Memories II

For Dax, the past six months had been nothing but hell. His so-called instructor, Ethan Troy, made it his personal mission to break him. Day after day, Dax was forced into brutal fights against Ethan's tamed beasts—barehanded. 

The excuse? Training. A means to "help" him refine his Earth Dragon Body technique. But Dax knew better. Ethan wasn't training him. He was testing him. Pushing him to his limits, waiting for the moment he would finally break.

Sometimes, Ethan would join in himself, commanding his creatures to attack in tandem. Razor-sharp claws. Fangs dripping venom. Unrelenting waves of pain. Dax endured it all. 

He had no choice. His father had trained him to withstand suffering, to push forward no matter how much the world tried to crush him. His heart was that of a warrior—unyielding, defiant.

But that didn't mean it didn't enrage him.

After every battle, when his body was bruised and bleeding, he was forced to serve the very creatures that had tried to rip him apart. Cleaning their filthy dens. Feeding them. Grooming them. Ethan made sure Dax understood his place—beneath them. Beneath him.

But three months in, something changed.

A shift. A breakthrough.

The first layer of the Earth Dragon Body awakened within him. His skin hardened, taking on a rough, brown-scaled texture—a mark of surpassing the initial stage. It was only the first step, but it was a step toward power. Toward freedom. 

The technique itself possessed eight layers, yet no records existed beyond the final stage. That knowledge had been lost to time. Still, Dax had no complaints. Progress was progress.

For the first time in months, he felt hope.

And Ethan felt fear.

He tried to hide it behind his usual arrogance, but Dax saw it. The flicker of uncertainty. The way his lips tightened when he watched Dax move. The way his fingers twitched as if suppressing the urge to act.

Dax had become a problem.

The Earth Dragon Body was no ordinary technique. Less than five known humans had ever cultivated it, and each one was a monster in their own right—warriors who could go toe-to-toe with magic beasts. It was said that a practitioner in the sixth layer had once crushed a mountain in the palm of his hand.

Ethan knew what this meant.

If Dax continued growing, if he reached even the third layer—he would no longer be a tool. No longer a disposable pawn. He would be a threat.

Then came the mission.

The moment Dax heard about it, unease slithered into his chest.

A simple delivery to the frontlines? No combat, no major risk?

Too easy.

It didn't sit right with him.

But suspicion was not proof, and he had no choice but to follow orders.

And by the time realization crept in, it was too late.

They had already arrived in Esu. The journey had been smooth, with only low-level beasts daring to approach them. The aura radiating from Ethan's beasts warded off most creatures, keeping danger at bay.

Ethan was a Level 91 Beast Tamer, standing at the peak of the Recognition Realm, only a step away from breaking into the Awakening Realm. For his age, his strength was nothing short of monstrous—his growth speed was frightening, his talent undeniable. In the Troy household, he was their prodigy, their little monster.

The Esu Kingdom had never known peace. War had shaped its people, hardening them like tempered steel. Yet, despite the never-ending bloodshed, the kingdom still stood—a mystery in itself.

Dax found himself captivated by what he saw. The people of Esu carried an air of resilience, but it was the women who truly caught his attention. 

Their beauty was unlike anything he had encountered—bodies sculpted by the gods' hands, faces radiant like a painted sunset. But what set them apart, what truly made them otherworldly, were their eyes.

Each pair held something beyond human. Some shimmered with shifting colors, others bore the raw essence of nature itself. He saw eyes where rain softly drizzled, where flames flickered like dying embers. Some gleamed with the golden brilliance of the sun, while others carried the cold silver glow of the moon.

The men, on the other hand, were warriors in every sense of the word. Their bodies bore intricate carvings—kill scores etched into their flesh, each mark a tribute to the battles they had fought. But these markings weren't just for show; they were something more. A ritual. A sacrifice.

The Esu warriors did not follow the conventional leveling system. Their strength came from the blood they spilled, the lives they claimed. Their marks were more than just scars—they were the very source of their power.

Dax saw it firsthand upon reaching the front lines. A soldier of Esu beheaded a demon in one swift motion. Without hesitation, he drew a small dagger and plunged it into the demon's heart. The blade drank deeply, its surface darkened by the creature's tainted blood.

Then, in a practiced motion, the soldier carved a small incision into his own flesh, letting the demon's blood seep into his body.

The transformation was immediate. The demon's corpse shriveled, its body collapsing into a dry, empty husk. The soldier, on the other hand, healed from all injuries, his skin regained its color, his body hummed with newfound energy.

This was no ordinary kingdom. The people of Esu carried the blood of something ancient. Something powerful.

And Dax couldn't help but wonder—just how deep that power ran?

The night air was thick with the scent of blood. War horns howled in the distance, and firelight flickered against the torn earth.

Dax stood by the supply tents, his senses sharp, body tense. The unease hadn't left him. If anything, it had only grown stronger.

Then—a shadow moved.

Instinct screamed at him, but before he could react, a force struck his back like a war hammer. His body slammed into the ground, dust rising around him. A weight pressed into his spine, pinning him down.

A familiar voice murmured in his ear.

"Got you."

Dax's fingers curled into the dirt.

The weight lifted. He rolled onto his back just in time to see Ethan standing over him, his face a twisted mask of satisfaction.

Behind him, the night was darker than it should've been. Figures emerged from the shadows—tall, cloaked in flickering demonic energy, their eyes gleaming like dying embers.

Demons.

Dax's breath slowed.

Ethan had planned this.

Every grueling fight, every humiliation—it had all been leading to this.

The tallest demon stepped forward. "This is the one?"

Ethan nodded. "Strong body, rare bloodline. He'll fetch a high price."

Dax moved.

A burst of speed—aiming for Ethan's throat—

Pain exploded as a demonic chain lashed around his torso, dragging him to his knees.

Ethan sighed. "You should've known better, Dax."

Dax's cold eyes met his. His voice was calm, yet suffocating.

"You'll regret this."

Ethan smirked. "Maybe. But you won't be around to see it."

The demon raised his hand, and darkness swallowed Dax whole.

The last thing he saw was Ethan's smirk—a mocking twist of cruelty—before he was swallowed by the abyss.

---

Upon arriving on the demonic continent, Dax's fate was sealed. A fate worse than death. Thrown into the battle slave section, he was branded with the infamous battle slave crest, a mark of his subjugation, one that would follow him until the bitter end.

Whispers quickly spread among the other slaves—both human and demon—as pity filled the air. The human slaves never survived this place. 

Those who weren't bought or chosen by a master were thrown into the gladiatorial pits to entertain the demons. 

The fights weren't just battles for survival; they were struggles to the death. Win, or surrender—but only if your opponent was merciful.

Dax overheard the hushed voices of the succubus slaves, their words heavy with sorrow. "He was such a handsome man," they whispered, speaking of him as though he were already a corpse. Their pity—sharp, cruel— it was worse than the fate awaiting him.

He was shoved into a dark, shadowed cellar, tucked away in the corner of the dark space. The flickering glow of torches barely illuminated the surroundings, casting long, twisted shadows.

There, in one of the dim corners, was another figure—indistinct, blending into the darkness, what gave him away was the sharp, pointed horn on his head. One broken, the other intact.

A demon, no doubt. Another of his new companions in this hellish existence.

Dax sought a quiet corner, curling into himself. He tucked his arms around his knees, instinctively trying to create a small shield against the world.

His eyes were lifeless, glassy—reflecting only the void, empty of any emotion or hope. The cold crept through his bones, but it didn't register. It was as though his body had already given up, indifferent to the world around him.

His face remained frozen, the mask of indifference never slipping. There was nothing in him—no joy, no fear. Only emptiness. Sleep came, but it was the sleep of someone who had long abandoned any notion of peace.

It was the kind of sleep that came when nothing mattered anymore, when the very act of existing was simply an afterthought.

Splash!

Cold water hit his face, dragging him out of the dark, restless sleep. Dax blinked, feeling the icy sting as it seeped into his skin. A guard loomed over him, his weapon's hilt banging against the cell door with an uninvited force.

"Human!!" The guard barked. His voice was sharp, but there was something more beneath it—surprise, maybe even distaste. As his eyes met Dax's hollow gaze and unwavering expression, a twisted laugh spilled from his mouth. "Hahaha!"

The guard had expected a lowly, broken slave—someone to be trampled easily. But Dax was no longer that. He was neither broken nor cowed by the laughter. There was no visible fear in his eyes, no defeat in his posture.

Without hesitation, the guard unlocked the cell and pointed toward the narrow passage. "Follow me!"

Dax moved before his mind could catch up, instinctively obeying. The path was dark and suffocating, and the air felt heavy, as though the very space was oppressing him. With every step he took, it was as if the weight of his existence pressed harder on his chest. When they reached the armory, Dax hesitated. His hand moved toward the weapons, instinctively craving a tool, a way to fight back.

But before his fingers could touch the cold steel, the guard yanked him away, denying him even that small moment of autonomy.

Then, without warning, a foot crashed into his back, sending him stumbling out of the armory.

The blinding light outside was almost unbearable, slicing through his already shattered senses. It felt as though the world itself mocked him—shoving him further into this hellish existence, only to drown him in the cruel cheers of the crowd.

The brightness stung like an insult, as if hope itself were nothing more than a weapon aimed at his soul.