. But now...”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a few other prisoners still casting stunned glances his way, though most had returned to work. Realizing the guards hadn’t noticed anything, Astar clenched his jaw and forced himself to work at his usual pace, carefully measuring the force of each swing.

  “So… am I still human? Or a human with supernatural strength?” he wondered. “But what is this strength? And how does it even work? If I survive this escape, I have to figure it out... And more importantly, it’s likely that everything happening is directly tied to my parents...” he thought, unconsciously tightening his grip on the pickaxe.

  The day before had brought a storm of revelations, and he hadn’t been able to sleep at all. He’d spent the night thinking about himself, about the situation, and above all—about his origins. No matter how much he tried to resist the thought, the childhood pain still lingered deep inside. And now, with the growing possibility that his parents had been something other than what he believed all his life… something inside him had cracked.

  “Should I really dig into that?” he wondered, as if trying to convince himself that he didn’t want to know anything about them.

  The very next moment, he shook his head and mentally snapped at himself: "Astar, what the hell are you even thinking right now?! First, we survive—then we worry about my useless parents!"

  He glanced at Dalanar from the corner of his eye. The man was watching him from a distance, gave a slight nod, and even allowed the hint of a smile to surface, as if to say, “You’re doing well.”

  Astar went back to digging, but there was a new fire burning inside him. The power now coursing through his body gave him hope that he might actually escape this hell. The rest could come later. He knew well: "Until the immediate crisis is resolved, there's no point thinking about the storms beyond. Everything must be dealt with step by step."

  For the next two weeks, Astar stuck to his routine religiously, careful not to draw attention. He dug for crystals, sucked on tiny fragments found in the discarded rubble, and maintained the same empty, vacant look on his face. Every movement was calculated, every glance measured. He knew full well that even the smallest mistake could unravel Dalanar’s meticulously constructed plan.

  Whole crystals, though tempting, remained untouched. Astar understood: if he tried to steal even one, it would endanger not just him, but everyone involved.

  "Hold yourself together," he reminded himself every time a glimmer of a chance presented itself. "Freedom matters more than anything. Your goal isn’t the crystals. It’s getting out of here."

  Still, his thoughts weren’t consumed by survival alone. In rare moments of solitude, he tried to figure out how to activate the Corruption Devouring Technique he had inherited from that mysterious ancestor. The knowledge came to him like scattered puzzle pieces—never quite forming a full picture.

  Through careful, cautious conversations with Dalanar, he gathered that the technique needed to be infused with memoria. But no matter how many times he tried, something always felt off. It was as if the technique refused to yield to him.

  "How the hell do I activate this cursed thing?" he wondered, sitting on the damp floor of the cell. But no answer ever came.

  The only thing he could clearly feel was the memoria itself, flowing through his body like warm currents. Astar suspected it was accumulating in his Soul Vault, slowly condensing toward the formation of a core. But according to Dalanar, without a technique to guide the process, doing so was nearly impossible. A proper technique could channel the collected memoria in the right direction, triggering transformation.

  "I need more time," he thought. "And maybe someone out there who can explain how all this actually works. After all, Dalanar never made it past the Premarch stage—he was like me..."

  At one point, Astar even considered experimenting on his own, trying to develop a method to concentrate and form the core manually. After all, there had to be some logic to the process. But he abandoned the idea almost immediately—what if he screwed it up and lost the ability to cultivate the Devouring Blight Technique properly?

  Truthfully, in this strange world, that technique was his only real asset—the one tool he had for building a future. Whatever the situation, Astar had begun to realize that he now stood a step above common mortals. And that meant one thing: with determination and discipline, he could carve out freedom and prosperity for himself, even in a world gone mad.

  Much as he hoped otherwise, he was starting to accept that he couldn’t return to Earth. That realization was slowly cementing itself in his mind. He could still hear the strange voice from the day he was transported into this world:

  "The power of the Multiversal Book of Memoria has been exhausted. You can no longer remain safe... Forgive us, son. We hope you’ll uncover the truth…"

  "Whatever that Book is… Maybe it’s what brought me to Earth. And if that voice really was my father," he thought bitterly, "then all he did was warn me that the Book had run dry. So it held me there? Kept me hidden? Great… does that mean I have to start from scratch all over again?"

  Each day, impatience stirred deeper within him, laced with a quiet unease. His mind brimmed with escape strategies, yes—but also questions, and no answers in sight. "What will I do after we break out? Join Dalanar’s gang? Try to learn more about this world and trace my roots? Or maybe use the knowledge from Earth to build some quiet corner for myself and just live in peace?"

  But for now, every morning he rose, picked up his pickaxe, and went into the mines, keeping his calm. The labor gave him a break from the endless flood of questions, and the power that flowed through his veins became a quiet source of motivation. He could feel it: he was ready for anything—though he still didn’t know what exactly lay ahead.

  At dawn one morning, when the air still clung with dampness and stone rot, Astar noticed Dalanar slipping toward him. His face was unusually serious, eyes flashing with resolve. Without a word of greeting, he leaned in and whispered:

  "Today. The revolt starts this shift."

  Astar felt his heart skip a beat. He nodded silently, doing his best not to show the sudden wave of tension rising inside him.

  "Listen carefully," Dalanar continued, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. "Once the chaos starts, stay close to me. We have a shared interest here: the longer you stay alive, the better my chances of making it out. You and I—we're each other’s best insurance."

  "Are you sure about the escape routes?" Astar asked, forcing his voice to remain calm, though a storm was raging inside him.

  "Yes," Dalanar replied curtly. "I’ve studied the paths and weak points. There are several routes that can lead us out. But remember—there’ll be multiple groups. Each one will try to slip away in their own direction. I can’t vouch for the others, but if you stay with me, your chances of surviving go way up."

  Astar nodded, recognizing the logic.

  "And after that?" he asked.

  "After?" Dalanar smirked. "Then we cross the memoria barrier. That’s where you’ll be essential. The abyssals won’t let us go that easily—but with you, we’ve got a shot. After that, my people will be waiting. They’ll help us disappear, give us clothes, shelter us until things quiet down."

  Astar exhaled slowly, realizing just how much lay ahead. The uprising, the guards, the abyssals… and then the attempt to slip beyond a new barrier.

  "I understand," he said at last. "When do we start?"

  "As soon as the shift begins," Dalanar answered. "The overseers won’t suspect a thing until the first strike. Be ready. And remember, stay close to me. This is about brains, not just brawn."

  He straightened, casting Astar a final, meaningful look before heading off to speak with others, clearly relaying the same plan. It seemed the uprising had the interest of many. Naturally, the other cells had their own leaders with slightly different visions of escape—that’s why there would be multiple groups.

  Astar stayed where he was, absorbing what he’d just heard. It was real now. No longer just plans and waiting, but action. His mind kicked into high gear, breaking down the coming chaos into stages, anticipating problems before they happened. "Stay with Dalanar," he reminded himself. "And be ready for anything."

  He clenched his fists, bracing for what could be either his last day alive… or the first step toward freedom. A new freedom, in a world utterly alien and unknown.

  The day began as always: prisoners exiting their cells, taking their work positions, barked orders from the guards. Astar picked up his pickaxe and paused, uncertain, before heading to his designated zone. But this time, unnoticed by those around him, he shifted slowly closer to Dalanar, keeping a careful eye on everything.

  His heart pounded harder than usual, but he forced himself to appear relaxed. Just another broken slave. The mute fool. The role he’d played for weeks now might be the very thing that saved his life.

  The mine buzzed with the rhythmic clang of pickaxes, murmured conversations, and the occasional mocking laugh from overseers who hurled insults at the prisoners. Astar could feel the tension in the air rising—like the stillness before a storm. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Dalanar continuing to work with feigned laziness, clearly waiting for the signal.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Then the moment came. One of the overseers, chuckling at another crude joke, turned his back on a nearby group of prisoners.

  "Let’s show these bastards!" someone screamed. "No more of this!"

  Suddenly, shouts erupted from across the mine. Work stopped. Metal screeched, pickaxes swung, and the prisoners lunged at their oppressors.

  "It’s begun," Dalanar growled, nudging Astar with his elbow. "Stay close!"

  Chaos exploded through the mine. Groups of slaves, armed with pickaxes, stones, even broken wood, surged forward, shouting and flailing. The guards, caught off guard, tried to hold their ground, but there were too few of them. Reinforcements would come—but every overseer was only at the Warrior stage. It wouldn’t take long for them to regain control.

  The window of opportunity was narrow. They had to move fast.

  Astar stuck close to Dalanar, who navigated through the pandemonium with sharp confidence—until something made Astar freeze in place. From a distant corridor, three men emerged in full armor, holding spears. Their presence radiated strength and certainty, and their bodies were wreathed in dense gray mist—far thicker than what Astar had ever seen around himself.

  It was memoria—pouring out of them like a living force.

  "Gray Mnemarchs," Dalanar whispered, clutching Astar’s shoulder. "That’s them."

  Astar didn’t even have time to react before the three men moved at once. One of them raised his hand, and the gray mist instantly shifted to a deep, dark blue. A shimmering vortex of energy burst from his palm, crashing into a group of prisoners within a five-meter radius—hurling them against the stone walls with sickening crunches.

  The second Mnemarch clenched his fist, and his memoria flared into something that resembled fire. In an instant, his body was wreathed in flames that surged toward the nearest slaves, scorching their flesh as they screamed.

  The third moved faster than the eye could follow, dashing through the crowd like a blur, striking with each movement. Each blow was accompanied by flashes of light and thunderous cracks. His memoria had turned pure white…

  It seemed that memoria only initially revealed a Mnemarch’s development stage—once a technique was activated, its appearance and attributes changed.

  "How are they doing that…" Astar whispered in shock, watching the chaos unfold. "That’s… unbelievable."

  "Welcome to reality," Dalanar snapped, pulling him from his trance. "We have to move while they’re distracted with the crowd. If they focus on us, we’re dead. And remember, Astar—your strength is the key. You can’t take on the Gray Mnemarchs, but you can help deal with the overseers. Just don’t get reckless. Got it?"

  Astar nodded, gritting his teeth. He could feel adrenaline flooding his veins, his muscles tensing, his senses sharpening. Every movement now carried weight.

  He and Dalanar, using the riot as cover, dashed toward one of the mine’s inner corridors—a route always forbidden to the slaves. It was guarded tightly, the overseers coming and going from it as if guarding something vital.

  About thirty more prisoners joined them in the rush. The expressions of those around him—human and nonhuman alike—were a mix of fear and grim resolve. They all knew what was at stake.

  Screams and the clamor of battle filled the cavern, growing louder with every step. Overseers from across the mine were regrouping and ruthlessly crushing the uprising. Their strikes were brutal and precise, their armor shrugging off the weak blows from pickaxes. Blood now stained the stone walls, and the sound of combat drowned out all but one's own thoughts.

  "Move!" Dalanar shouted, barely dodging chunks of flying debris. "If we slow down, we’ll be trampled like the rest!"

  Astar pushed himself forward, jaw clenched. He tried not to look back—but out of the corner of his eye, he saw overseers and Gray Mnemarchs systematically crushing the resistance. Colored gales and magical flares tore through the crowd like a storm of chaos.

  At last, they broke into the corridor. The roar of the mine dulled behind them, replaced by the echo of their urgent footfalls. Astar felt fear recede slightly, only to be replaced by a thick tension coiling in his gut.

  "Faster!" someone shouted nearby.

  But less than a minute later, their path was blocked.

  Three armored men stood ahead, swords drawn, glinting in the torchlight. They all bore the same features—red skin, and horns jutting from their foreheads. Same race. Same threat.

  "Dead men," one of them said coldly, then raised his blade. "No one escapes the mine."

  His words sounded like a sentence. But the prisoners didn’t stop.

  With screams of rage, the rebels surged forward, pickaxes held high. Metal rang out. Blow after blow. Some fell instantly. Others fought with desperate fury.

  "Astar!" Dalanar roared, turning back. "Don’t just stand there—hit them!"

  "How?!" Astar shouted, frozen, fear gripping his limbs.

  "With everything you’ve got! Hit them with the damn pickaxe! You’re stronger than they are—use it!"

  Astar held his breath and gripped the pick tighter. He charged, legs driven by adrenaline. One of the guards was fending off several prisoners when an exchange knocked his sword high into the air—leaving his chest exposed.

  "Screw it! Just hit!" Astar screamed in his head, pouring all his courage into motion.

  He swung. The pickaxe, as if guided by some unseen force, slammed into the guard’s armor.

  BAAM!

  The sickening crunch echoed in the corridor as the metal caved like foil. The guard howled in pain and flew backward, crashing into another man and sending both to the ground.

  "Again!" Dalanar shouted, locking blades with the third guard. "Finish him!"

  Astar stood frozen, staring at his weapon, stunned at what he’d just done. His blow had pierced reinforced armor with ease. The guard’s chest had caved inward—his ribs audibly shattered.

  Nausea surged. "I… I actually did that? How is this even possible?" he thought, legs trembling.

  "Astar, damn it!" Dalanar bellowed, hearing more guards rushing from deeper within the tunnels. "Don’t freeze—hit him!"

  Astar’s eyes shifted to the last guard, who was staggering, off-balance.

  Hit, a voice inside him urged. "If you don’t, you’ll die."

  Something inside flipped like a switch. Astar charged.

  He raised the pickaxe again, every muscle straining. His eyes flickered with a faint gray glow, and a subtle mist formed around his body.

  Everything in him screamed against it—but he threw the strike with all his strength. The pickaxe howled through the air and slammed into the guard’s head.

  The sound that followed was unforgettable—a crack of bone and a wet squelch, like raw meat crushed in a fist.

  "Crunch! Shhuuv!" the guard’s head quite literally exploded, spraying blood across the walls and floor of the cavern. Bone fragments and chunks of flesh scattered in every direction, splattering the nearest prisoners.

  Astar froze, still clutching the pickaxe’s handle. For a few breathless moments, everything around him fell silent—as if the entire world paused to await his reaction. He stood there, unable to believe what he’d done, and then suddenly dropped to his knees.

  "Buueh…" A strangled moan escaped his throat. He couldn’t hold back the nausea. His body convulsed, and the contents of his stomach spilled onto the ground. In his mind’s eye, the image of the shattered skull refused to fade.

  "Get up, idiot!" Dalanar grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him upright. "We don’t have time for weakness! You wanna live or die in this pit? Make up your damn mind!"

  Shaking, Astar rose to his feet, trying to purge the horror from his mind. His legs trembled, but he forced himself to take a step. Then another.

  "I… I can do it," he muttered, gripping the pickaxe so hard his knuckles went white.

  "That’s more like it," Dalanar growled, giving a brutal kick to a fallen comrade who clearly wasn’t getting up—his injuries were too severe. "I need you alive, Astar! If you die, who the hell is going to kill the abyssals?"

  Without giving himself room to think, Astar clenched his jaw and followed the others pushing deeper into the passageway. Blood, chaos, and terror surrounded him, and the memory of what he’d just done branded itself into his mind.

  Everything that followed became a blur. His consciousness, rattled by trauma, slipped into a kind of haze, leaving only instinct behind. He followed Dalanar’s commands, ran where he was told, struck when needed. Every new enemy they encountered met the same fate. Astar didn’t think. He didn’t feel. He just acted.

  His pickaxe splintered under the sheer force of his blows. One guard, then another, then another… He kept switching weapons, picking them up from the floor or from fallen allies. Over time, the remaining prisoners armed themselves with scavenged swords. They fought side by side, cutting their way forward. With each clash, the path grew clearer—but the sights around them only grew more gruesome.

  Screams of agony, metal on stone, the blinding flashes of overseers’ techniques—it all blended into a single roar. Astar could barely make out the faces of those still fighting. His mind refused to absorb the reality, as if shielding itself from madness.

  At some point, he realized their numbers had dwindled. Many had fallen beneath the guards’ blows. But those who remained pressed on. Dalanar stayed at his side, his voice an anchor pulling Astar back toward awareness.

  "Faster! We’re almost outside!" he shouted, beheading one of the guards with a brutal slash. Even now, Dalanar still possessed the power of a Warrior, and his battle instincts were razor-sharp.

  And then, as if the entire world changed, a brilliant light flared ahead. Astar’s eyes, long adjusted to the mine’s gloom, were momentarily blinded. He stopped in his tracks, stunned, as the first rays of daylight touched his face. He stood there, forgetting everything.

  For the first time since arriving in this world, he saw the light of the outside—not the occasional beams that slipped into the mine, but full, glorious daylight. Fresh, cool air rushed into his lungs, sending shivers down his spine. The smell—no rot, no piss, no damp decay.

  "Don’t stop!" Dalanar barked, yanking him hard by the shoulder. "We’re not safe yet—run!"

  The words jolted Astar from his trance. He took a deep breath, still trying to grasp what he saw, and dashed forward with the others.

  His eyes adjusted quickly to the light. It was as if the darkness that had clung to him for so long finally let go—revealing a world he could barely comprehend. As the group cleared the cave’s edge and rounded a rocky outcrop, Astar froze again, struck speechless by the view.

  They were high on a mountain slope. Before him stretched a breathtaking landscape. Jagged peaks loomed in every direction, their bases swallowed by colossal forests. The treetops shimmered with hues of green and blue that Astar had never seen on Earth. Roads—thin lines of movement—wound through the woodlands like threads. Some of those paths glimmered faintly, as if lit by unseen torches.

  "This is… unbelievable," he whispered, forgetting everything for a moment.

  But that wasn’t what truly stunned him.

  What caught and held his gaze was the enormous, semi-transparent dome that covered the entire mountain. It shimmered in hues of white and blue, pulsing softly, as if breathing in rhythm with some unseen energy. The sight stole his breath and filled him with awe—and dread.

  Astar slowly turned, following the dome’s curve—and saw its source. At the mountain’s peak blazed a powerful beam of light, shooting straight into the sky. It was a colossal stream of raw energy, spreading outward to form the barrier.

  "That’s the barrier," Dalanar said hoarsely, turning to face him. His voice carried both relief and exhaustion. "That beam’s from the local Temple of Memoria. It sustains the barrier. While we’re inside, the abyssals won’t touch us. But we’re about to cross the line."

  These words snapped Astar back to reality. He tore his gaze from the majestic dome and looked at those running beside him. The faces of the former prisoners reflected a mix of exhaustion and fear. Many of them, like him, were seeing daylight and breathing fresh air for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

  “Shit… there’s barely more than ten of us left,” Astar realized with a sinking feeling, understanding that nearly twenty had fallen in the tunnels.

  But there was no time to mourn. Dalanar was already urging them forward.

  “Move! Break’s over! If we hesitate now, they’ll catch us. Run while you still can!”

  They scrambled down the mountainside. The path was steep and treacherous—loose stones slid underfoot, and sharp ridges threatened to send anyone tumbling with a single misstep. Astar ran, his heartbeat pounding in rhythm with the echoing footsteps of the group. The footwear they’d been given in the mines was little more than wrapped rags, already tearing apart. Prisoners stumbled, fell, some rolled several meters down—but all of them forced themselves back up and pushed on. They all knew: a pause here meant death.

  The wind slammed into his face, carrying the chill of the forest that sprawled at the base of the mountain. Its shadows promised shelter, its depths a sliver of hope. For now, everyone’s thoughts were fixed on the danger behind, not what lay ahead.

  The shouting and clamor from above began to fade, but tension still gripped the group. The guards could be right on their heels. All they wanted was to leave the mining territory behind—because once they crossed that threshold, it was unlikely the pursuit would last long.

  Dalanar had explained that the Gray Mnemarchs wouldn’t waste time tracking a handful of escaped slaves, especially when their chances of surviving the forest were slim to none. The regular guards, meanwhile, didn’t have the power to freely roam outside the barrier—this path was marked as danger level three, which meant there was a real risk of encountering a Premarch-level Abyssal.

  Astar glanced behind to make sure Dalanar was still with them. His companion moved with a kind of mad confidence, as if he knew exactly what had to be done.

  And then, the forest was closer than he expected. They reached its edge, where the barrier shimmered with an intense glow. Up close, the semi-transparent wall rippling in white and blue hues looked even more awe-inspiring. It almost seemed alive, quivering like the surface of water.

  “Through it! Don’t stop!” Dalanar shouted, shoving them forward. No one hesitated, no one paused to examine the barrier.

  Astar felt something strange course through him the moment he crossed that veil of light. It was like plunging into a wall of water—thick, pressurized—yet he remained completely dry. A brief, weighty pressure wrapped around his body, then vanished, leaving only a faint tremor in his limbs.

  He turned back in time to see the barrier ripple behind him, as if it had responded to his touch. A pang of unease bloomed in his chest.

  “We’re in new danger now,” he realized, watching the others cross the threshold.

  Dalanar didn’t allow them a moment to think.

  “Into the forest! Now!” he barked. “The roads are too exposed. If they come looking, that’s where they’ll check first. Move!”

  The group’s tension surged, but no one argued. Astar felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, a primal warning from his body that something was wrong. He cast one last glance at the barrier, at the mountain range behind it, and then hurried after the others—into the strange, shadowy depths of the forest.