The Slave Who Should Have DiedThe morning sun hammered down on the royal stables, a brutal, unforgiving heat. The scent of sweat, hay, and horse dung clung thick in the air, mingling with the buzzing of flies that crawled mercilessly across Lian’s face. His bare back burned with old scars, crimson fresh where the whip had opened flesh only hours before.“Faster, slave!” barked a guard, voice sharp as a blade. “Do you want another beating?”Lian’s hands trembled, his fingers raw and bleeding from scrubbing the stone floor, but he didn’t look up. He bit back the words threatening to escape his lips. Pain was nothing new; silence was survival.Nearby, a group of young servants snickered cruelly. One tall boy kicked over the bucket of water, spilling cold liquid across the dirt.“Missed a spot,” the boy taunted, voice thick with arrogance. “Clean it again, dog.”Lian’s brown eyes flickered with something fierce, a flash of quiet anger, but he bowed his head and whispered, “Yes, young ma

THE WHISPER IN THE DARKWater dripped.Drip. Drip. Drip.Cold droplets hit the cracked stone, echoing through the hollow silence.Lian’s eyes snapped open, burning with pain and confusion. His breath came ragged, each gasp sharp in the cold, stale air. The world was heavy with darkness—thick and suffocating—but faint flickers of blue light shimmered from cracks in the cavern walls, casting eerie shadows that danced like ghosts.His body lay sprawled on damp stone, slick with moisture and something older, something ancient. The air smelled of earth and smoke, but beneath it lurked a colder scent—dusty bones and forgotten death.Lian’s lips parted to speak but all that came was a dry rasp. He coughed, a harsh sound that scraped his throat raw. His fingers twitched, trembling as he pushed himself upright.Pain should have screamed through his body. His clothes were tattered and burned. His wrists still throbbed where rough ropes had cut deep into his skin. But the pain was strangely mu

THE MASKED FIGHTERThe underground arena pulsed with raw energy. A cacophony of shouts and cheers shook the stone walls, mingling with the acrid scent of blood and sweat. Flickering torches cast uneven shadows, making the faces of the crowd dance in and out of the darkness. Coins clattered against the dirt floor as men and women pressed forward, hungry for spectacle.Lian stepped through the heavy iron gates, chains dragging behind him with a dull metallic scrape. His dark cloak was soaked and heavy, clinging to his tall frame, and a silver mask hid every expression on his face. The crowd fell into a stunned hush, then murmurs bubbled up like wildfire.“Who’s that?” a grizzled man whispered.“New slave, I bet,” another answered.“No… look at his eyes. Something’s different,” a woman said, her voice low but sharp.The masked figure didn’t answer. He lifted his head slowly, revealing nothing but those piercing, stormy eyes. He stared directly at the scarred giant waiting for him in th

THE SECRET HEALERThe rain hammered the earth like relentless drums, a cold assault that blurred the world around Lian. Each droplet struck his skin, cold and sharp, mingling with the blood that seeped from deep wounds on his shoulder and ribs. His every breath rasped, harsh and shallow, as his body trembled with exhaustion. Mud clung to his soaked cloak and weighed down every step, while his sword dragged behind him, leaving a dark, wet trail through the thick forest floor.His legs ached, muscles screaming with every movement, and the ache in his side throbbed with each ragged breath. The forest stretched ahead like an endless maze of dripping branches and shadows, the thick canopy filtering what little light remained.The voice stirred inside his mind again, low and menacing. “Keep moving.” It was the Devourer’s command, cold and unwavering.Lian’s jaw clenched until his teeth ground painfully together. “I’m trying,” he rasped, forcing himself forward through the dense undergrowth

THE HUNT BEGINSMorning rose heavy and cold over the city like a pale warning. Mist curled between narrow alleys, and the usual bustle of market stalls was shadowed by fear. Handbills and posters plastered on every wall screamed a single name in scarlet: The Black Ghost. His face—a black mask drawn with ink—stared back at every passerby. Beneath it, bold red letters burned accusations: Treason. Murder. Sorcery.Soldiers thundered through the streets, their boots smashing crates and sending startled merchants diving for cover. Their voices cut sharp through the morning haze.“By order of Prince Kairo! The Black Ghost is wanted—dead or alive! Anyone who aids him will be dealt with mercilessly!”A ragged woman whispered to her daughter as they hurried past a broken stall. “They say he killed ten guards at the prince’s own celebration...”Her daughter’s wide eyes met hers. “How? No one kills royal guards and lives.”“Only cursed men, child,” the mother said, pulling her close.At the pal