The third name burned slower. Less perfumed than Lady Tyron’s, less sophisticated than Grenda’s speeches. But dirtier. More direct. More brutal.

  Hadrik Fenrel.

  Lysa remembered his calloused fingers, his unkempt beard, the smell of coal clinging even to his eyes. He didn’t see her as a rare creature. Nor as an aberration. Just as a tool. And that was what hurt most: not being the exception, but the imposed utility.

  She closed her eyes.

  And once more, the past swallowed her.

  Cycle 817 — Dhaz Mines

  This time, there was no carriage. Just a cargo cart. The hay stank of urine and rust. Her fellow passengers were sacks of ore and a dead creature wrapped in canvas.

  Lysa was eight years old. Her body still ached from the last punishment in Vareth’s cages. Her legs swollen. Fingers peeling.

  The trip lasted two days.

  No water was given.

  When she arrived, she thought she’d been abandoned at the bottom of a cave. But no — the entrance was what it seemed: a giant, black mouth carved into the mountain. Light didn’t reach inside. Nor did mercy.

  Hadrik waited at the entrance.

  Tall, broad-shouldered, expressionless. His hands more stone than flesh. His beard fell to his chest, covered in dark dust.

  He didn’t ask for her name.

  Nor her age.

  He simply said:

  — Works.

  And turned his back.

  The "lodging" was a hole. No windows. No beds. A damp room with rats, mold, and dry bones. There were other children. All younger. All thinner. All low-Value.

  None spoke.

  They had learned silence meant survival.

  Lysa was handed a pickaxe with a cracked handle. No enchantments. No protection.

  — Go into the holes the adults can’t fit — Hadrik said. — Scrape. Gather. Repeat.

  She tried to understand.

  Then she began.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The tunnel was narrow. It cut through the ground like a wounded vein. Lysa crawled with her knees, fingers, elbows. The air was dense, full of dust and mold and something else: the smell of dead System. As if here lay an ancient wound, where the Code had failed and nature hadn’t yet decided what to do.

  Down there, Values meant nothing.

  Only endurance.

  Only hunger.

  And fear.

  The first time she passed out, no one came.

  She lay for hours — maybe days — trapped between two rocks. Her arms limp. Her legs numb.

  She thought she’d die there.

  But she didn’t.

  She woke with thirst. With rage. And dragged herself back.

  Hadrik saw her.

  Didn’t help.

  — Did you break the pickaxe? — was all he asked.

  She shook her head.

  — Then get back.

  The following cycle was a blur of small pains that, combined, built invisible monsters: torn nails. Fungal eye infections. Endless cramps. Ants biting her scalp in her sleep.

  And worse than all, Hadrik’s words.

  — Zero that doesn’t die, works.

  — Zero that cries, wastes time.

  — Zero that rests, delays the others.

  He never shouted.

  He whispered.

  Always the same way. Always with hollow eyes.

  Once, one of the boys — younger than Lysa — fell into a crevice.

  Hadrik watched from afar.

  — No longer useful — he murmured. Then ordered the hole sealed with rocks.

  Lysa screamed.

  Not out of bravery.

  On impulse.

  A dry cry. A choked sound that slipped between her teeth.

  Hadrik turned.

  For the first time, he looked directly at her.

  — Did you scream?

  She didn’t answer.

  He grabbed her arm and dragged her to the mess hall — a stone table where adults ate scraps of dark meat and moldy bread.

  Hadrik raised his axe. Didn’t use it. Just placed the cold blade against her face.

  — Screaming takes breath. Zero that has breath… hiding Value?

  Lysa bit her lips until they bled.

  He let her go.

  But never looked at her the same again.

  Cycle 818 — Break

  It was in winter that everything changed.

  A landslide. A tremor. A new hole. Three tunnels collapsed, burying half a dozen workers. Children and adults.

  Lysa was nearby.

  She survived.

  But she was the one who saw it.

  Amid the rubble — the symbol.

  An ancient one.

  A mark from the Pre-Root System — ruins of a station where Values were forged from emotion, not calculation.

  She touched it.

  And felt something.

  A warmth in her fingers. A jolt in her brain.

  For the first time, the Code looked back at her.

  And it stayed.

  She stumbled back. Bleeding.

  Welcomed with silence.

  And more labor.

  But something had changed.

  She started seeing the invisible threads around the adults.

  Began to understand how seals worked. How runes spoke to each other. How traps pulsed seconds before activating.

  She was still a child.

  But the System, for the first time, had shown a crack.

  And she slipped through it.

  Days later, Hadrik caught her dozing off. Forbidden.

  He dragged her out.

  Ordered her to dig wearing only thin clothes, under snow.

  She obeyed.

  But that day, she looked at him — not as a cruel god, but as the man he was:

  Weak.

  Cowardly.

  And lost.

  The following week, the sale came.

  She had fallen ill — a strange fever, perhaps from contact with the station.

  Hadrik, ever pragmatic, didn’t treat the sick.

  He traded her for a new pair of boots.

  And a leather canteen.

  Present

  The morning breeze crept through the cracks in the tower.

  Lysa sat up, her hand gripping the dagger.

  On the dirt floor, with its blade, she wrote:

  Hadrik Fenrel

  Last known location: South Mines of Dhaz

  Current status: unknown

  Fate: execution — slow

  She took a deep breath.

  The air tasted of dust.

  She could still feel him there. Beneath her fingers. In her chest.

  But not for long.

  She would find him.

  And erase him.

  Soon.

  But first… there was another.

  One who pretended to be a man of knowledge — but collected pain like a medal.

  Sario Ulven.