The guard's wake-up call snapped the third quarter awake. At the command, the inmates stood at once, lining up by their cell doors, bodies pressed tight against the cold steel bars.
Soon, the guard starts his usual rounds, pacing down the corridor and inspecting each cell for anything out of place.
As he passes Yohan's cell, Gunther exaggerates the man's stiff, pompous walk. Yohan doesn't say a word. Gives him that tired, fatherly look of disappointment.
Then the guard walked back to the aisle door, stepped out of the quarter, and shut it behind him. The inmates relaxed just a little, their eyes still fixed on the door, waiting.
From where Yohan stood, he could see the faint vapor of every breath hanging in the cold air, a quiet reminder of how harsh the northern weather really was. No one looked away. Everyone was watching.
Then they heard it, the slow drag of metal chains across the ground.
And just like that, the mood shifted.
They already knew.
Disappointment settled in, heavy and unavoidable.
Because they knew it wasn't the sound of the ration cart's wheels, but the clinking of chains meant to bind them on their way to the quarry site.
"Not again, for God's sake."
"It has been four months, and soon we're all gonna die if this keeps going on."
"Fuck you, you greedy bastard, where is our bread?"
Ever since the warden changed, the inmates haven't been getting their usual rations. It used to be half a loaf of bread in the morning, and another half with porridge in the evening; now, the bread is gone entirely.
All they get now is a thin serving of porridge at the end of a long day in the quarry, and the resentment has been quietly building ever since.
The only saving grace is the land itself. The northern region is rich in fresh water, fed by the long, narrow mountain ranges that stretch between two seas, dividing Baylon from the Westerlands.
From those mountains, the lifeblood of both Westerland Bog and Baylon began.
Without the springs provided by the Heavenreach mountain range, the inmates of Fort Iskon would be left to suffer not just hunger, but thirst as well.
But even then, it's the hunger that breaks a man. Pair starvation with backbreaking labor, and it crushes the spirit tenfold. So it's no surprise the inmates begin to stir.
Restless at first, then louder, until the entire quarter erupts with fists slamming against steel bars, a desperate clamor to be heard.
"!!! WHAT ARE YOU MAGGOTS DOING?! WHAT IS THIS RACKET ABOUT?!!"
The guard storms in, sword drawn, slamming the flat of the blade against the bars as he shouts,
"!!What makes you scums think you can make noise under my watch?!!"
The cells nearest the aisle entrance fall silent, one by one.
But from somewhere in the middle of the aisle, a voice answers…
"Then give us our bread! We know you greedy bastards took it from us. It's our right, granted by the Emperor himself, and yet you stand there calling us scum, acting holier than thou. You're nothing but a sniveling thief!"
Yohan watched in silence, already knowing how this would end, tension giving way to violence.
The guard signaled sharply to someone beyond the corridor, calling for backup, then strode toward the inmate who had spoken out. He gestured again, this time to the guard holding the keys, ordering him to open the cell.
"You criminal scum," he snarled, "you dare speak His Holiness's name with that filthy mouth? You are not worthy of his mercy. If it's food you want, then I'll feed you my fist."
Seething with rage, the guard handed his sword to the key holder and stepped forward, ready to enter the cell.
From inside, the inmate spoke again…
"Come on then, you bastard. I may be old, but I can still take you down."
The frail old inmate raised his fists in a clumsy, uneven stance, clear proof that he had no real experience with fighting. Still, he swung hard from the right, putting what little strength he had behind it.
The guard, fueled by rage, slipped the blow with a sharp lean to the left, his body tilting back just enough to let the swing pass. In the same motion, his footing shifted, setting him up perfectly for a counter.
The old man's wide, reckless swing left his right side completely exposed.
The guard drove his fist in with brutal force.
The impact lifted the old man off his feet, sending him crashing into the wall before he crumpled to the ground. The air was knocked from his lungs as his body twitched, the strike landing hard against his lower ribs, one of the most agonizing places to be hit.
The pain was too much. His body gave out on him, and he lost control, soiling himself as he lay there, gasping and broken.
The guard stood over him, tall and grinning, a mocking laugh in his voice.
"You think you're going to take me down? Not in a million years, scum. I could kill you with a single fist."
With what little breath he still had left, the old man lifted his head, fury burning in his eyes.
"Kill me then."
The guard tilted his head, not quite hearing him. "What did you say, scum?"
Gathering every ounce of strength he had left, the old man shouted as loudly as he could...
"!!KILL ME THEN, YOU COWARD! YOU THINK I'M AFRAID OF DYING? I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF LIVING LIKE THIS, SO FUCKING KILL ME ALREADY!!"
The rawness of it hit like a shockwave.
For a moment, the guard just stood there, stunned into silence.
The old man's desperate, furious cry echoed through the quarter, raw with rage, resentment, and something close to despair.
And it spread.
Like a spark in dry straw, it set the other inmates off. One by one, the silence broke. Bars began to rattle as fists slammed against steel. The whole corridor erupted into noise, shouting, cursing, the sound of bodies pressing against iron.
"YOU FUCKING COWARD! COME OPEN MY CELL AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS!"
"FUCK YOU!"
"YOU BREAD-STEALING THIEF!"
The noise swelled fast, turning into a storm of anger that filled every corner of the prison aisle.
Then, a voice cut through the chaos from the entrance of the aisle.
"What is happening here? What is all this noise?!"
A heavily dressed man stepped into view, his presence almost suffocating.
Silk robes clung to his overweight frame, layered with jewelry that shimmered under the dim light, gold and gemstones that could dazzle anyone who stared too long.
The golden emblem on his chest marked his high noble status, his attire alone speaking of wealth and indulgence.
The warden had arrived in the third aisle.
Behind him stood a tall, young man dressed in fine silk robes lined with fur, layered over a padded leather tunic.
His silk hose and turnshoes were immaculate, his posture disciplined. On his chest rested a golden crest shaped like a lion's head, marking his military affiliation.
A silver brooch shaped like a tower fastened his robe, signifying his connection to the Mage Tower, and more than that, his rank as a titled great sorcerer.
Yohan's eyes narrowed instantly. He recognized the danger at once.
"Gunther!" he called sharply, signaling him to calm down.
As the inmates caught sight of the warden, the noise in the aisle shifted, anger turning quickly into desperation. With two powerful figures now approaching the open cell, they seized the chance to be heard.
"Help us, Sire. The guard is abusing his power, beating the old and helpless for nothing!"
"He's stealing our bread as well, starving us out!"
Their voices overlapped, urgent and strained, echoing through the iron-lined corridor as they tried to make their case before the situation slipped further out of control.
"Didn't I tell you all in the morning briefing that today is important and not to make a mess? What happened here? Explain yourself, guard," said the warden.
"I deeply apologize for causing the mess, Sire. The inmates accused me of stealing their bread and started a racket. While trying to quell it, this inmate insulted His Holiness the Emperor, so I had to retaliate in his honor."
The revelation triggered something in the sorcerer. His previously cold and nonchalant demeanor turned even colder, though a faint smile appeared on his face, one filled with quiet, murderous intent.
A subtle pressure radiated from him, like the sound of a sword being unsheathed, or the battle chant of a warrior monk preparing for war.
For sorcerers, this was known as their battle presence, a psychic pressure that filled the space around them.
It spread throughout the entire quarter, and silence followed immediately.
The sorcerer approached the old man.
"Do you have a death wish, you lowly scum?" he said coldly. "As a shadow of His Holiness the Emperor, I can grant it."
Fear set in instantly. The old inmate's expression twisted with terror.
"It's a misunderstanding, Sire. I have never insulted His Holiness. What I said was that the guard is stealing the bread that His merciful Emperor has provided us. It is a crime in itself. Please, Sire, have mercy. I am telling the truth."
All his courage from before vanished. He knew that death at a sorcerer's hands was worse than anything imaginable.
They could burn you alive, heal you just to burn you again. There were even spells designed to inflict unbearable pain without allowing death. His fear was justified.
Before things escalated further, the warden stepped in and gently placed his hand on the sorcerer's back.
"William… William," he said, his voice tense and slightly stuttering. "Calm down. We have more important matters to focus on today. This is beneath us."
He turned toward the inmates and raised his voice.
"I understand your frustration. But supply to the north has been cut due to the army's advance in the south. I promise better rationing in the future, but not at this time."
He then turned and whispered something into William's ear, preparing to leave. As he did, he noticed the old inmate kneeling on the floor, covered in his own filth.
A clear look of disgust crossed his face.
"You idiot," he said to the guard. "You caused this mess. Clean him up and give him new clothes. I don't want to hear any more nonsense. Understood?"
Then the two men left, and the guard dragged the old inmate out of the aisle.
The inmates settled down, still standing near the steel bars, murmuring among themselves.
Most were criminals and low-born, so they believed the explanation about supply shortages. But Yohan and Gunther both knew it was complete nonsense.
The Imperium held vast territory because of its unmatched logistics, maintained by numerous Studium across the continent, producing scholars and administrators.
Ever since the new Emperor, Rudas Iskarion, the Sorcerer King, took control, every war had been swift and decisive. There were no drawn-out conflicts to justify resource shortages.
The jewelry the warden wore would not be possible under true scarcity.
Still, they could do nothing.
What is knowledge without power or freedom? Nothing but a curse, the awareness of injustice without the ability to change it.
Perhaps ignorance was a kind of mercy.
They looked at the hopeful faces around them and felt an unspoken sorrow.
Gunther looked frustrated, but when he saw Yohan's unchanged expression, calm, unreadable, yet carrying meaning, he slowly relaxed and returned to his usual behavior.
Grinning, he said, "I can smell the bread in my future. Ha ha."
Soon, the usual routine begins.
The old inmate is brought back to his cell. All the inmates stick their hands out through the gaps in the bars.
The guards chain them with manacles and order them to put shackles on their feet, each connected to a long line of chain.
With that, they are on their way to the quarry site, marching through snow and the harsh, cold northern wind.
At the Undercroft, they are given work boots, pickaxes, and stone hammers before marching up toward the mountain.
When they arrive, William, the one and only sorcerer of Fort Iskon, is already there as usual. The inmates line up as the workforce and wait.
When everyone is in place at the base of the mountain, the young sorcerer prepares himself and begins to cast a spell.
"Kvula bebesher, sa'ara merusanet,zoamet bedamema, kvula bechozka. ani muskat uta hachutza, ani gormat leh lechro'a berech"
"Kel haram mitkofef… el meh shani ochzet.mechef hid el ha'olam, shum nativ le nidha,berek… hoder vechoder."
While chanting, the air around him fills with electric arcs, sparking rapidly in all directions.
A sharp crackling sound fills the air. It is a long, ritualistic spell, one thing is certain: it is powerful and lethal, meant to wipe out an army.
At the end of the chant, the sorcerer extends his hand toward the mountain.
A violent lightning bolt erupts from his palm, striking the mountain and shattering massive chunks of rock into thousands of fragments as they tumble down.
A cloud of dust rises and spreads outward, reaching even the inmate workforce. Some are struck by debris and knocked down.
Everyone covers themselves, crouching against the wave of dust and snow.
But the sorcerer stands tall and unaffected, protected by a barrier spell.
The mixture of dust and snow swirls around him as pressure waves warp in the air and debris bounces off his shield.
When the dust settles, the usual back-breaking labor begins again, same as every day before it.
Pickaxes strike stone, breaking large rocks into smaller ones.
Time passes quickly as the sound of metal hitting rock echoes across the steep mountain face surrounding them.
As the faint sun moves across the sky, the work continues. Some inmates begin singing their usual hymn to take their minds off the fatigue.
Cold stone, hard ground,Hammer up, hammer down.Cold wind, numb hands,Blood soaks into the land.
Heave… ho… don't fall slow,Break the rock, strike the blow.Bread is lost, water's ice,Work all day, sleep with lice.
No sun here, no fire bright,Only dark and endless night.Swing again, don't you stop,Till your body starts to drop.
Heave… ho… don't fall slow,Break the rock, strike the blow.
Some inmates talk among themselves as they work.
As for Yohan, true to his nickname, he works in silence as usual.
Gunther, on the other hand, continues his antics, enthusiastically sharing another story with an unwilling new inmate.
"So I take her down to the floor, you know, make her kneel down against the wall. Then I pinned her leg to the floor with one knee, and with the other I pressed her spine against the wall. I don't know, it might've hurt her or broken a few bones, but she kept chanting healing spells constantly, so it was fine I guess. At that point I was horizontal, so I used the bed for leverage with my left hand, and my right hand pulled her hair so she wouldn't slip out, you know… right then and there I found the clear path to strike… so I—"
Yohan picked up two small stones he broke from the rock and placed them into his ears to block out the filth.
The breaktime arrived. The guards blew their whistle, and all the inmates stopped in their tracks, murmuring among themselves.
"Ah, finally… I was about to pass out."
The guards took the chains and led them into the forest, to a place every inmate longed for after a hard day's work, a creek flowing from the mountain spring.
Cold, but the purest water in the whole continent of Baylon.
The inmates quenched their thirst upstream, relieving exhaustion and fatigue. Some bathed downstream.
Most lay down, taking a well-deserved break. Even the guards relaxed and drank.
Soon, the break was over. Another whistle signaled them to return. Everyone put their boots back on, picked up their tools, and lined up again, tired, but ready for another shift.
But this time, something was different.
The leader of the guard platoon stepped onto a rock and raised his voice.
"Today there will be no second or third shift. All inmates will return to the fort and ration will be given out. However, there will be a cleaning shift before sundown. Now line up and prepare to return."
The inmates erupted in cheer. Celebratory noise filled the forest. Some even chanted the guard leader's name, most of them bootlickers.
"Tobey! Tobey! Tobey!"
"QUIET! Settle down now! Line up and let's return to the fort!"
All the inmates smiled and chatted as they made their way back.
When they arrived at the fort, they entered the yard to receive their ration. Yohan noticed the yard was unusually clean.
Soon, all the inmates saw piles of bread stacked on multiple ration carts. Cheers and excitement erupted uncontrollably.
"I can't believe it… we're finally getting bread!"
"Long live the warden!"
They praised the warden eagerly as they lined up.
Gunther looked at Yohan and said mockingly,
"Have I not told you, boss? My power of foresight is too powerful."
Yohan ignored him and got into the line to receive his ration for the day.
Soon, all the inmates sat down on the floor in orderly rows, each with a wooden plate. On it was a bowl of porridge and a succulent, freshly baked whole loaf of bread.
Vague steam rose from it, filling the air with a sweet aroma. The sheen on the crust reflected the subtle light of dawn.
It looked visually pleasing, and the smell alone made the inmates salivate as they stared at it, waiting for the warden to say the prayer.
Soon, the warden took his place on the stage.
"Inmates of the fort, today I bring forth nourishment in the name of His Holiness the Emperor. So let us say the prayer in his name."
The inmates put their hands together in prayer and recited it with the warden.
"Praise be the one true god of Aelkris, Wahyelah. Praise be the Emperor, the divine authority of heaven on earth. Glory to the Kingdom of Heaven. Glory to the Imperium of mankind and the divine father of the chosen people. I am thankful for this nourishment. I will atone for my sins through labor and devotion. Shlum al vehilla…"
As soon as the prayer ended, the inmates rushed to eat but
"Wait."
The warden raised his hand, stopping everyone.
"There is an honored guest here to deliver the Emperor's message. I want you all to give your utmost attention and show respect."
The inmates stopped in their tracks, annoyed, but they complied, since the assurance of food was better than what they had endured in past days.
A man stepped onto the stage, a sorcerer none of them had seen before.
He was dressed lavishly, similar in style to the young sorcerer William.
The difference was that his robe was mahogany-colored, and his brooch was made of gold, signifying his title as a Grand Sorcerer.
His hair was a hazelnut shade, and he appeared to be around twenty-eight to thirty years old. Like most sorcerers, he carried the same cold, nonchalant demeanor.
Panic and shock struck Yohan instantly.
He recognized him.
Someone from his past.
A past he had buried deep and tried to leave behind.
His emotions tangled and rose sharply. Time seemed to slow. His hands and feet turned cold, as if he had seen a ghost, someone he once knew closely, but had been desperately trying to avoid in the present.
As the man on the stage prepared to introduce himself, he unknowingly turned his head toward Yohan's direction.
Their eyes met.
(To be continued…)