The Dra’kesh tribe, an isolated and persecuted sect within humanity, had long been marginalized and stripped of any foothold in the world. Neither human nor the other races harboured compassion for them; instead, the Dra’kesh were marked by generations of servitude and scorn.
Over the centuries, they became resigned to their fate, evolving with grim adaptability. Their resilience and pliant nature transformed them into the most coveted slaves in the market, even as their numbers dwindled under relentless oppression.
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Raiven snapped the reins sharply, urging the horse forward with a commanding, "Giddyup." The horse’s hooves struck the cobblestones rhythmically, pulling the carriage that cradled Yomi’s battered form. The jostling motion stirred Yomi from his dazed state. He exhaled, his breath shuddering as he fought to center himself.
Whatever mysterious force had resurrected him and thrust him into this indignity might revel in his torment, but they underestimated him. His body may have been feeble, but his mind remained sharp—an unwavering blade capable of cleaving through torrents of adversity.
Yomi shifted, the rough wooden boards beneath him creaking in protest. Every movement sent flares of pain through his muscles, reminding him of how depleted he was. Yet, he forced himself to survey his surroundings. It was night, and shadows stretched long across the landscape. The path they traveled wound through narrow lanes lined with gnarled trees and patches of brambles, casting twisted silhouettes that danced in the flicker of passing lights.
Above them, strange poles crowned with glowing orbs pierced the darkness. Their light was neither flame nor starlight, but something else entirely—an invention foreign and unsettling. Yomi’s keen eyes picked out the faint hum emanating from them, as if they whispered secrets in a language older than time. A sliver of curiosity intertwined with his steely resolve. This was no ordinary realm he found himself in.
Raiven’s silhouette loomed at the front of the carriage, bathed in the cold, artificial glow. His posture was straight, every muscle taut with purpose. Beneath the clatter of hooves, Yomi could hear the mercenary humming an unfamiliar tune, the notes deep and foreboding. There was no doubt—this man was accustomed to dealing with danger, and he seemed unfazed by the cargo he now possessed.
Yomi clenched his jaw, the iron collar around his neck pressing into his skin with a bite that bordered on cruel. The mystic energy woven into its metal pulsed subtly, suppressing any flicker of defiance. Still, behind the glimmer of his eyes, there was no submission—only a quiet, gathering storm.
Memories of his past life, of standing atop the highest peaks of cultivation and commanding the elements of the sword, flared within him. They were dulled now, mere embers instead of the inferno they once were, but they would burn again. And when they did, no chains, no man, would be enough to contain him.
The road ahead stretched into the abyss of night, each turn holding unknown dangers. But as the stars blinked in their silent vigil, Yomi’s lips curled into a subtle smirk. Let them think him weak, a pawn bound by chains. The day would come when they would see him for what he truly was—and tremble.
The journey did not take long before the carriage rattled to a stop. Along the way, Yomi’s eyes, despite their weariness, noted the strange, foreign architecture surrounding him. Stone buildings stood tall and unyielding, unlike the delicate minka houses of his homeland, which relied on wood, bamboo, and straw. These dwellings were cold, unfeeling monoliths that spoke of a world bereft of warmth and spirit.
Raiven’s boots thudded on the ground as he leaped down from the carriage, a cruel gleam in his eyes. Without warning, he kicked Yomi from the carriage, sending him sprawling onto the cobblestones with a harsh thud.
"Welcome to your new abode, scum," Raiven spat, his voice laced with mockery.
A flicker of movement caught Yomi’s eye as he struggled to catch his breath. Standing nearby, weaving her slender fingers in complex motions, was a woman who exuded an air of mystery and quiet power. Her presence seemed to halt the very air itself, commanding it to bow to her will.
She wore an ornate white gown, adorned with shimmering gold and deep blue accents that made her appear almost celestial, as if she were an emissary from another realm. Her gown bore intricate symbols and charms hanging from her belt, each piece imbued with ancient magic that whispered in the night.
A blue cloak, lined with delicate gold and blue embroidery, flowed around her shoulders and framed her form, adding to her ethereal presence. The hood cast a shadow over her face, but not enough to hide her dark hair, which cascaded in soft waves that seemed to catch the faint glow of the moon.
Her eyes, sharp and all-seeing, locked onto Raiven with a mixture of disapproval and restraint. They were eyes that could pierce through any lie, as if they glimpsed the very soul.
"What is wrong with you?" the woman—Aeloria—demanded as she knelt beside Yomi, her voice both commanding and gentle. "How can you treat this man like this?" Her gaze never wavered, even as it met Raiven’s cold stare.
"Stop your yapping and get to work," Raiven snapped, his tone dripping with impatience. He took a menacing step forward, eyes narrowing.
"Get used to the way things work around here if you want to fit in." He sneered, his lips curling into a cruel smile as he walked over Yomi’s prone form. "He’s just a slave, Aeloria. Patch him up and put him with the rest."
As he moved towards the house, Raiven paused, casting a lingering look over Aeloria’s striking figure. "When you’re done worrying over that filth, find me. We’ll have some fun," he chuckled darkly before vanishing inside.
Aeloria’s eyes softened, a sigh slipping from her lips. Kneeling over Yomi, she whispered an incantation, and a warm, golden light enveloped him. It surged through his veins, familiar and infuriating. Rage sparked within him, pushing back against the haze of exhaustion. His fingers shot out, clamping around her wrist with surprising strength.
"Where did you learn that foul art?" he growled, his voice barely a whisper yet potent enough to send a shiver down Aeloria’s spine. His eyes, defiant and sharp, promised retribution.
Aeloria stilled, heart pounding. ’This slave... he’s different,’ she thought, the realization gnawing at the edge of her composure.