Fated Fragment

Soren sat at the end of a wooden table. The wood was dry, its boards beginning to split apart. He wore ragged clothes, soaked in the stench of sweat and mud.

His hands rested on the table, palms facing upward—bruised, scraped, and aching. His marble-black eyes, duller than ever, scanned the area, taking in the same bleak surroundings he had woken up to for the past week. The air around him was thick and toxic, each breath feeling like inhaling dust and something unseen. A faint, choking scent of dirt and the pollen of indistinguishable flora filled his nose.

This place was unfamiliar. The alien vegetation, the distant mountain range hanging at the edge of the horizon, and the two bright spots lingering in the sky, their heat pressing down on everything below—all of it was foreign. Nothing about this world belonged to him.

Loud clangs echoed from a deep, dark hole hundreds of meters away. The sharp impact of metal striking mineral reverberated through the stone walls before escaping into the open air.

Soren turned his head toward the manor standing opposite the mining entrance. It was neither extravagant nor audacious, yet it loomed over the camp, watching everything beneath it. Guards were stationed around the building, their eyes constantly scanning the area. But they weren't just at the manor—they were everywhere. Patrolling the camp, stationed near the mine, even inside the tunnels themselves.

Nothing escaped their gaze.

Most of the guards wore some level of armor and carried weapons—usually swords. But a few stood unarmed. At least, they appeared to be.

These people were Awakened.

They were something beyond normal humans, their very presence setting them apart. The way they wielded heavy weapons and armor with ease, their stillness that carried an unnatural sharpness—it gave them away.

But among them, there was one figure even greater—more suffocating. Someone who rarely left the manor, yet whose presence weighed over everything like an unseen force.

A man approached the table where Soren was seated. He took a seat across from him.

This was Lenny.

His build was nothing more than that of a starving, malnourished stray, his ribs pressing out against his thin skin. He couldn't be older than twenty-five, yet he looked far worse. Lenny was the one who had shown Soren the ropes of this place—telling him everything essential to survive. But he hadn't been here much longer than Soren himself.

Despite everything, he remained kind, even to a stranger.

I guess some people can really be like that, huh?

Lenny opened his dry mouth and asked, "Sorr, did you get any bread today?"

"They said I didn't meet my quota," Soren replied.

"Here, just take half," Lenny said hastily, pushing a small piece toward him.

"Thanks, but you know, if you don't want to starve, stop offering everyone food."

Is this foolish or selfless? Not that I would do the same.

Yes, a fool—that's the word

Soren took the half-bread Lenny offered and got up from the table, turning his back to the kind man.

As he walked away, Lenny spoke again, his voice solemn, yet heavy.

"Soon, I won't be able to offer you any bread."

Soren didn't reply. He just walked toward one of the tents that housed the laborers.

The dark tent was already occupied by a few people, each sitting on thin mattresses made from the cheapest wool. As Soren stepped inside, a few pairs of eyes flickered toward the bread in his hand—hungry, watchful, but restrained. No one dared to take it from the pale, skinny boy.

He walked past their stares and sank onto his mattress in the dark, gloomy tent.

He ate slowly, savoring the texture of the bread—trying to make it feel like more than it was. When the last bite was gone, he threw his head back onto his makeshift pillow, a bundle of brittle branches gathered from outside.

Staring at the dark roof of the tent, his thoughts began to drift.

These few seconds—staring at the roof—were the only moments of the day when his mind and body felt empty. The realization crept its way in during the silent moments,

They were gone.

They are not coming back.

It wasn't just loss. It wasn't just grief. It was something else—something deeper, colder.

It was like something had finally been stolen from him. No, not stolen—pulled away, piece by piece, for so long that he had grown used to the feeling.

But now, it was gone. As if the unseen force that had always been dragging something from him had finally taken it and left.

He wasn't just alone.

He was disconnected.

Soren felt like he couldn't understand. He had never truly understood. But now, for the first time, he felt like the world itself had slipped beyond his grasp.

Not the two suns.

Not the strange flora.

Not even the Awakened.

Something else. Something he couldn't name.

He sighed heavily, letting his eyelids close from exhaustion. Darkness wrapped around his mind, but it wasn't as intrusive—or alive—as it had been back then.

That day—a week ago.

His sight had been swallowed by an inescapable void. There was no realization that he had been attacked, no pain—just black nothingness.

And then, the piercing pain came.

Soren's eyes snapped open, gasping for air.

A sharp, relentless agony tore through his skull, radiating from deep inside his head. He clutched his temples, fingers digging into his scalp, desperate to suppress the pain tearing through him.

He let out a harrowing screech.

Again.

And again.

His body twitched under the unbearable torment. It felt as if something was crushing his brain from the inside. He endured it for as long as he could, but in the end, his body chose for him—shutting down, forcing him into unconsciousness before his mind could break.

When he woke again, the pain was still there—but not as insufferable as before.

Soren quickly sat up, his breath unsteady, and looked down at his body. The clothes on him were nothing but loose, tattered rags, barely holding together. They were torn, filthy, and reeked of something acidic—like ammonia.

Beneath the fabric, his skin was littered with deep bruises and several long, red gashes. The wounds ached, sluggishly leaking blood.

His gaze darted around as he took in his surroundings. None of it looked familiar.

He was inside a cramped wooden cage, barely large enough to fit three people standing upright.

Outside, people moved in and out of a massive black cave. The entrance was large enough to fit several family SUVs side by side, yet the figures passing through it looked small, weak, miserable.

They walked like corpses. Gloomy, lifeless, drained. Yet there were so many of them.

And then, there were others—people who looked different.

They weren't moving in and out of the cave. They weren't broken.

Matter of fact, one of them was heading straight toward the wooden cage.

Soren's eyes locked onto the man, analyzing him intensely.

He had short blond hair, neatly cut, and wore silver-plated armor. A sheathed sword rested at his waist, glinting even under the dim light. The man felt cold and dangerous.

As soon as the man reached the cage, he yanked the door open.

Soren opened his mouth, desperate to understand the situation he was in.

"Sir, why am—"

Before Soren could finish his fourth word, the man in silver clocked him in the face with a cold, hard fist.

A sharp burst of pain shot through Soren's skull, his vision flickering white.

"You mongrel, get to work. Next one is your last," the man spat, pointing toward the cave entrance.

Before the man had a reason to throw another punch, Soren organized his thoughts and ignored the stinging pain on his cheek. He quickly stood up, stepped out of the cage, and made his way toward the cave. Inside, a man was giving out orders at the entrance.

"You, go to 3-2. Next!"

Soren was next in line. The man glanced at him and spoke in a monotone voice.

"You, 3-2 also. Next!"

Without hesitation, Soren walked past him and deeper into the cave. Lanterns hung from the walls, casting a dim, flickering light that barely held back the darkness. The air inside was wet, cold, and laced with a musty, metallic scent.

Every now and then, a harrowing scream echoed through the tunnels, mixing with the relentless clanging of steel. No one reacted. The sounds carried on, indifferent—like leaves rustling in the wind.

Markings lined the stone walls, some carved roughly, others painted in faded ink. The main tunnel stretched forward, branching into smaller corridors along the way. Each marking had a number, following a pattern. Soren tried to make sense of it, but before he could dwell on the thought, a cold, light hand landed on his shoulder.

He stopped and turned around.

The man's face looked a little better before, but everything else was the same. He hadn't changed—at least, not in any remarkable way.

It was Lenny.

Lenny met Soren's gaze and spoke.

"You were in that cage, right?"

Soren hesitated for a second.

Who is he? Why is he talking to me? He seems to be in the same situation.

"Yeah, that's me."

Lenny looked at him with pity in his eyes.

"You were sent to 3-2. I'll guide you there—and keep your head down."

Soren remained reserved, unsure of the man's intentions.

He does seem as pitiful as me—if not even more. I guess I should follow.

They walked deeper into the tunnel, passing different sections where laborers hacked away at the minerals embedded in the walls. The rhythmic clang of metal against stone filled the air, blending with the distant echoes of strained breathing and murmured curses.

After a moment, the man let out a light sigh and asked, "So, cage boy, what should I call you?"

Nothing too harmful can happen if I give him my name.

"People call me Sorr," Soren said, his voice even and clear.

"Sorr, huh? It's got a nice ring to it," the man said, a hint of delight leaking into his words.

Soren glanced at him. "And you?"

The man gave a faint, almost bleak smile.

"Well, people call me Lenny."