Chapter 639

Chapter 639

The weight of the world drops from my shoulders as I lay my weary head to rest, and Lin-Lins soothing presence wicks away what remains of my concerns and apprehensions.

I do not know how long I stay suspended in the sweet calm of oblivious serenity, but all too soon, my restless mind shifts itself into gear and sets my thoughts to stirring once more. Its subtle at first, but all too soon, my peaceful slumber is tainted by the steady stirring of subconscious thoughts, here to once again ruin a perfectly good nap. Even half-conscious as I am, I cant help but be annoyed by my stupid brain, because I am still so very, very tired. My head feels fogged up and my body weighed down, as if I drank too much and was buried beneath a mountain of sand. Theres a faint but constant ache coursing through my muscles, and the mere thought of getting up is unpleasant to the extreme, so I desperately hold fast to oblivion even as genuine sleep slips through my metaphorical fingers and relegates me to a restless, half-trance of unfulfilling dormancy.

Arms empty, seat unsteady, chest uncompressed, and head unsupported. A gust of cold air whisks away the soothing warmth as the world tumbles around me, but still my eyes sit sealed and my mind half-dormant, aware of these minor happenings around me without any of it feeling real. Is all this happening, or am I merely imagining it? A dream, it must be, a manifestation of my not-so-repressed anxieties bubbling over in my unconscious mind. Sleep. Rest. Recuperate. I need this, want this, because the real world is full of unpleasant, undesirable, unhappy things, and here, in the imagined wonderland of my dreaming mind, the world is what I make it.

My head settles into a warm, soft pillow and my arms wrap around a sturdy, reassuring presence, so for a time, all is right in dreamland. Oblivion returns, but the problem with oblivion is nothingness means no concept of time, so all too soon, my quiet rest is interrupted once more and my mind brought back to semi-conscious limbo. How long I blacked out for, I couldnt say, but it feels like the blink of an eye, my head still stuffed with cotton and now my back is twinging in minor pain. At least its still warm and soft, but my mind refuses to fall idle and leave me in peace. At this point, I might as well give in and wake up. Theres still so much I need to do, though what it might be, I dont really remember. Theres a vague sense of immediate danger, but again, it feels unreal somehow, like the remnants from a half-remembered, fast-fading dream.

And that, more than anything else, concerns me. Why cant I remember anything? What was I so concerned about? Who is this warm presence supporting me? How much have I forgotten?

I remember...

Fear, but not immediate, nor was it personal, more of a general sense of dreaded concern.

Then surprise, because something happened, something unexpected which made me...

Amused. Not laugh out loud funny, only a slight exhale through the nose, but it was pleasant all the same.

What comes next is pure exhaustion, but in a good way, tinged with the satisfaction of a job well done. Theres something else, but try as I might, I cant remember what. Its important, I know that much, something wonderful and invaluable which I want back, but how can I reclaim that which I do not remember? I am empty without it, incomplete and unfulfilled, a man gasping for breath and dying of thirst while surrounded by air and water aplenty. What am I missing? What have I forgotten?

Whatever it was... it gave me warmth and stability, a sense of support and security unlike anything else. It was power and confidence coursing through me, for I knew I had something to rely on. It was restorative and comforting, a source of pride, pleasure, peace of mind, and happiness, everything right in the world and everything I hold dear.

It was love, plain and simple, and now, I fear I have lost it all.

But how can you lose what you never had?

The thought chills me to the core as the truth rears its ugly head, my dreams slipping away until all I have left is a memory of a memory. Thats all I ever had, a dream, a self-delusional fantasy put together by my anxious mind to give me an escape from the nightmares of the waking world. The thought registers and I sleep no longer as an all-too-familiar steel-toed boot hammers home in my ribs. Wake up, comes the guttural command, and I jump to my feet, not daring to fight back and careful to keep my eyes fixated on my dirty, shackled feet, covered in dirt, bruises, and dried blood a plenty. Across from them is a set of large, leather boots which dwarf my bare feet in size, only one of many ways in which I am outmatched. Worthless slave. Yed sleep all day if I left ye to it. A meaty hand smashes into my cheek, and I tumble back to the dirt floor, but instinct and self-preservation drive me to scramble back up lest I give the guard more reason to beat me.

I am a slave. I pick up rocks. That is my purpose, and my goal is to keep my head down and survive another day. That is all there is, and that is all I have. No more, no less. The fanciful lies fade away and the truth hits me in the gut like a hammer, and the loss of imagined warmth and happiness hurts more than the guards boot to my ribs.

My real memories come flooding back like a deluge of ice cold water as I join the line of slaves shuffling out into the familiar yard. Fresh scabs and old wounds register as my tally of aches and pains make themselves known, bruised heels, tender joints, and throbbing head, merely the worst of the bunch. Truth be told, a cold shower would be far more welcome than these unpleasant memories, if only to wash away the blood, grime, and sweat caked all over my body and perhaps dull the constant, unending pain. A dip in the river or a swim in the bay would be nice, but I cant remember the last time I saw running water, or anything besides murky barrels of collected rainwater. Speaking of which, todays barrel is almost emptied by the time my turn arrives, but despite my great thirst, I wait to see if there is anyone who wants seconds before I dare approach. Even among slaves, a hierarchy exists, one in which I, the smallest, scrawniest, most cowardly slave sits at the very bottom.

On the bright side, this means theres nowhere to go but up.

On the contrary, things can always get worse.

As if fate wanted to prove the point, a hand grabs me by the scruff of the neck as I lean into the barrel, my lips so close yet so far from the murky, but potable water. Enough slacking, the guttural voice says, tossing me aside before I can quench my thirst. Get in line. Time to go to work.

How am I supposed to work without water? Or food for that matter? Im so hungry, even tasteless slop seems like a meal fit for a king, but I dare not raise my voice in protest. Tired, hungry, thirsty, and broken, I shuffle into line and pray there are no more beatings, because I do not think I could bear one and continue working. If I go down, I wont be able to get up and work, and Ive seen what happens to those who dont work. On cue, one of the slaves stumbles and falls, so I avert my gaze as the commotion begins, a sight Ive seen a thousand times before and do not care to see again. The guards holler at the unfortunate soul to get up while beating him without mercy, interspersed with the slaves pitiful screams as he futilely attempts to obey. Alas, his broken body and crushed spirit are not up to the task, and the guards take sadistic glee in slowly, but surely, killing the fallen, screaming slave.

Someone should step in and help. A hero to save the day. Twelve average warriors could take the compound, probably less if someone important shows up. The guards are brutal and bloodthirsty, but lazy and undisciplined. Ive never seen them raise a weapon in practice or even use them against someone fighting back, only to threaten and torment the beaten and downtrodden slaves so consistently its almost as if they need to make room for new arrivals. That doesnt make sense though, were slaves here to mine. Why would anyone want to keep replacing their slaves? Ill keep my head down, work hard, and survive until whoever pays these guards comes by to see why their slaves keep dying, if only out of fiscal responsibility rather than the kindness of their hearts.

The screams continue behind me as I step up to the gates, and a wave of indeterminate terror washes over me before I can cross. Body frozen in shock, time comes to a standstill as my thoughts race at a million miles a second, weighing the costs and benefits of stepping forward in spite of my sudden, irrational dread versus the very real horrors taking place behind me. If I dont leave, the guards will punish me, far worse than theyre punishing the poor soul who tripped and fell. I can see it now, the myriad of torments they will visit upon me. I can feel the imagined pain as if a distant, fading memory, and the thought of experiencing it in the flesh chills me to the core. On the other hand, a slow, painful death almost seems appealing opposed to what awaits me outside the gates, but I have no earthly idea why. Its just... instinct, I suppose, unwillingness to proceed forward into the unknown, despite having made this journey hundreds, if not thousands of times already. Its just the exit to the slave pens, which connects to a road leading to the mines. Why am I so afraid?

The real fear is what lurks behind, of being beaten, maimed, tortured, and tormented before the sweet release of death. It could be hours before that happens, days even, and if the guards are particularly creative, they could even make my suffering last for weeks.

And so I step past the threshold and out onto the road, my throat dry and stomach twisting at the sudden loss of safety and sanctuary. No, there was never any of either, not in the slave pens, and not in the mines ahead. Still, despite my overwhelming trepidation, there is no change to the situation save for the chains connecting me to the slave in front going taut as I hesitate in place. The very real fear of torture prods me ever forward, so step by careful step I proceed, but nothing out of the ordinary happens, save for the slave behind me growing impatient at my reticence and quietly urging me to hurry. My doom and gloom continues to persist, which is almost as terrible as actual suffering, but before long, we arrive at our destination. The open pit mines stand before me and I descend into the unwelcoming depths where I see a rack of picks waiting for me. Grabbing a handle without thinking, I heave with all my might, but the metal tool barely budges before a meaty hand smacks me down before the rack. Idiot slave. Can barely even lift your arms, much less a tool. Quit wasting time and get to work.

Right, right. I dont break the rocks. I pick them up. Mumbling a fervent apology, I scurry off before Im beaten again and grab the smallest basket I can find. Work time. Head down, back hunched, knees bent, and eyes on the ground. This is how I spend my day, crab-walking along the sides and filling my basket with rocks, careful to always be moving and never look idle. So desperate to look busy, I shuffle around the legs of stronger slaves and grab all the stones I can, ignoring the stinging cuts from flying shards of rock and the countless near-misses of swinging picks. It doesnt take long for my calves to start burning, but I fight through the cramps and tension until my basket is full, at which point I can finally straighten up and stretch my screaming, tormented back and leg muscles. Theres no time to waste however, as I hurry over to the wagons and unload my haul, where a guard stands ready to reward me with a stinging strike of his leather lash. This all ye got, ye slacker? I know better than to answer out loud. Despite this, my cringing nod earns me another taste of the lash as the massive guard snarls, Then work faster ye worthless shit.

A beating is nothing. Verbal abuse is even less. The lash, a gentle encouragement compared to the horrors the guards save for those slaves who cannot work, so again, I keep my head lowered and hurry back to work. Its a hard, gruelling life, but as I naively forgot earlier this morning, things can always get worse. This is my life, no matter how much I wish it were otherwise. With a little luck and a lot of hard work, hopefully I can avoid the worst of it today and keep myself in one piece. Tomorrow, it would be best if I did this all over again, because any deviation from the norm is usually for the worse. Say I stumble and fall on my way back to unload. Thatll earn me even more lashes when I finally arrive, since the guards keep careful track of all my contributions. The same will happen if I move too slowly, perhaps to relieve an agonizing cramp or take pressure off my wounded feet, which are usually bleeding from several cuts at any given time due to walking through a working mine without any shoes. Then theres the days when Im almost too tired to keep going and I cant get up to work. Those are the worst, because hard, painful labour is so much better than the alternative: being made an example of to the others.

A phantom hand smooths my hair, but when I open my eyes, no one is there, though I can almost feel the imagined love and concern still lingering in the air. The pain has not lessened one bit, but there is work to be done, and my day unfolds as it has every other day in this hellhole, starting from a boot to my ribs and ending with dinner and a torture show. The days blur and my agony grows, the self-inflicted wounds never mending, but the next time the knife is thrown at my feet, there is almost no hesitation to my actions. The handle feels cool in my hands as I drive it through the guards boot, and in response, they flay my skin in long strips and slather salt into the wounds. They bind my arms and hang me up until my shoulders pop out of my joints. They beat my feet until the bones are shattered and work their way up to my neck. They slice the tip of my finger off and cauterize the wound, then slice some more and repeat.

Yet once they are done, death does not come, and I find myself staring at the knife once again.

And again, the knife goes into the guards boot. Left this time, since the right one moved out of the way.

More torment awaits in the form of an elaborate stretching device which slowly pulls me apart, and again, death is denied me. Up goes the knife, this time aimed at the crotch, and again, I am tortured to death. Knife, attack, torture, die. Knife, attack, torture, die. Knife, attack, torture, die. Each round takes an agonizing eternity, one which passes by in the blink of an eye, and soon, I spot the repetitions. Baked over coals, vivisected whilst alive, being literally torn apart by hand, these sorts of tortures stand out, so when you go through it twice, one tends to notice.

You know, I say, looking into the dark, unrecognizable faces of my tormentors as they hammer nails into my flesh, I thought I blocked you from coming in, but apparently, it didnt take. The guards dont respond and continue administering my beating, which hurts, but only because its so vivid. Still, I can ignore it enough to keep being cheeky, though it really shouldve stopped hurting by now. ...So youre just going to ignore me and keep pretending this is real? Focusing on my surroundings, I try to will the guards away alongside their torture implements, but my efforts are futile and the horrific scene remains. Its not just the pain that feels real, everything else does too, from the hard, cold, uncomfortable surface of the slab Im lying on to the fetid stench of sweating piggies mingling with the metallic tang of blood and unmistakable aroma of shit and piss. They were hammering nails into me, of course Im gonna piss and shit, but just thinking about it like that brings the agony back to the forefront, and it takes some time to power through it. Okay, I mutter, mostly to myself since Gen-Shi isnt in a talkative mood. So youve gotten better at this illusion thing. Kudos to you. Still, this is my Natal Palace, which makes it my Domain, and I will not be bested by a village idiot delusional enough to think hes become a monster out of legend.

The guards finally stop hammering, much to my relief, but then a haughty, powerful chuckle shakes me to my core. FOOLISH WORM, the voice says, so loud it feels like my head is splitting from the inside, YOU STILL THINK THIS YOUR DOMAIN?

...

......

Um... yes? I mean, where else could it be?

The scene shifts and the void opens up around me, vast and infinite in all directions, yet filled with Spectres as far as the eye can see. Millions, billions, trillions, the scale is beyond my comprehension, but the air is thick with Spectres of every shape and size imaginable, writhing in obvious pain and agony. Again, the world shifts, but slower this time, the Spectres shrinking away to reveal even more Spectres and darkness, until the darkness turns to light and I realize Ive been inside a single thread. The thread grows larger and my perspective widens, revealing more threads which gather to form a robe filled with shifting patterns, one worn by none other than Zhen Shi himself.

Not Gen-Shi. Seeing the real deal now, it amazes me I was stupid enough to believe the pretender in the first place. Its the difference between a teddy bear and a ferocious grizzly, a shopping cart and formula one race car, a paper plane and a fighter jet. There is no mistaking the arrogance, confidence, and authority emanating from this mans gaze, filled with the disdain I would have for a fly buzzing around my food.

And for good reason too. If Pong Pongs eye was the moon, then a single thread on Zhen Shis robe was the galaxy that moon existed in, a difference in scale I can barely even comprehend.

...

I might be in over my head here. Just a little.

The slave pen. Understanding dawns as the memory sticks out in my mind, the dread and foreboding I felt that first time I left. Thats how you got me out of my Natal Palace. You tricked me into walking out of my own accord. There is no answer from Zhen Shi, and I notice his attention is no longer on me, his mind elsewhere whilst I stand broken and injured before him. The nails are still sticking out of my skin, and its agonizing just existing here, but somehow, the pain doesnt affect my clarity of thought. My head still hurts something fierce though, my mind stuffed with cotton, and I realize its because I overexerted myself doing whatever it was I did helping Mister Rustram save Sai Chou. Thats probably why I fell for Zhen Shis lies, because my mind wasnt in the right place, thoroughly exhausted by my expenditure of Chi. Or Heavenly Energy. Whatever.

TROUBLESOME WORM. His attention returning without warning, Zhen Shis gaze is not one of anger or contempt, but minor irritation, as if I were a lock of hair that constantly fell out of place or a slightly bent tine of his fork. A WASTE OF THIS SOVEREIGNS ATTENTION, YET ATTENTION LITTLE WORM DEMANDS.

Gesturing at my nail studded arms, I retort, Oh, Im making this difficult for you? Sorry about that.

Without warning, the nails grow searing hot and my flesh cooks around them, my screams ripped from my throat by the unbearable agony. The heat subsides, as does the pain, but the memory lingers and hangs heavily from my shoulders like a weight pushing me down. DEFIANT DESPITE THE CIRCUMSTANCES, FOR LITTLE WORM IS TOO IGNORANT TO UNDERSTAND THEM.

Then how about you explain it so I understand?

The agony returns, only this time worse than before. When I return to my senses, I find myself prostrated before Zhen Shi, my face pressed so low I cant even see him, but somehow, I know he is directly in front of me. THIS. Stretching the single syllable out for longer than necessary, Zhen Shis tone is one of bored indifference rather than haughty satisfaction, the punishment meted out as if it were the most natural thing in the world. THIS IS HOW LITTLE WORM SHOULD MAKE HIS REQUEST.

Eat shit you pompous

The agony returns intensified four-fold, and I have plenty of time to regret my words before Zhen Shi speaks again. DEFIANT, BUT MORTAL STILL. YOU STRUGGLE AND RESIST, BUT YOU WILL BREAK IN TIME, AND THIS SOVEREIGN HAS TIME APLENTY TO SPARE.

And hes right too, because this is his Natal Palace, and which means things are happening at the literal speed of thought. I could live through ten-thousand lifetimes of agony before a single second passes out in the real world, which means everything I just experienced, everything I just suffered through, everything I endured, likely happened in the blink of an eye, if that. Before I can come up with a pithy response, the agony returns greater than ever before, and agony is all I know, right up until oblivion comes to claim me.

...

I do not know how long I stay suspended in the sweet calm of oblivious serenity, but all too soon, my restless mind shifts itself into gear and sets my thoughts to stirring once more...

Chapter Meme