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

Chapter 4

I awoke to the sound of the guards unlocking the gate to our stall, the metallic scrape of iron against iron piercing through the haze of uncomfortable sleep. The noise reverberated through the chamber, startling me to consciousness. Pale morning light filtered through narrow slits high in the stone walls, barely illuminating the cramped space filled with huddled bodies. The stench of unwashed flesh, stale urine, and musty hay assaulted my nostrils, a potent reminder of our dire circumstances.

Every muscle in my body protested as I tried to move. Sharp pains shot through my joints, and my back throbbed from sleeping on the hard stone floor. The straw that had been scattered about offered little cushioning, and the cold had seeped into my bones during the night. My wrists were raw and chafed from the metal restraints, the skin around them inflamed and tender. I winced, feeling every ache and pain in my body, each movement sending a jolt of discomfort through me. The heavy wooden door swung open with a creak, revealing three guards in their dark uniforms. Their faces were impassive, almost bored, as if herding captives was merely a tedious daily chore. The tallest among them had a jagged scar across his left cheek, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed us with detached indifference. Behind them, two servants carried containers of what appeared to be dry sausages, the meat dark and heavily spiced judging by its pungent aroma. Others followed with wooden buckets of water, the liquid sloshing over the sides as they navigated the uneven floor.

As I struggled to sit up, my joints cracking in protest, I heard Amy stir beside me. Her blonde hair was matted and tangled, and dark circles underscored her eyes, evidence of fitful sleep. She looked smaller somehow, diminished by our circumstances, her shoulders hunched forward as if to protect herself from further harm.

One of the guards, a stocky man with a grizzled beard speckled with gray, approached and thrust a portion of food toward me. The sausage was hard and dry, more like jerky than proper meat, and a small hunk of bread accompanied it. The bread was dense and slightly stale, nothing like the soft loaves I was accustomed to back home.

"Be thankful," he said, his voice gruff but not entirely unkind. His eyes, a weathered blue beneath heavy brows, showed a glimmer of something resembling empathy. "Your temporary owner has decided to feed you. Eat up, you'll need it. Most of you will be sold today to your new owners."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My stomach clenched, and the meager food in my hands suddenly seemed unappetizing despite my hunger. The guard's statement confirmed my worst fears—this nightmare was not ending anytime soon.

"New owners?" I asked, my voice cracking from disuse and thirst. The words felt foreign on my tongue, as if belonging to someone else's reality. Dread pooled in my gut, cold and heavy. "You mean this isn't the place we'll stay? We'll have to go somewhere else again?" The guard looked at me with a complex expression, a mixture of pity, resignation, and warning. His weathered face softened slightly, lines deepening around his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder to ensure no superior was watching before leaning slightly closer. "Look," he said, lowering his voice, "I understand what you're going through. I was once in your position too." His admission startled me—he had been a slave? Now he guarded others in the same position. "Whatever world you came from, forget about it. You can't return home. The ancient device that brought you here has already broken." He shifted his weight, adjusting the sword at his hip. "The only way forward for you people now is to be alert, stay out of trouble, and keep your head down." His expression hardened, emphasizing the gravity of his next words. "If you choose to disregard this advice, there are plenty of unmarked graves. I'm sure the soldiers could find room for one more." The casual way he mentioned our deaths sent a chill through me. This wasn't an idle threat but a stark reality check. I nodded slowly, struggling to swallow past the lump that had formed in my throat. The guard moved on to distribute more rations, leaving me to process his warning. I knew how serious this warning was. I had seen enough of this world in my short time here to understand the danger we were in. The casual brutality, the disregard for human dignity—these weren't anomalies but the norm in this alien place. My fingers tightened around the food, knuckles whitening with tension.

My friend Amy, who was beside me, started to cry. Silent tears tracked down her dirt-smudged cheeks, carving clean paths through the grime. Her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs, and her breathing came in ragged gasps as she tried to contain her distress. I put a comforting arm around her, feeling the trembling of her thin frame beneath the coarse fabric of her makeshift dress. Around us, the other women in our group began to break down as well, their sobs echoing throughout the cramped space, a chorus of despair that seemed to seep into the very stones. The sound of collective weeping created an atmosphere of absolute desolation. Some of the men looked away, uncomfortable with the display of emotion or perhaps fighting back their own tears. Others stared blankly at the walls, already retreating into themselves as a defense mechanism against the horror of our situation.

As the morning wore on, the light through the high windows strengthened, revealing more details of our prison. The stall was larger than it had seemed in the darkness, with rough stone walls lined with iron rings for tethering. The floor, worn smooth by countless feet, bore dark stains that I preferred not to contemplate. Dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight, creating an almost ethereal effect that contrasted sharply with the grim reality of our surroundings. Another guard, this one younger with a perpetual sneer twisting his lips, came in with a fresh bucket of water and a container of more white powder. The same caustic substance from yesterday, I realized with dread. The bucket clanked against the stone floor as he set it down, water splashing over the sides.

"Clean yourselves up," he barked, his voice echoing harshly off the stone walls. His gaze swept over us with undisguised contempt. "Your new owners won't want to buy something that looks like it's been dragged through the mud."

Some of the prisoners made their way over to the bucket and began scrubbing themselves with the powder, their movements mechanical and resigned. The caustic substance bubbled slightly when mixed with water, releasing a sharp, chemical smell that made my eyes water. I hesitated, rooted to the spot. My cuts and bruises throbbed with pain, the memory of yesterday's burning sensation still fresh in my mind. I didn't want to make them worse. Glancing at Amy, I could see she shared my trepidation, her eyes wide with fear and uncertainty, her lower lip caught between her teeth.

"Come on," Amy said after a moment, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. Her voice was soft but determined, a hint of her former self breaking through the despair. She gestured for me to join her, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "It might sting, but it's better than smelling like a pigsty."

I took a deep breath, the stale air filling my lungs, and made my way over to the bucket. The water was cold, a shock against my skin as I dipped my hands in. The powder stung as I rubbed it on my skin, the sensation like thousands of tiny needles pricking at once. I gritted my teeth and bore the pain, knowing cleanliness might make a difference in our uncertain future. The powder had a chalky texture that became slick when wet, and it left my skin feeling tight and dry after rinsing.

Amy winced as she cleaned a particularly deep scrape on her arm, but she continued methodically, her jaw set in determination. There was a quiet resilience to her that I hadn't noticed before, a core of strength beneath the tears and fear. We worked in silence, each focused on the task at hand, finding a small measure of control in this simple act of self-care. After we had finished cleaning ourselves, the guards brought in another round of rations. This time, there was more bread, slightly fresher, and what looked like dried fruit along with the sausage. I was surprised to find that they were almost enough to fill me up, the gnawing hunger subsiding for the first time since my capture. The fruit, while withered and tough, burst with unexpected sweetness in my mouth, a welcome change from the bland and chewy meat. I suspected that this was because our current owner was a middleman of some sort, buying us cheaply and selling us at a higher price. So, he likely wanted us in reasonably good condition until he sold us. Healthy merchandise fetched better prices—a calculated business decision rather than compassion.

It was a depressing thought to realize that we were nothing more than human livestock, bought and sold like cattle. The dehumanization was perhaps the hardest aspect to grasp, the complete reduction of a person to property. But I couldn't dwell on that now. I had to stay alive, no matter what it took. Survival first, philosophical crises later.

After what felt like an eternity, a group of guards arrived to collect us. They wore more elaborate uniforms than the stall guards, with insignias on their shoulders that probably denoted rank or function. Their leader, a tall woman with a severe expression and hair pulled back in a tight braid, barked orders in a clipped, efficient manner.

They unlocked us from the walls that we were tethered to, the iron cuffs falling away to reveal raw, reddened skin beneath. The sudden freedom of movement was both a relief and a reminder of how restricted we had been. The guards ordered us out of the room, gesturing with spears and swords to herd us like animals.

The air in the corridor was damp and musty, heavy with the smell of mildew and something more putrid that I couldn't identify. Moisture beaded on the stone walls, glistening in the light of wall-mounted torches that cast writhing shadows as we passed. I could feel the coolness of the stone floor against my bare feet, smooth in some places and rough in others, occasionally punctuated by sharp pebbles that dug into my soles.

As we were led down a long, dimly lit hallway, Amy stayed close to me, seeming afraid to go more than a few feet away. Her presence at my side was a small comfort, a reminder that I wasn't facing this alone. Her fingers occasionally brushed against mine, a silent communication of shared fear and mutual support.

The corridor twisted and turned, descending slightly before climbing again. The acoustics changed as we moved, sometimes amplifying our footsteps into a thunderous cacophony, other times swallowing sounds in an unsettling manner. Periodically, we passed small alcoves containing unidentifiable equipment or locked doors that presumably led to other areas of the complex.

Finally, we arrived at what appeared to be a gathering hall. It was much brighter than the hallway we had just come from, with tall windows letting in shafts of light that illuminated the dust particles floating in the air like tiny stars. The sudden brightness was almost painful after the dimness of the corridors, and I had to squint until my eyes adjusted. The hall was spacious, with a high vaulted ceiling supported by massive wooden beams, darkened by age and smoke. The floor was stone but covered in places with faded rugs that might once have been colorful but were now dulled to muted browns and grays. Long tables lined the walls, laden with scrolls, writing implements, and what appeared to be record books. The center of the room was empty, creating a stage-like area where we were directed to stand. I looked around, trying to take in my surroundings, and that's when I saw him. A large and portly man was standing in front of us, his substantial girth straining against the rich, well-tailored clothing he wore. His tunic was deep purple, embroidered with gold thread in intricate patterns, and his fingers glittered with multiple rings. His face was fleshy and florid, with small, shrewd eyes that evaluated us like merchandise—which, I supposed, we were. I suspected he was the temporary owner and a merchant. He quickly looked us over and motioned for us to hurry up and stand in the place he pointed, pudgy fingers stabbing at the air impatiently. He was surrounded by guards, all of whom were towering over him, their muscular frames and stern expressions creating an intimidating barrier. Yet he seemed to have no concern for his safety, likely due to the size of his bodyguards and their watchful stares. He moved with the confident swagger of a man accustomed to having his orders obeyed without question. As he began to ask basic questions and write down our skills, classes, and ages on simple wooden tablets, his voice was surprisingly high-pitched for a man of his size, with a nasal quality that grated on the ears. He spoke rapidly, occasionally pausing to dab at his perspiring forehead with a silk handkerchief. The merchant handed us tags and told us to hang them around our neck like a necklace, distributing them with the efficiency of someone who had performed this task countless times.

The tags were made of a thin, pliable material that resembled leather but was lighter, perhaps some kind of parchment. They were inscribed with strange symbols that somehow made sense to me, a disorienting realization that reminded me of the changes that had happened to me since arriving in this world.

I was surprised to see that I could understand the strange language and letters used on the tag. It stated my name and age and gave me the additional category of "utility class." The symbols seemed to shift and settle as I looked at them, as if my brain was translating them in real-time. It was an unsettling sensation, like having knowledge I hadn't earned. The merchant, now red-faced from exertion and the stuffiness of the hall, then instructed all of us with "utility class" categories to go see the assessor at the far wall. Those with "useful class" were instructed to follow the guard outside to the auction block, and those with "common class" would also be going to the auction block, but to a separate area to be sold as a group. I was suddenly startled by a muffled cry coming from Amy, who was right next to me. The sound was heart-wrenching, a half-choked sob of despair. I looked over at her, and my fears were confirmed. She was sobbing, her shoulders shaking with each ragged breath, her face contorted in anguish. Her usually bright blue eyes were now bloodshot and puffy from crying, and her nose had reddened, giving her a vulnerable, childlike appearance that intensified the tragedy of her situation.

I reached out to her, placing a hand on her arm, feeling the goosebumps that had risen on her skin despite the warmth of the hall. Her skin was cold to the touch, as if the fear had chilled her from within. I hoped to give her some small measure of comfort in this dire situation, though I knew words were inadequate in the face of such overwhelming despair. It was then that I saw her tag, which stated her name and age, 22. It was a stark reminder of how young she was—we both were—to be facing such a brutal reality. She had been designated as a common class slave, which meant that she would be sold off today along with some others, separated from me and thrust into an unknown future with an unknown master. I tried to comfort her by embracing her and saying, "It's going to be okay, Amy. Just be strong and you'll get through this." The words felt hollow even as I spoke them, a platitude in the face of genuine horror. Despite my words, she still looked unconvinced, her eyes filled with fear and uncertainty, darting between me and the guards as if searching for an escape that didn't exist. "I can't do this," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I can't be someone's... property. This can't be happening."

Before I could do anything else, the guard who had been eyeing me for my slow response to instructions hit me over the head with the flat of his hand. The blow wasn't particularly hard, more of a warning than an attempt to cause injury, but it was humiliating and jarring nonetheless. He grabbed my arm with rough fingers, his grip tight enough to leave bruises, and took me to the gathering area for the utility class slaves.

The room was small and cramped, with only a few rickety tables and chairs scattered about. The walls were bare except for a faded tapestry depicting what might have been a battle scene, though time and dust had obscured many of the details. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and fear, almost suffocating in its intensity. A single window, set high in the wall, provided minimal ventilation, the glass cloudy with grime.

About fifteen other people were gathered here, all wearing the same "utility class" designation on their tags. They stood or sat in small groups, some talking in hushed tones, others silent and withdrawn. Their expressions ranged from confusion to resignation, with occasional flashes of defiance quickly suppressed under the watchful eyes of the guards. As I waited in the room, I overheard the assessor explain his purpose. He was a tall, thin man with a scholar's stoop and fingers stained with ink. His robes were of better quality than the guards' uniforms but still practical, designed for work rather than show. Wire-rimmed spectacles perched on a narrow nose, magnifying pale, watery eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He introduced himself as an assessor and said that he would be assessing the classes of the slaves, as otherworlders sometimes had unrecognizable classes that were not well understood. His voice was precise and clinical, the voice of a man who viewed his work as purely scientific, divorced from the human suffering it entailed. I felt a shiver run down my spine at his words. What kind of classes was he talking about, and what would become of us once our fates were decided?

The assessor then approached a young woman with pale skin, blue hair, and gray eyes. She stood out among the others, her unusual coloring marking her as different even in this diverse group of captives. Her shoulders were squared, her chin lifted in what might have been pride or simply the determination not to show fear.

He motioned for her to lay down on a table and she complied, though her movements were stiff with tension. The table was a simple wooden platform covered with a thin cloth that had seen better days, stained with substances I preferred not to identify. The guards then began to secure her with leather latches, binding her wrists and ankles to prevent movement during whatever procedure was to come.

The assessor placed an apparatus over her head, a complex contraption of metal and crystal that reminded me vaguely of an archaic medical device. He activated the machine by pulling a lever, and the apparatus began to glow with a strange white light that seemed to pulse with an inner rhythm. The light cast eerie shadows across the room, transforming familiar faces into grotesque masks.

The woman screamed as if she was being electrocuted, her body arching against the restraints with such force that the table creaked in protest. The sound was primal, a cry of pure agony that sent a jolt of vicarious pain through everyone in the room. Several of the waiting captives turned away, unable to watch, while others stared in horrified fascination.

Once the assessor lifted the lever and removed the apparatus, I saw burn marks on her forehead and tears in her eyes. The marks were reddish-brown, not as severe as actual burns but more like a sunburn in the shape of the device's contact points. Her eyes were glazed with pain, tears streaming unchecked down her temples and into her blue hair, darkening it to indigo. The guards assisted her off the table, her body trembling from the ordeal she had just experienced. Her legs buckled as they tried to stand her upright, and it took both guards to support her weight. She was guided to a chair in the corner, where she sat staring at nothing, occasional tremors still running through her frame.

The assessor then walked over to a pillar that held a large orb, and I noticed a thick, black electrical-like line connecting the apparatus to the pillar. The orb glowed with the same white light as the apparatus, pulsing slightly as if alive. I had no idea what this contraption was, but it seemed to be a crucial part of the assessment process. I tried to shake off the sense of unease that had settled over me, but it clung to me like a dark fog, refusing to dissipate. As I stood there, my heart pounded in my chest, the sound so loud in my ears that I was sure others could hear it. I could feel the cold sweat trickling down my back, soaking into the rough fabric of my shirt. I knew that soon it would be my turn to face the assessor and his terrifying machine.

While I stood among the small group of utility class members, I watched nervously as each person was strapped to the table and subjected to the glowing orb's assessment. The orb resembled a strange and mystical tablet, with mist swirling around it, as if it held secrets from another realm. It was about the size of a basketball, but its surface was not solid—instead, it appeared to be a contained cloud of luminous vapor that shifted and churned within an invisible boundary.

The individuals who touched it were instantly connected to its power and the information it held, their fates determined by its judgment. The connection was visible, tendrils of light extending from the orb to encircle the heads of those being assessed, creating an almost beautiful display if one could forget the pain it caused.

I could see columns and charts displayed on the orb, appearing to float within the mist like ghostly spreadsheets. They revealed the blue-haired female's affinity types and strength rankings, data appearing and rearranging itself as the assessment progressed. The blue-haired female had a different set of affinities, and I could tell from the assessor's muttered comments and furrowed brow that some were more valuable than others, contributing to their ultimate worth. The blue-haired woman, classified by the machine to be a Librarian, had both Wind and Water affinities, but her Water affinity was a strength ranking of R1, much to the assessor's disappointment. Her Wind affinity, on the other hand, was above average, it was a strength ranking of R4, and the assessor mumbled that she would fetch a good price in the market. His tone was that of a produce vendor appraising a particularly fine apple, completely divorced from the fact that he was evaluating a thinking, feeling person.

As more people were assessed, my nerves grew, my palms sweaty and my heart pounding in my chest. Each scream, each display of data on the orb, brought me closer to my turn. I had gone through something similar in The Cave, but this seemed much worse, more thorough and consequently more painful. The mechanical precision of the process made it somehow more terrifying than the chaotic brutality I'd experienced before. When it was finally my turn, I was filled with dread, as if a dark shadow had engulfed me. The guards led me to the table, and I lay down without resistance, knowing it would be futile. The leather straps were secured around my wrists and ankles, tight enough to prevent movement but not so tight as to cut off circulation—a small mercy that somehow made the situation more surreal.

The apparatus descended over my head, cold metal pressing against my temples and forehead. I caught a whiff of ozone and something medicinal before the lever was pulled down, and I screamed in pain as the assessment began.

The pain was unlike anything I had experienced before, a burning, probing sensation that seemed to reach into the very core of my being. It was as if someone had inserted tendrils of fire directly into my brain and was using them to stir my thoughts. I writhed on the table for what felt like an eternity, my muscles straining against the restraints, my voice growing hoarse from screaming. I could feel my body being probed, my affinities being scrutinized by the orb's unrelenting gaze. The sensation was invasive, a violation of the most intimate sort—not physical but something deeper, as if the machine was reading my very essence. But eventually, it was over, the pain receding like a tide, leaving me gasping and disoriented.

I was pulled off the table and into the corner to rest with the others, my body aching from the ordeal. My legs wouldn't support me, and I slumped against the wall, sliding down until I sat on the floor. My head throbbed with residual pain, and my vision swam, the room tilting and spinning around me.

While I caught my breath, I saw the orb's misty display, showing the results of my assessment. My name was displayed in glowing letters, followed by a classification that read "ARTIFICER." Below this were listed 12 affinities—Fire, Water, Earth, Air, Light, Dark, Life, Death, Time, Space, Mind, and Body—and beside each was the designation "R1," indicating their strength ranking.

The man who had been assessing us was initially excited by my 12 affinities, his eyes widening behind his spectacles, his mouth forming a small 'o' of surprise. But his excitement was short-lived. When he saw that my strength ranking was the lowest possible, R1, he muttered to himself, "What is an ARTIFICER? I'll have to look that up in my books," his tone dripping with disappointment. He scratched notes on a piece of parchment, the quill scratching loudly in the relative quiet that followed each assessment.

As I sat there in the cramped room, my mind was racing with questions and thoughts. The information I had learned from the assessor's assessment had opened up a whole new world to me, one that was filled with unknown elements and mysterious classes. I wondered about my own potential and what it meant to be an ARTIFICER. Would it be a blessing or a curse? I tried to process the concept of affinities, which appeared to be intrinsically linked to magic in this world. The connection seemed obvious now that I had experienced the assessment—the pain, the glowing orb, the strange classifications. This was a world where magic was real, quantifiable, and apparently tradeable. I found myself questioning how many affinities existed and if they correlated with the number of elements present in this world. The fact that affinities had different strength rankings, from R1 to R4, made sense to me. It seemed like a practical method to quantify the power of each affinity and gauge an individual's potential. However, the classification of classes in this world left me bewildered. Drawing from my experience playing fantasy video games, I recalled that an artificer was typically an inventive character who wielded powerful devices and items to vanquish foes. Such characters crafted magical items and imbued ordinary objects with extraordinary powers. So, why was I classified as a utility class? And what about the other utility class slaves I had heard about, such as Engineer, Investigator, Trader, Librarian, Entertainer, and Healer? They all seemed to be designated for supporting roles in society. If I was an artificer, why wasn't I classified as a combat class?

My head began to ache from the whirlwind of thoughts, and exhaustion slowly crept over me, a bone-deep weariness that made even thinking difficult. The adrenaline of fear was ebbing, leaving me drained and hollow. I decided to wait for more information before coming to any conclusions. I had no idea what my future held, but I knew that I had to stay strong and keep my wits about me if I was going to survive in this uncharted world. I couldn't help but feel a lingering sense of unease as I realized that I was different from the others. I didn't know what an ARTIFICER signified in this world, nor did I understand the implications of possessing all 12 affinity types with such low strength rankings. Was this a harbinger of misfortune, or could it be an undiscovered blessing in disguise? As I pondered these questions, a mix of anticipation and apprehension filled my heart, and the uncertainty of my future weighed heavily on my mind.