Chapter 296: Uprising
Duchy of Carter, outskirts of Dena City.
Crack—
"Move it! Work faster!"
"Filthy scum without Status! Animals!"
The sharp crack of a whip, furious curses, and the rhythmic clink of miners striking ore echoed through the dim tunnels of the mine shaft.
In the gloom, emaciated miners toiled under the whip’s lash, their bodies caked in grime. Overseers, clad in crude armor, swung their whips with merciless precision, watching every move of the wretched laborers beneath them.
Among them, one miner bore the nickname Starfire above his head.
Clearly, he was either a Player—or, as the Indigenous Inhabitants called them, a Stellarfallen.
"These damned bastards..."
"I'll get them. I just need to find a way out."
Starfire swung his pickaxe with grim determination, but his gaze—locked onto the Overseer—burned with quiet menace.
A minor celebrity among Players, Starfire wasn’t one for speedruns. He preferred immersion, uncovering the hidden stories buried within the game’s depths.
So instead of the standard Northwind Keep start, he’d chosen the lesser-known capital of the Duchy of Carter—Dena City—hoping to experience the unique soul of the Northern Regions.
But luck had not smiled upon him.
Upon arrival, he was immediately seized by the city’s garrison for lacking a Status. Then, sold to a slave trader by a corrupt officer with ties to underground gangs. After a harrowing journey through the black market, he’d ended up as a nameless, soulless Slave Laborer, shackled to the underground mines of some Northern Noble.
This was not uncommon in the Northern Kingdoms.
Serfdom ran deep—centuries-old, unshaken. To the Nobles, slaves were not even human. They were disposable assets—cheap, expendable Gray Livestock. And the trade in flesh? It was quietly tolerated, even encouraged. The Peacekeepers turned a blind eye. After all, what were a few nameless Wanderers? If caught, they might even help improve city order. But the gold coins from Slave traders? Far more valuable.
Starfire’s side was occupied by a new Slave Laborer—thin, dark-skinned, clearly fresh from capture. His movements were clumsy, untrained, earning him repeated lashes and cruel taunts from the Overseer.
Starfire placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and leaned in, whispering:
"Your name?"
The man paused, wiping sweat and grime from his face with a soot-stained hand. He gave a nervous, embarrassed smile.
"I don’t have a name. My old master called me Chai Gun."
Crack!
"Lazy beast! Keep working!"
The whip came down again, unrelenting. Chai Gun gritted his teeth, body trembling as the lash tore across his already scarred back. Another crimson line bloomed beneath the grime.
Yet he didn’t cry out. He just stood, silence etched into his posture, and raised his pickaxe again.
Starfire, however, remained untouched.
His Master had ordered him to be preserved—a strong slave, to be used to maximum capacity. Every drop of labor squeezed out before the body broke.
Low and urgent, Starfire murmured:
"They treat you like this… don’t you hate them?"
Chai Gun froze mid-motion. The question was treason. His heart pounded. He stammered:
"N-no… of course not. They’re sent by the Noble Lord."
Starfire exhaled, weary.
"Say what you feel. I won’t tell the Overseer."
But Chai Gun’s mind raced. He remembered the bodies hung from the gallows—men who’d dared speak against their Masters, flayed alive for defiance. He recalled the noble lords, their silken robes and gold-trimmed crowns. He remembered the old warning from his grandfather.
Trembling, he shook his head.
"Not… not at all."
"They’re Noble Lords," he whispered. "Their homes are filled with endless Grain, gold that never runs out. Who could hate them?"
That was all Chai Gun could comprehend.
Starfire glanced around, confirming no one was watching. Then he pressed on:
"These golds and silvers—we mine them. The Grain—we grow it. Yet all of it ends up in Noble hands. Does that mean they’re born more noble than us?"
"Of course," Chai Gun answered, hesitant. "It’s only natural."
To him, it was as obvious as the sun rising. Even the Priests in the manor had preached it: slaves were born from mud, low-born. Nobles, on the other hand, were Created of Gold and Divine Water by the Gods.
Starfire narrowed his eyes.
"And the Overseers? Are they more noble, too? That’s why they can stand over us?"
"Well… I suppose… yes," Chai Gun mused. "If Nobles are made of gold… maybe Overseers are made of silver?"
He sounded uncertain. But the man beside him—this strange, strong Slave—was asking questions that made no sense. Questions that challenged the very foundation of the world.
Yet, beneath the fear, a seed had taken root.
"Hey! What are you two whispering about?"
"Who gave you permission to talk? Back to work!"
A roar erupted from the shadows. The Overseer’s fury burned like wildfire.
Chai Gun lunged forward, swinging his pickaxe, hands aching but not stopping.
But Starfire did not obey.
Instead, he stepped forward, scanning the rows of weary laborers around him.
And in that silence—thick, heavy, charged—something shifted.
The miners, long broken by years of toil, stopped. One by one, their pickaxes lowered. Eyes that had long been hollow now burned with something unspoken—something that had been gathering for years.
Even Chai Gun paused, breath caught in his throat.
"Damned vermin! Swine! You’re plotting rebellion?!"
The Overseer’s face twisted in horror. The absolute authority he’d wielded for so long—shattered.
In blind rage, he ignored his Master’s orders and lunged at Starfire, swinging the whip like a weapon he’d used a hundred times before.
Crack!
But this time—the whip was caught.
Starfire gripped it with his bare hand, the leather tearing into his flesh. Blood poured down his forearm.
Yet he didn’t flinch.
With a violent twist, he ripped the whip from the Overseer’s grip, wrapping it around his fist like a weapon.
The Overseer collapsed, staring up at Starfire—his eyes wide with fear.
"I—I’m from the Lord Baron! I’m—"
But behind him, dozens of slaves closed in. They grabbed him, pinned him to the ground. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.
"Who gave you the right to speak?!"
"Damned filth! You’re asking for death! I’m—"
His voice cracked. He screamed, thrashed—but there were too many of them.
"Damn you—!"
"It’s you, you bastard!"
Starfire roared.
Muscles bulging, veins standing out like ropes, he raised the pickaxe high.
Then brought it down—hard.
Like a thousand strikes on ore, the blade drove through fat and flesh, shattered bone, and burst into the Overseer’s skull.
Thud.
Blood sprayed. Brain matter splattered across the stone floor.
The man’s eyes remained wide—frozen in shock. He hadn’t believed it. Not in a million years.
He, the one who’d mocked, beaten, and broken countless slaves… had been killed by the very thing he’d despised most.
"YES!"
"Kill him!"
"Finish him!"
The miners erupted. They surged forward, stomping, tearing, tearing at the corpse—releasing months of pent-up rage.
But beneath the fury, fear stirred.
One Overseer dead. And as the man had screamed—if the Noble Lord finds out… they’ll hunt us down to the ends of the earth.
Yet… then they remembered Starfire’s promise.
The “strong Slave” had been different. For weeks, he’d shared tales no one had ever heard—stories of Uprooting the Old Order, Transforming the World.
It sounded like a fairy tale.
But what choice did they have?
Starfire held the Overseer’s head in one hand, dripping blood. He turned to Chai Gun, his face split by a grim, triumphant smile.
He spoke slowly, each word like a hammer.
"I told you… they were never more noble than us."
Chai Gun stood frozen. His legs trembled.
But deep inside—faint, fragile… a spark flickered to life.
(End of Chapter)
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