"… Are you sure you want this one? He is one of the weakest we have for sale today, Mr. Thomas?"
The slave trader's voice was laced with a mixture of curiosity and disdain, echoing off the cold, damp stone walls of the auction house. The air reeked of mold, sweat, and hopelessness.
"Yes, I'm sure he's perfect. I can see the fire in his eyes, and I can't wait to break it. He looks at me like he wants to kill me. That is why these beasts need to be taught that they were born into this world as nothing more than our servants. That is their one and only purpose, in the name of the gods and goddesses."
"Ok, if you say so, Mr. Thomas. Ok, boys, load up the carriage for Mr. Thomas. He's buying this one as well. That'll be ten silver, please."
I heard the man say to my new owner as I looked at them with my cold, dull amber eyes. My deep black hair fell across my face, casting a shadow over my expression. My skinny hands clutched the rusted bars of the cage, my skin a shade darker than caramel.
The more I listened to their conversation, the more hatred boiled in my chest. And until the day I could finally **rip their hearts out**, that hatred would remain.
These humans disgust me.
They say that we are abominations, that we go against the gods. They even rallied the other races to help them burn down our homelands in the Western Continent, where many of our clans and tribes once thrived. Now, we're hunted, chained, and sold like animals.
I watched as my cage was hauled onto the potbelly man's carriage. It was already packed with others like me—mostly from my race, the Beastborn—but there were also some elves and even a few humans. Not that it mattered. We were all prisoners now. Slaves.
As the carriage started moving, I overheard the man speaking with the driver. He had just bought the rights to a newly discovered dungeon. He planned to use us to mine it—mana stones, rare treasures, anything valuable. He even bragged about hiring a team of adventurers to clear the monsters on the upper levels.
But the top levels weren't where we were going.
"They're still working up there," the fat man said with a laugh. "Too many eyes near the surface. Nobles visit often. Don't want 'em seeing the fresh ones. We'll toss these worms into the lower levels. Deeper. Darker.
That's where they were sending us. To rot in the bowels of a dungeon, out of sight and out of mind.
The more I listened, the more my sanity frayed. Many slaves lose their will to live within the first year. Some try to kill themselves, only to be stopped by their masters and punished severely. After that, they become hollow—shadows of what they once were.
But I wasn't like them.
I didn't want to die. I wanted to kill.
Even some of the other slaves disgusted me. I could see it in their eyes: they had already given up. They clung to despair like it was a blanket. Even among my own kind, I saw it—that same broken look. I hated it.
I hated them.
As I sat in the dark, surrounded by despairing souls, the only word that echoed in my mind was: **Kill**.
Kill them all.
Rip them apart.
Bathe in their blood.
Even the human slaves looked at us like we were beneath them. Like we were dirt. **Worms.** That word... it kept coming up. Worms.
I'd show them what a worm could become.
Eventually, we arrived at the dungeon. We were forced out of the cages, chained together, and marched into the gaping black tunnel.
The air was thick with moisture. Cold dripped from the stone like sweat. The upper levels were brightly lit with magic lanterns and organized teams of working slaves—but we were not staying there.
Guards led us down a narrow spiral staircase, descending lower and lower into the earth. With each step, the light faded. We passed by glowing veins of stone, blue and purple crystals that lit the way. The mana stones. They pulsed like dying hearts, embedded in the rock.
This was our prison.
"Listen up, worms! You're here either because you're a disgrace to the gods or a criminal. But none of that matters anymore! Down here, you are **nothing**."
The voice belonged to a mountain of a man. A scar ran from his brow to his chin, slicing across his left eye like a crack through stone. He stood at least 6'2" (1.88 m), all muscle, a wall of flesh and fury. I could feel his power even from where I stood—a First Star apprentice.
I should've felt fear. But I didn't.
My mind whispered that I could **kill** him. That he was weak. That I would **break** him.
I stared into his eyes, unblinking. My dull amber gaze met his with quiet defiance.
One by one, we were handed pickaxes and ordered to begin mining. Any slave who hesitated—**whip.** Anyone who cried—**whip.** Anyone too slow—**whip.**
The lash struck my back. My skin split. I bit down on the pain, refusing to scream. As the blood dripped from the wound, something changed.
I saw something.
Not with my eyes. With something deeper.
Floating before me was a dark screen, almost obsidian in color, marked with glowing red letters. It hovered in the corner of my vision no matter where I looked.
I tried to touch it, but my fingers passed right through it like smoke.
It read:
**[All requirements have been met.]**
**[Do you wish to inherit Solomon's Legacy?]**
[Yes / No]