RISING OF THE GOLEM KING FROM ZERO TO HERO, Volume 1, Part One by H. L. Watson - HTML preview

Chapter 1

The sun had barely risen when the persistent sound of the alarm clock jolted me from my slumber, leaving me groggy and disoriented. The harsh electronic beeping cut through the peaceful silence of my bedroom like an unwelcome intruder, its insistent rhythm pulling me reluctantly from the depths of unconsciousness. I rubbed my eyes vigorously, attempting to shake off the stubborn remnants of my dreams and the deep, enveloping sleep that had held me captive throughout the night. My vision blurred then cleared as I blinked against the soft morning light filtering through the thin curtains, casting elongated shadows across my modest bedroom. The digital display on my nightstand showed 6:05 AM, mocking me with its unforgiving precision. Gathering my strength, I quickly got out of bed and headed to the bathroom, my feet relishing the sensation of the cool tiles that contrasted sharply with the warmth of my cozy bed. The bathroom mirror reflected a face I barely recognized in the mornings—hair tousled in chaotic disarray, eyes puffy from sleep, stubble shadowing my jawline. Dark circles underscored my eyes, testament to too many late nights and early mornings. I turned on the shower, allowing the warm water to wash over me like a soothing embrace, effectively dispelling the last traces of sleep and the memories of my dreams. As the water danced against the tiles, I felt a renewed sense of energy coursing through me, invigorating and preparing me for the day ahead. Steam rose around me, filling the small bathroom with a cloud-like mist that smelled faintly of the eucalyptus soap I'd received as a gift last Christmas. The scent was sharp yet pleasant, clearing my sinuses and helping to focus my still-foggy mind. "Another day, another dollar," I muttered to myself, the words lost in the steady rhythm of water hitting the shower floor.

Hastily, I dressed in my work attire—a plain button-up shirt in forgettable blue, khaki slacks that had seen better days, and a tie I'd never particularly liked but wore anyway. My fingers worked mechanically at the knot, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought failed me so early in the morning. I glanced at my watch—already 6:40—and darted out the door, my heart pounding as I realized I was running late. Determined not to be the last one to arrive at the office, I knew I had to catch the bus that would deliver me to my destination. With a sense of urgency, I hurried down the street, the morning air still crisp and slightly chilled, carrying the scent of dew-covered grass and distant car exhaust.

The suburban landscape around me was familiar to the point of invisibility—rows of similar houses with trimmed lawns, parked cars collecting morning dew, the occasional neighbor retrieving a newspaper from their driveway. My shoes clicked against the sidewalk as I quickened my pace, the leather messenger bag at my side bouncing rhythmically against my hip. The weight of my laptop and the half-eaten sandwich I'd hastily packed last night reminded me that I was woefully unprepared for the day ahead.

As I traversed the familiar path, I suddenly encountered a bizarre and terrifying phenomenon. A tear in the very fabric of space-time materialized before me, taking the ominous form of a dark, swirling portal. It appeared without warning, like a hole punched through reality itself, disrupting the mundane backdrop of my morning commute. The air around it crackled with an unnatural energy, raising the hair on my arms and sending a chill down my spine despite the mild temperature. It was eerily reminiscent of a black hole, voraciously consuming everything in its path—first small debris, then larger objects, swallowing them into its unfathomable darkness. "What the hell?" I gasped, my voice strangled by shock and fear. I watched in abject horror as objects and unsuspecting people were drawn into the portal, vanishing into the unfathomable darkness. A newspaper stand uprooted from its spot, whirling into the void. A parked bicycle untethered itself from a nearby rack, clattering across the pavement before being sucked in. Most terrifying of all, a woman in a red coat screamed as she lost her footing and was pulled toward the anomaly, her fingers clawing desperately at the ground before she disappeared entirely.

The street erupted into chaos—car alarms blaring, people shouting in panic, the sound of breaking glass as windows imploded. The smell of ozone permeated the air, acrid and sharp, burning my nostrils with each panicked breath. My ears popped painfully as the pressure around me changed, the very atmosphere seeming to compress and expand with the portal's pulsations. Desperation gripped me as I tried to resist the portal's relentless pull. I could feel its overwhelming force drawing me closer, like a moth to a flame. My feet skidded across the pavement, leaving scuff marks on the concrete as I fought against the invisible current. I struggled to maintain my grip on a nearby light pole, my knuckles turning white with the effort, but my efforts were futile; the portal's power was simply too great. Despite my best attempts, I found myself being dragged towards it against my will, my hands slipping from the pole inch by excruciating inch.

"Help!" I shouted, my voice lost in the cacophony of destruction and panic surrounding me. "Someone help me!"

But there was no one to help. Those who could flee had already done so, and those who couldn't were already gone, swallowed by the insatiable maw that now beckoned me toward oblivion. In that fateful moment, an unexpected blow from a flying garbage lid struck me, sending me hurtling towards the portal with a sense of impending doom. The impact was sudden and jarring, knocking the wind from my lungs. A flash of pain erupted across my back as the metal edge connected with my spine. As the darkness encroached, dread filled every fiber of my being, knowing I was on the precipice of being consumed by the unforgiving void. Despite the terror that coursed through me, I plunged headlong into the portal, suddenly finding myself unable to move or breathe. Time became an enigma, and I could no longer discern whether I had been trapped for mere minutes or an eternity.

The sensation was unlike anything I'd ever experienced—weightlessness coupled with crushing pressure, searing heat and bone-chilling cold simultaneously assaulting my senses. My consciousness scattered and reformed, as if my very being was being unmade and reconstructed with each passing moment. I couldn't scream, couldn't think, couldn't even remember who I was. There was only the void, endless and consuming.

Gradually, a glimmer of light pierced the suffocating darkness, beckoning me towards it. A surge of hope washed over me as I realized that escape from the void might still be possible. I was irresistibly drawn to the light, and as I neared it, I discerned that it was a gateway to an unfamiliar realm. The light grew stronger, more defined, until it coalesced into a doorway of sorts—a circular opening leading somewhere, anywhere but the nothingness that surrounded me. With my last remaining strength, I reached for it, my fingers stretching toward the promise of freedom. And then, in an instant, I was through.

Upon crossing the threshold of the portal, I found myself instantly encircled by a contingent of mysterious soldiers. Clad in armor that gleamed dully in the low light, their faces were concealed by helmets with narrow slits for eyes, revealing nothing of the people beneath. The armor was ornate yet functional, a fusion of medieval craftsmanship and elements I couldn't quite place— metal plates overlapping like scales, etched with symbols that made no sense to me. They wielded menacing weapons and exuded hostility. Their swords pointed at me, the sharp tips mere inches from my throat and their intentions were clear.

"Dosh't overa," one of them barked, his voice muffled by his helmet. Though I couldn't understand his words, the meaning was unmistakable.

Roughly restrained, I was forced to join a group of other captives who had also unwittingly stumbled through the portal. Rough hands grabbed my arms, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave bruises. I was shoved forward, stumbling over uneven ground as I joined a huddle of terrified people—men and women of various ages, all looking as bewildered and frightened as I felt. Their clothes were different from mine, suggesting they might have come from different places, different times even.

I surveyed my surroundings and concluded that we were in an underground chamber of sorts, ancient and foreboding. Stone walls enclosed us, rising to a vaulted ceiling supported by massive pillars. Torches mounted on the walls cast flickering, amber light that danced across the rough-hewn surfaces, creating shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, smoke from the torches, and something else—a metallic tang that I would later recognize as blood. In the center of the room stood the portal I had traversed, resembling a mysterious, ancient machine of unknown origins. It was a massive structure of stone and metal, pulsing with an eerie blue light that seemed to breathe, expanding and contracting like a living thing.

Corralled with the other prisoners, we were subjected to a rigorous inspection involving some form of magic. The soldiers barked orders, taking the procedure with utmost seriousness. One of them carried what looked like a staff topped with a glowing crystal, which he passed over each captive in turn. The crystal changed colors as it moved—sometimes glowing bright red, other times a dull green or vibrant purple.

"Vtaxd ktizll," a soldier ordered a middle-aged man with a greying beard, shoving him forward. To my horror, one captive—a woman in her thirties with short blonde hair and defiance in her eyes—resisted and was brutally slain by the soldiers without hesitation. She had lashed out when they tried to restrain her, catching one soldier off guard with a well-placed kick to his knee. His comrades responded with immediate and disproportionate force. "I won't be your guinea pig!" were her final words before a sword plunged through her chest, silencing her forever.

The woman's body crumpled to the floor, blood pooling around her, its coppery smell filling my nostrils and making me gag. The other captives huddled closer together, terror reflected in their wide eyes. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out, the taste of my own blood mixing with the bile rising in my throat.

The overseer of the inspection—a taller soldier with a plume of red feathers on his helmet— admonished the soldiers, but his words were met with cruel laughter. It became apparent that human life held no value here, and that these soldiers were a brutal, ruthless force. Fear and uncertainty gnawed at me as I pondered the grim fate that might await me in this hostile, alien world.

"Cshonyrol gurelves," the overseer said, his voice carrying an edge of authority. "Ve sed lige ubxects, pov horfses."

One of the soldiers shrugged, cleaning his blade on the dead woman's clothes with casual indifference. "Bheve's vlexty vore xheze ve gase nohm, ve kevlied, hocging hovard ve goral.” I closed my eyes, attempting to remain composed amidst the terror and desperation that gripped me. My heart hammered against my ribs, threatening to burst from my chest. Cold sweat trickled down my spine, soaking through my shirt and making me shiver despite the warmth of the chamber. My situation was a mystery, and the consequences of the inspection were unknown. The only certainty was that I was at the mercy of these merciless soldiers, and my future hung in the balance.

Abruptly, a hooded figure approached, speaking in a mysterious language I couldn't comprehend. The soldiers stepped back, their postures stiffening in what appeared to be respect or perhaps fear, permitting the hooded man to draw nearer. He was tall and thin, his face hidden within the depths of his hood except for a glimpse of pale skin and a sharp chin. His robes were of a rich, dark material that seemed to absorb the light around it, moving with fluid grace as he walked. He addressed me harshly, and I could sense the malevolence and hatred seething within his words. The hooded man placed a mysterious orb on my forehead, and immediately, a dull ache began to pulsate within my brain. The orb was smooth and cold, glowing with an inner light that seemed to penetrate my skull. The pain intensified rapidly, evolving into a debilitating migraine that felt as if my brain was being ripped apart. Waves of agony crashed through my consciousness, each more intense than the last. My vision blurred, colors fragmenting and distorting. Overwhelmed, I crumpled to my knees, and I sensed a warm fluid trickling from my nose. To my horror, I realized it was blood, its metallic taste coating my lips as it dripped down my face. With a command from the hooded man, his soldiers hoisted me back onto my feet. My legs trembled, barely able to support my weight. The world tilted and swayed around me as I struggled to remain upright. He addressed me once more, his voice frigid and menacing. "Do you understand me now, foreigner?" he demanded, the words somehow making sense despite being in a language I'd never heard before. Still reeling from the agony and the blood loss, I was too stunned to respond. My mind couldn't process what was happening—how I could suddenly comprehend his speech, or why I was here at all. The hooded man repeated his question, impatience evident in his tone. His fingers twitched at his sides, long and pale, like the legs of a spider. "Do you understand me now, foreigner?" To my astonishment, I could now comprehend his words. It was as if a switch had been flicked, granting me the ability to decipher this alien language. The man's question echoed again in my mind, demanding an answer.

A soldier's hand struck my face with enough force to snap my head to the side, and I tasted blood in my mouth where my teeth had cut into my cheek. Stars exploded in my vision, adding to the disorientation that already plagued me. The hooded man's voice was now laced with rage and impatience.

"Do you understand me now, foreigner?" he snarled, leaning in close enough that I could smell his breath—sour and strangely metallic, like old coins.

My heart raced with fear and uncertainty, wondering what terrible fate awaited me in this hostile place. The room seemed to close in around me, the walls pulsing in rhythm with the throbbing pain in my head. The faces of the soldiers blurred into a nightmarish tableau of helmets and glowing eyes.

With trepidation, I managed to reply, "I can understand you. Don't hit me again. I can understand you." My voice was hasty, desperate to avoid further abuse, the words tumbling out in a panicked rush. My throat felt raw, as if I hadn't spoken in days, and each word was an effort. The soldiers behind me jeered at my swift response, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. One remarked to a comrade, "Well, at least we know this one's brain isn't fried from the speech orb. He still understands the language of pain." His voice was gruff, tinged with a cruel amusement. His fellow soldier snickered, a sound like gravel being crushed underfoot. "They all do, eventually," the second soldier replied, poking me roughly in the back with something hard—the pommel of his sword, perhaps. "Some just take longer to learn than others." Annoyance flickered across the hooded man's face as he sharply rebuked the soldiers. Though his face remained mostly hidden, I could see his mouth twist into a scowl, thin lips pressing into a bloodless line. "It defeats the point of killing them before we've checked their abilities," he scolded, his voice cutting through their mirth like a blade. "We need to know what we're dealing with before we dispose of them."

One soldier scoffed, defensively retorting, "This sorry batch isn't worth the crystal it took to get them here. Just a bunch of worthless utility classes. We've yet to find a single mage amongst the whole sorry lot. It's like their world is void of magic. What a miserable world it must be." He spat on the ground for emphasis, the spittle landing dangerously close to my shoes. The hooded man countered, turning to face the soldier fully. His hands emerged from his sleeves, pale and marked with strange tattoos that seemed to shift and change as he gestured. "Even so, we have to be thorough in our inspections. Who knows, we might find some useful ability amongst some of them." There was something calculating in his tone, a cold practicality that was somehow more frightening than outright cruelty.

The soldier dismissed his words with a sneer, his helmet tilting to one side in a gesture of contempt. "Not likely," he replied, folding his arms across his armored chest. "We'd have better luck training dogs for battle."

It became clear that the hooded man was the leader of these soldiers and the one overseeing the inspections. His authority was evident in the way the others deferred to him, despite their grumbling. Fear and uncertainty gripped me as I pondered what awaited me. I had no idea what abilities I harbored or what the results of these inspections would yield. My fate hung in the balance, completely at the mercy of these merciless soldiers and their ruthless leaders. The hooded man retrieved a long rod with a luminous orb affixed to its end from within his cloak. The rod was made of some dark metal, intricately engraved with symbols similar to those on the soldiers' armor. The orb at its tip pulsed with an inner light, shifting through various colors—red, blue, green, purple—in a hypnotic pattern. He instructed the two soldiers to restrain me, rendering me immobile.

"Hold him still," he ordered, his voice devoid of emotion. "This needs precision." Panic swelled within me, and I tried to break free, twisting against the iron grip of the soldiers. But it was futile. Their strength was overwhelming, their hands like vises on my arms. One of the soldiers yanked my hair back forcefully, baring my forehead to the orb-tipped rod. My scalp burned with pain, tears springing to my eyes involuntarily. "Please," I gasped, though I knew begging would do no good. "I don't understand what's happening."

As the man pressed the device against my forehead, I was seized by a searing pain that caused my body to convulse uncontrollably. It felt as though I was being electrocuted, every nerve ending on fire, every muscle contracting at once. My vision whited out, replaced by bursts of color and light that had no source. It felt as if my very soul was being probed, examined, cataloged. Despite my best efforts to bear the torment in silence, I couldn't help but cry out, "Stop!"

The soldiers behind me snickered at my weakness, their amusement a distant sound beneath the roaring in my ears. One of them struck me on the side of the head, the blow adding a new layer of pain to the agony I was already experiencing. They coldly ordered me to be silent, claiming, "It's almost done." Their voices seemed to come from very far away, barely penetrating the fog of pain that enveloped me.

I feared the ordeal would never end and that I would perish there, my mind shattered by whatever examination they were conducting. But soon enough, the torment ceased, and the man inspected the end of the orb stick device. The pain receded slowly, leaving behind a dull throbbing and a strange emptiness, as if something had been taken from me. I gasped for air, struggling to regain my breath. My lungs burned with each inhalation, my throat raw from screaming. My body trembled, the aftershocks of the brutal ordeal still coursing through me. Sweat soaked my clothes, plastering them to my skin. The hooded man glanced between the device and me, his expression revealing displeasure at what he had discovered. The orb at the end of the rod now glowed a steady, unimpressive brown color. The hooded man's disappointment was palpable, his shoulders slumping slightly as he examined it. At the mercy of these ruthless soldiers and their heartless leaders, I could only wait and hope that I would survive this alien, hostile place. My mind raced with questions that had no answers, fears that had no comfort.

The hooded man's irritation was palpable, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. "What is this? An artificer? Another utility class? This is the 8th utility class I've checked from this world. At least a soldier would have been useful like the last two, but a utility class is of no use at all, especially in the war against the Celestoria Kingdom." His disgust was evident in every syllable, every gesture of his hands. He sneered at me, his face momentarily visible within the hood— angular features, skin so pale it was almost translucent, eyes that were entirely black without whites or irises. "He's useless. Throw him in the pit with the other rejects. The guard captain can decide what to do with him."

I was manhandled roughly, dragged across the stone floor toward an opening I hadn't noticed before. My feet scrambled for purchase, but the soldiers moved too quickly. Their armored gloves bit into my flesh, sure to leave bruises. We approached what appeared to be a large hole in the floor, its depths obscured by shadows. The smell that emanated from it was foul—a mixture of unwashed bodies, excrement, and despair.

Soon, I found myself standing at the edge of a steep drop, looking down into darkness. One of the soldiers laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor, and shoved me forward. "Enjoy your new home, reject," he said, and then I was falling. Unceremoniously, they hurled me in, face-first. As I tumbled down, my lip was split against something hard—a rock or perhaps the wall of the pit. My torso collided with various protrusions, each impact adding new bruises to my already battered body. The fall seemed endless, though it could only have been seconds. I landed in a heap at the bottom, the breath knocked from my lungs, surrounded by other captives who had been deemed "rejects." The fear and desperation in their eyes mirrored my own, and I knew that I was in an exceedingly perilous place.

I surveyed my surroundings, attempting to understand the environment I found myself in. The pit was shrouded in darkness, my eyes struggling to adjust after the relative brightness above. What little I could see confirmed my worst fears. The walls were sheer stone, offering no handholds or hope of climbing out. The floor was earth, packed hard by the countless feet that had trodden it. The pit was damp and reeking with a repugnant odor that made me want to vomit—human waste, rotting food, and the sickly-sweet smell of infection. I could hear the sound of dripping water from somewhere unseen and the shuffling of feet as my fellow prisoners moved away, giving me space.

The eyes of the other captives weighed heavily upon me, their stares filled with despair and hopelessness. Some looked as if they'd been here for a long time—clothes in tatters, bodies emaciated, eyes sunken into hollow sockets. Others seemed more recent arrivals, their faces still showing the shock of their capture. I couldn't help but question my own fate in this strange and hostile environment.

"Welcome to the pit," someone said nearby, their voice little more than a hoarse whisper. "Hope you didn't expect a long life."

Seated in the pit, I felt the pain of my injuries and the gnawing fear of the unknown. I was surrounded by captives sharing my fate, uncertain of what lay ahead for any of us. All I could do was bide my time and cling to the hope that somehow, I'd survive this nightmare. As days turned to an indistinguishable blur, hunger and thirst relentlessly tormented me, leaving my body battered and bruised. The passage of time became meaningless—there was no day or night in the pit, only periods of slightly greater or lesser darkness as torches were lit or extinguished above. My stomach became a constant ache, gnawing at me from the inside. My throat burned with thirst, my lips cracking and bleeding. Desperation intensified as I wondered if escape from the pit was even possible.

Each day, anonymous figures tossed bags of unsorted food into the pit, inciting fierce competition and brutal fights among its inhabitants. The food was scraps at best—stale bread, rotting vegetables, occasionally meat of questionable origin. But in our state of starvation, it became treasure worth fighting for. From above, I could hear soldiers' laughter, placing bets on the victors as if we were animals in an arena. Their voices echoed down to us, filled with cruel amusement at our suffering.

"Ten silver on the big one!" "No, watch the skinny one—he's quick!" "They're like rats in a barrel!"

The daily struggle for sustenance left us all bruised and battered, fighting with a desperation born of survival instinct. I received black eyes, cracked ribs, and countless other injuries in these skirmishes. I also inflicted my share of damage, my knuckles split and swollen from connecting with jaws and ribs. In those days, my existence was reduced to mere survival, driven by the primal urge to eat and preserve my strength. I had become an unthinking, unfeeling animal in the pit. I finally understood the truth of the adage that you never know what you're capable of until you're faced with the need to survive.

One day, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the monotony. We had learned to distinguish the footfalls of soldiers from those who brought food or removed bodies. These were purposeful, heavy—multiple people moving with authority. A group of soldiers peered down at us, their helmeted faces silhouetted against the light from above. Their eyes, visible through the slits in their helmets, were filled with contempt and cruelty.

One of them bellowed, "Get up, you lot. The guard captain wants to see you." A rope ladder was thrown down, and we were ordered to climb up one by one. Those who moved too slowly were prodded with spears or threatened with worse. We were hauled from the pit with rough hands and led away, a procession of dirty, emaciated prisoners shuffling through stone corridors. My legs, weak from lack of proper exercise and nutrition, trembled with each step. My dread intensified as I wondered what would become of us. In a large chamber, a man clad in a black cloak awaited—the guard captain in charge of inspections. He was different from the hooded man I'd encountered earlier—broader, more imposing, with a face that was visible and all the more terrifying for it. Scars crisscrossed his features, his nose had been broken multiple times, and one eye was milky white and unseeing. He surveyed us with disdainful, cruel eyes, taking in our filthy, weakened state with obvious disgust.

"What do we have here? Another batch of rejects?" he spat, his voice echoing in the chamber. "I don't have time for this. Take them to the slave market camp and see if anyone wants to buy them. If not, execute anyone left unsold. I have more important things to do." With that, he turned and left, leaving us in the hands of his subordinates. Fear seized me as I pondered my fate. Would I be sold as a slave, or would I face execution if no one wanted me? The uncertainty was almost worse than the certainty of death.