“Yes, yes,” the old man quickly scrambled up from the ground, brushing the dust off his face as he struggled to lift a piece of ore. Coming over to John’s side, he murmured, “Young man, don’t stand up for others here. Life isn’t valued here, and it could cost you your own.”
With that, he painfully moved his feet and headed toward the other side of the mine, where ores were piled.
“Sir, let’s go too,” Dumas said nervously, tugging John away toward one of the mine tunnels, clearly anxious that John might interfere again.
Once out of sight from the Shadow Clan elites, Dumas let out a sigh of relief, leaning in to whisper, “Sir, I think I saw a Behemoth earlier. Not sure if it’s the one you’re looking for.”
“Oh? Show me,” John’s interest was piqued.
Dumas seemed to have already familiarized himself with the area, as he led John through the mine tunnels until they eventually found a giant figure.
It was indeed a Behemoth, one from the Behemoth clan.
However, John’s face fell with disappointment; it wasn’t his Behemoth.
This Behemoth had the power of a lower-tier god, yet it was shackled with heavy chains around its feet, bearing an enormous ore almost as large as itself and dragging its steps with difficulty.
Still holding onto a sliver of hope, John approached and asked, “Excuse me, have you seen any other Behemoth around here?”
The giant paused briefly, looking down at John with a cold, numb gaze, his eyes devoid of any light.
Then, the sound of rattling chains filled the air as he continued carrying the stone, moving away with struggle.
“What a rude guy,” Dumas muttered with a frown.
John didn’t mind and sighed, “If you were imprisoned here for hundreds or thousands of years, seeing no hope, you’d be the same.”
“N-No way?” Dumas shivered slightly, as though he’d glimpsed his own bleak future.
“Young man, are you searching for a Behemoth?” A voice called out; it was the frail old man from earlier.
John nodded, curiosity prompting him to ask, “Have you seen other Behemoths around here?”
The old man nodded, picking up a relatively small piece of ore, lifting it with difficulty as he spoke weakly, “Just a few days ago, a Behemoth did show up here-a rare golden one, but it didn’t cooperate and was taken away by the Shadow Clan.”
John’s eyes lit up; that had to be the Behemoth he was looking for. He eagerly asked, “Do you know where they took him?”
The old man shook his head, “Sir, don’t talk too long; if we stay in the mine without working for too long, the Shadow Clan elites will notice.”
With little choice, John and Dumas picked up chunks of ore roughly their own size.
“So… heavy…” Dumas gasped, nearly stumbling under the weight.
Thankfully, John steadied him with a hand.
Dumas gave him a grateful look.
The old man struggled as he walked out of the mine tunnel, speaking in a low voice, “I don’t know where they took him. Once they’re taken away, no one ever comes back. Chances are, it’s not looking good.”
John frowned deeply, worrying about the safety of his subordinates, Behemoth and Avis, who had also been captured.
However, since he had signed soul contracts with both, he could feel that their lives weren’t in immediate danger.
“There was one strange occurrence, though,” the old man continued, as if something had come to mind. “That Behemoth you just saw should know something. Back then, a group of Behemoth warriors refused to submit, and they fought back under his lead. Sadly, they failed, and everyone was taken away. When that one returned, he was completely changed-numb, lifeless, just laboring mindlessly every day without a hint of his former wild spirit.”
The three of them had reached the mouth of the tunnel, and the old man fell silent.
Talking amongst themselves wasn’t permitted here.
John figured that the Behemoth must have gone through something severe to end up like this.
As they carried their loads of ore and trudged forward, John barely felt the weight. But after a single trip, Dumas was already gasping, nearly collapsing from exhaustion. For a demigod, the daily quota of a hundred units of ore was nearly impossible to achieve. And for the old man, his quota was 200 units-a task that would be the death of him. Fortunately, John was there to help both of them.
“Hurry up!” a Shadow Clan soldier barked, cracking his whip threateningly as he watched them moving slowly back toward the mine entrance.
Though this time, he didn’t strike them, seemingly wary of John’s abilities.
Once back in the tunnel and out of the guard’s line of sight.
The old man leaned close again, speaking quietly. “Sir, if you want to save that golden Behemoth, you’d have to seek help from the Behemoth we saw earlier. But let me warn you: going up against the Shadow Clan doesn’t end well for anyone.”
John chuckled darkly; he hadn’t come here to play nice but to stir the Shadow Clan into utter chaos and, if necessary, wipe them out entirely.
“But will that guy really help us?” Dumas asked, his brow furrowed as he recalled the
indifferent attitude of the Behemoth they’d encountered.
“He will,” the old man said confidently. “When that golden Behemoth was taken, I saw a
flicker in his eyes. He still cares about his people.”
John nodded, though he hadn’t seen any sign of the Behemoth in the tunnel since.
Dumas and the old man each hefted another massive chunk of ore.
Curious, Dumas asked, “Why do you have to haul all this manually? Can’t it be transported
through spatial magic?”
The old man explained, “Sir, it’s impossible. This ore carries a unique energy field that restricts space; spatial skills won’t work here.”
“Is that so?” John raised an eyebrow, then casually waved his arm, tearing open a small spatial rift with ease.
The old man stared in astonishment. “Sir, do you have the Split Void ability?”
Only the Split Void ability can break through the spatial restrictions of this energy field.
The old man glanced around warily, quickly saying, “Sir, close the rift quickly. If anyone from the Shadow Clan sees, they won’t let you go.”
With another wave of John’s hand, the rift disappeared, as if it had never existed.
Clink, clank…
Just then, the sound of chains echoed, and the Behemoth from earlier appeared, his expression still numb, eyes vacant and lifeless.
John stepped forward, about to ask him something, when the giant surprisingly spoke first.
“You know the golden Behemoth?” His voice was raspy and hollow as he hoisted a massive chunk of ore, seemingly talking to himself.
As he bent down, John caught sight of his back, raw and bloody, with bones even visible in
some places.
It was clear this Behemoth had never been allowed a moment’s rest.
John quickly asked, “Do you know where he is?”
The Behemoth struggled to lift the ore again, the sound of chains almost drowning his faint
reply. “And what are you to him?”
“He’s one of my subordinates,” John replied without elaborating.
“A subordinate?” The Behemoth’s brow creased as he cast a cold glance at John, then
continued onward.
Just as they were nearly out of the mine, he muttered under his breath, “Come here at
midnight.”
He provided coordinates-the location where he stayed at night. “Understood.” John snapped his fingers lightly, sending a surge of life energy from the laws
into the Behemoth, slowly healing his wounds.
The Behemoth paused briefly, nodding slightly without saying a word, then continued his
trudging steps.
John and the others resumed hauling ore.
It wasn’t until nightfall that he and Dumas finally completed the day’s quota.
By then, Dumas was utterly exhausted, sprawled out on the ground. Even with John’s help, he could barely manage; on his own, he likely wouldn’t have completed the required hundred
cubic units until dawn.
“Sir, you go ahead. I still have over seventy cubic units left. I’ll be at this for a while,” the old man said, close to collapse yet gritting his teeth to press on.
His quota had risen to 200 cubic units, meaning he couldn’t rest until it was done.
“Alright, we’ll see you tomorrow,” John replied. Though he couldn’t openly assist, he
discreetly channeled a burst of life energy into the old man’s body.
Feeling the wave of vitality gradually heal his injuries, the old man looked at John with deep
gratitude.
He hadn’t felt his body so light in ages; it felt almost foreign, as though it wasn’t his own.
John and Dumas didn’t linger; they turned and headed to the lift, which began to ascend
slowly.
“Dumas, have you ever heard of the Saint Spirit Clan?” John asked, curious.
Dumas shook his head, admitting it was the first time he’d heard of such a race.
The Saint Spirit Clan was indeed the old man’s race. After spending the day together, John had learned some things about him-the old man’s name was Quagmire, and he had been toiling in this mine for thousands of years, mercilessly exploited.
They had once resisted, but the Saint Spirit Clan wasn’t skilled in combat, and all their attempts ended in failure. Eventually, they resigned themselves to this fate, struggling just to
survive.
“Sir, what’s the plan now?” Dumas asked quietly, unwilling to spend his life as a slave. He was firmly set on following John.
“No rush. I’ll gather some intel tonight,” John replied, deciding to meet with the Behemoth later that night. His next move would be to save Avis and the others, then make further plans. With a screech, the lift continued to rise. Shadow Clan guards were stationed at the top, checking identification tokens one by one. Once they confirmed that the day’s quota was met, they handed John and Dumas a portion of food and allowed them into the teleportation circle.
“What the hell is this?” Dumas muttered, looking at the sludgy substance in his hands, a foul stench hitting his nose and making him retch.
The smell alone was nauseating, let alone the thought of actually eating it.
John also frowned, tossing his portion aside.
As a demigod, he could go months without food without any problem.
The only real issue here was that the unique energy on Shadow Star couldn’t be directly
absorbed or refined.
Luckily, he still had World-in-Hand.
When they returned to the starting village, the sky had already gone completely dark, and
they were among the first ones back.
Many others hadn’t yet met the day’s quota.
John didn’t see the old village chief, nor did he wander around outside.
The air was thick with a bloody mist that made him uneasy.
He returned to his straw hut, waiting patiently for midnight to arrive.