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

Chapter 5

After what seemed like hours of relentless pain, the assessment ordeal for me and the others was finally over, and we were released to go back to our holding cells. The cold stone floors beneath my bare feet provided little comfort as I shuffled along the dimly lit corridor, guided by the impatient prodding of a guard's staff. Torches mounted on iron brackets cast dancing shadows along the walls, their orange glow insufficient to banish the pervasive gloom that seemed to swallow us whole. The corridor twisted downward, each step echoing hollowly against the stone, a constant reminder of our descent into captivity.

My entire body ached, every muscle and joint protesting with each movement. The burn marks on my forehead from the assessment device throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a persistent reminder of the violation I had endured. I could practically feel the exhaustion seeping out of every pore of my skin, a bone-deep weariness that made even breathing feel like a labor. The bitter tang of fear lingered in my mouth, mixing with the metallic taste of blood where I had bitten my lip during the assessment.

Desperate to catch my breath, I leaned against the wall for support once we reached the holding cell. The stone was cool against my back, a small mercy in this place of suffering. My fingers traced the rough surface, feeling the indentations and cracks—silent testament to the countless others who had been imprisoned here before me.

As I stood there, gathering what little strength remained, I couldn't help but think about Amy. Her face materialized in my thoughts—blue eyes wide with fear, blonde hair disheveled, tears tracking clean lines down her dirt-smudged cheeks. I found myself wondering whether her day would be any better than the living nightmare I had just experienced. The image of her being paraded before potential buyers, evaluated like livestock, made my stomach knot painfully. It filled me with unease to consider the possibility that she might be sold off in a group with some of the other slaves, shipped away to face unknown horrors with strangers rather than familiar faces.

I knew that I needed to focus on the present moment, on my own survival, but my thoughts kept wandering into the uncertain future, consumed by anxiety about her fate. The connection we had formed, tenuous though it was, represented the only semblance of humanity I had experienced since arriving in this alien world.

"I hope she's okay," I muttered to myself, the words barely audible even in the silence of the cell. My voice sounded foreign to my ears, raspy from screaming during the assessment. The sentiment hung in the stale air, almost as if I were trying to convince myself that everything would turn out all right in the end, though I knew better than to truly believe it. The guard who had escorted us back to the cell gave me a dismissive look before slamming the iron-barred door shut. The heavy clang reverberated through the small space, the finality of it settling over me like a shroud. His weathered face, half-obscured by the shadow of his helmet, betrayed no emotion as he turned the key in the lock, metal scraping against metal with a sharp, grating sound.

My value was slightly higher than that of a slave from the common class because I belonged to the utility class. This classification system, arbitrary and cruel as it was, had become the framework within which my worth was measured. In this harsh and unforgiving world, I was grateful for even the smallest of blessings, and this was one of them. The thin barrier between being sold as part of a batch—faceless and interchangeable—versus being evaluated individually for specific skills could mean the difference between surviving and merely existing. Recognizing that my survival was one of the few things that truly mattered in this world, I clung to this minuscule source of solace with all the strength I could muster. When I turned to survey my surroundings, my eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through a narrow, barred window high on the wall, I saw that there were only two other people in the cell with me. Both were men, one middle-aged with a receding hairline and sallow complexion, the other younger, perhaps in his twenties, with a shock of dark hair and a gaunt face that spoke of prolonged hunger. Both were fast asleep, or at least pretending to be, curled on the bare floor in positions that suggested they sought to minimize contact with the cold stone. The cell itself was small, perhaps twelve feet square, with walls of rough-hewn stone that glistened with moisture. A thin layer of moldy straw covered portions of the floor, offering minimal insulation from the chill that seemed to emanate from the very stones themselves. The air hung heavy with the mingled scents of human bodies, mildew, and the acrid tang of urine from the small bucket in the corner that served as our toilet. The only furnishing was a crude wooden bench attached to one wall, barely wide enough to accommodate a single person. I slid down the wall until I was sitting, my knees drawn up to my chest, and reached for my smartphone, carefully extracting it from its hiding place in my tattered clothing. After locating it, I activated it with trembling fingers, the screen coming to life with a soft glow that illuminated my face from below. The dimly lit cell stood in stark contrast to the bright screen being displayed, the modern technology an alien anachronism in this medieval nightmare. When I checked the battery life, I was relieved to see that it was at 80%. A small victory, but one I savored nonetheless. The device was my last tangible connection to the world I had left behind, a world of convenience and technology, of freedom and choice—concepts that seemed increasingly distant with each passing day in this place.

I flipped through some cherished photographs of my loved ones, trying to divert my attention from the nagging anxiety I felt about the challenges that still lay ahead. Each image was a window to a past that now felt like a dream—bright colors, smiling faces, moments of joy frozen in time. My thumb swiped across the screen with practiced ease, muscle memory from a life that no longer existed.

My mother and father had been married for years when one of the pictures was taken. The image showed them at an anniversary celebration, seated at a restaurant table adorned with candles and flowers. My father, with his salt-and-pepper hair and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, had his arm draped lovingly around my mother's shoulders. She was leaning into him, her dark hair with subtle gray streaks framing a face that, despite the years, retained the gentle beauty of her Japanese heritage. They were celebrating their anniversary, their faces radiant with joy and contentment, as if their connection could never be severed by anything. I studied their expressions, the way they looked at each other—a silent conversation happening beneath the surface, decades of shared experiences and understanding condensed into a single glance. My father's smile reached his eyes, creating a network of fine lines that spoke of a life filled with laughter. My mother's hand rested on his, her wedding ring catching the light, a small but powerful symbol of their enduring bond.

I couldn't help but feel envious of what they had found together, a partnership that had weathered the storms of life and emerged stronger. The photograph captured not just a moment but the culmination of years of choosing each other, day after day. I secretly wished that one day I'd be able to find something comparable to it, a connection that transcended the superficial to touch something deeper and more meaningful.

But then, a moment of clarity hit me, and I realized that paying off the debt from my student loans would be a drawn-out and laborious process—one that had consumed my thoughts before all this began. It was a cruel twist of fate that this entire nightmare scenario had one ironic silver lining: most likely, I wouldn't have to stress about making the payment for the following month. The thought elicited a laugh from me, but it was a hollow, bitter laugh that echoed against the stone walls before dissipating into silence. I was all too aware of the dire circumstances I found myself in, where financial concerns had been replaced by the more immediate fear of survival. As I sat there, lost in my own thoughts, the smartphone's glow illuminating my haggard features, I couldn't help but notice the musty odor that permeated the prison cell in which I was confined. The smell was a complex mixture of dampness, human sweat, mildew, and something else—a sour, earthy scent that I couldn't quite identify but that seemed to permeate everything in this place. I felt like I was going to suffocate, my lungs struggling to extract oxygen from the thick, fetid air. All I craved was a fresh breath of oxygen, a moment of respite from the oppressive atmosphere that seemed designed to crush not just the body but the spirit. The only sound that filled the air was the eerie whistling of the wind coming from outside, finding its way through cracks in the mortar and around the ill-fitting wooden door. The mournful noise was punctuated by the occasional drip of water from somewhere in the ceiling, each drop marking the relentless passage of time. The stone walls and floor radiated an uncomfortable warmth, not the comforting kind that comes from a hearth but the sticky, cloying warmth of too many bodies in too small a space, with inadequate ventilation. It was a glaring illustration of the pervasive bleakness that shrouded every aspect of my current existence. My parents were my only family when I was growing up because I was an only child, a fact that had shaped my personality in ways I was still discovering. My father, with his meticulous attention to detail and methodical approach to life, had instilled in me a certain pragmatism that served me well as a software engineer. My mother's creativity and warmth had balanced this, teaching me to see beyond the practical to appreciate beauty and connection. When my dad was in his mid-40s, he finally got married to my mom, finding love later in life than many. Up until that point in his life, he hadn't fully appreciated the significance of matrimony, focusing instead on building his career and establishing himself financially. He desired to establish a name for himself in history, to leave a legacy that would outlast him, and my mother, who was ten years his junior, provided him with the opportunity to do so through creating a family.

They were married for two years before they had me, their only child, on whom they lavished all their attention and hopes. Despite the fact that my parents were considerably older than the majority of the parents of my classmates, I considered myself fortunate to have been able to spend more time with my father because he didn't have to work as much during those years. His career was established, allowing him the luxury of time—a gift he chose to share with his family. Even though it was only occasional work, he was able to put aside enough money to support our family through his work as a contractor in the Austin area, where he built homes. His skill with his hands extended beyond his profession into hobbies like woodworking and home repair, talents he had tried to pass on to me with varying degrees of success. Together, they managed to bring in a respectable amount of money thanks to my mother's work as a medical biller at one of the regional hospitals, a position that offered stability and benefits that complemented my father's more variable income.

My childhood was filled with mostly happy memories, despite the fact that we were never wealthy but always had more than enough to get by. We lived in a modest home in a good neighborhood, took camping trips instead of exotic vacations, and celebrated special occasions with home-cooked meals rather than expensive restaurants. These experiences had shaped my values, teaching me to find joy in simplicity and to appreciate what I had rather than yearning for what I didn't.

As I lay there, attempting to get some rest on the hard floor of the cell, I couldn't help but reflect on how drastically different my life had become since I had left. The stark contrast between my history and my present life was overpowering, a chasm so vast it seemed unbridgeable. I found myself yearning for the security of my previous way of life, for the world where my biggest concerns were meeting project deadlines and paying bills on time. However, I was aware that this was not an option, that there was no going back to the familiar comfort of my former existence. The portal that had brought me here was broken, according to the guard's warning. I needed to concentrate on the here and now, on surviving this new reality with its brutal rules and unfamiliar dangers. The past was a luxury I couldn't afford to dwell on if I wanted to survive the present.

I continued to scroll through my smartphone for a few more minutes in an attempt to divert my attention away from the situation that was transpiring. The screen's blue light cast eerie shadows across my face, highlighting the hollows beneath my cheekbones and the dark circles under my eyes. After a while, reasoning that I needed to conserve the battery for when it might truly be needed, I turned it off and removed the battery so that I could save the power for future use. I tucked both components back into the pocket of my shirt and, following the example of the other two slaves, I laid down in an effort to get some rest.

The floor beneath me was hard and unyielding, the thin layer of straw doing little to cushion my aching body. I shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position that would allow me to relax, but comfort seemed an impossible goal in these surroundings. The cell had become progressively warmer as the day wore on, the air growing thicker and more difficult to breathe.

The air in the cell had gone stale, heavy with moisture and the accumulated exhalations of its occupants. It was making it difficult to breathe, each inhalation an effort that left me feeling unsatisfied and slightly lightheaded. I yearned for the crisp air and bright sunlight of the outside world, for the sensation of a breeze against my skin and the vast expanse of an open sky above me. But the thought of actually experiencing it seemed like a far-off fantasy, a dream as distant and unreachable as the world I had left behind.

I closed my eyes and focused on clearing my mind, attempting to quiet the clamor of thoughts that threatened to overwhelm me. But the anxiety I felt about the future was too much for me to shake, a persistent background noise that refused to be silenced. The most difficult aspect was the lack of clarity regarding what was to come, the uncertainty that shrouded every moment with a cloud of apprehension. I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever be able to return to my previous way of life, or if this nightmare was now my permanent reality. The sound of the gate opening was like music to my ears, a break in the monotony that had begun to feel like a form of torture in itself. I had been waiting for this moment for what seemed like an eternity, though in reality, it had likely been only a few hours. My entire body ached from lying on the hard stone, and I could feel the exhaustion seeping deeper into my bones with each passing minute. Despite my physical discomfort, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Amy, the connection we had formed in this hostile environment providing a slender thread of humanity to cling to.

As the door swung open with a protesting creak of hinges, I searched the faces of the people coming in, hoping to see her among them. My eyes scanned the group of returning prisoners, looking for her distinctive blonde hair and blue eyes, for any sign of the woman who had briefly been a source of comfort in this desolate place. But to my dismay, she was nowhere to be found among the haggard, defeated figures that shuffled into the cell. A sinking feeling of dread settled in my chest, a cold weight that made it difficult to breathe, as uncertainty about her fate continued to gnaw at me.

My heart sank, and a sinking feeling formed in the pit of my stomach, a visceral response to the realization that she wasn't returning. I couldn't help but feel uneasy about the possibility that she might have been sold off with some of the other slaves, her future now even more uncertain than my own. The thought of her alone and afraid, subjected to the whims of an unknown master, was almost unbearable.

Desperate for answers, I turned to one of the nearby slaves who had not been sold, a thin man with a weathered face and eyes that had seen too much suffering. His clothes hung loosely on his frame, suggesting recent weight loss, and his movements were those of someone trying to conserve energy, each gesture deliberate and minimal.

"You were there in the common class group, right?" I asked, my voice urgent despite my attempt to sound casual. "What happened to the young girl who was with us the other day, the one that I was talking with? You know, the blue-eyed and blonde-haired female?"

The slave looked at me with a solemn expression, his eyes meeting mine briefly before darting away, as if maintaining eye contact required more energy than he could spare. His face was a map of hardship, deep lines etched around his mouth and eyes, testament to a life of struggle long before he found himself here.

"Oh yes, I know who you're talking about," he replied, his voice soft and rasping, barely audible above the ambient sounds of the cell. "Her name was Amy. She was sold to one of the bidders. They bought her separately from the rest of us."

The confirmation of my fears hit me like a physical blow, a punch to the gut that left me momentarily breathless. A sickening feeling crept over me, a cold wave that started in my core and spread outward, leaving numbness in its wake. She wasn't among them. She had been sold, her fate now tied to the whims of someone who had viewed her as property to be purchased. I felt responsible for her, though logically I knew there was nothing I could have done to prevent what had happened. We had formed a connection, brief though it was, and I couldn't help but wonder what would happen to her now. Would she end up in the hands of a cruel owner, forced to endure a life of torment? The thought was unbearable, and I couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness that settled over me like a heavy blanket, pressing down with a weight that threatened to crush my spirit.

Logically, I knew there was nothing I could do to protect her. I was just another slave, powerless and at the mercy of our captors. My own future was as uncertain as hers, my fate hanging in the balance, dependent on the outcome of whatever auction awaited me. But knowing that didn't make the feeling of responsibility any less intense. I had formed a connection with Amy, and now that connection had been severed, another loss in a series that had begun the moment I was pulled through the portal into this world.

The realization that I was powerless to help her, to influence her fate in any way, was almost too much to bear. It was a stark reminder of my own vulnerability, of the precarious position I occupied in this new reality where human life held so little value. I walked away from the cell door, feeling emotionally drained and determined to avoid getting close to anyone else in this place. It was easier that way, to keep my distance and not get attached, to protect myself from the pain of inevitable separation. The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet, my steps unsteady as I made my way to a corner of the cell, seeking solitude in which to process my thoughts.

As I walked, my mind raced with thoughts of what was to come, scenarios playing out in rapid succession, each more grim than the last. "This is pointless," I thought to myself, the words echoing in my mind with a finality that left no room for hope. "They're just going to sell us off one by one until we're all gone." The hopelessness of our situation was suffocating, a noose that tightened with each passing hour, and I couldn't help but wonder what fate awaited me. Would I end up in the hands of a kind owner, someone who viewed their slaves as human beings deserving of basic dignity? Or would I be subjected to a life of pain and misery, my days measured in tasks completed and punishments avoided?

The uncertainty was almost unbearable, a constant companion that whispered doubts and fears into my ear, preventing even a moment's peace. I knew that I needed to focus on the present moment, to take each challenge as it came rather than borrowing trouble from an unknowable future. But as hard as I tried, my mind kept wandering to what lay ahead, consumed by anxiety about what was to come, about the auction block that surely awaited me. I had no doubt that we would likely make our way over to the auction block very soon. The idea of being paraded in front of a crowd of bidders, each one scrutinizing us like a piece of meat, was almost too much to bear. I imagined the cold, calculating eyes sizing us up, considering our worth, and deciding our fate with the simple raise of a hand. Would they see me as a person, with thoughts and feelings and a history? Or would I be just another commodity, evaluated solely on my potential utility? The thought sent chills down my spine and only intensified my fear and dread for what lay ahead.

I took a few deep breaths, attempting to calm the storm of emotions that had been stirring inside me. The situation was dire, but I knew I couldn't let myself be consumed by it. I had to find something to hold onto, something that could give me a glimmer of hope, even if it was just an illusion, a story I told myself to make it through another day in this nightmare. That's when the thought of the Artificer class crossed my mind. The classification that had been assigned to me during the assessment, a label that had confused even the assessor himself. It was a mysterious and possibly powerful class, one that held the promise of unlocking secrets that could help me gain my freedom. The fact that I possessed all twelve affinities, even at their lowest strength level, suggested potential that perhaps I could develop, skills that might serve me in ways I couldn't yet imagine.

I made a mental vow to focus all my energy on gaining power, on learning everything I could about what it meant to be an Artificer in this world of magic and brutality. The path would be difficult, fraught with dangers I couldn't yet comprehend, but it offered a direction, a purpose beyond mere survival. If I could harness these abilities, whatever they might be, perhaps I could take back control of my life and escape the chains of slavery that now bound me. As I gathered my thoughts, a small spark of hope began to flicker in the depths of my mind, a tiny flame that refused to be extinguished by the darkness that surrounded me. Maybe there was a way out of this after all. Maybe I could use what I learn of the Artificer class to find a way home, back to the world I knew and the loved ones I left behind. The possibility, however remote, gave me something to cling to in the depths of my despair. But first, I needed to gather more information, to understand this world and my place in it. Tomorrow, I would likely be sent to the auction block, where I would be at the mercy of the highest bidder. I couldn't let myself be paralyzed by fear, couldn't afford the luxury of giving in to the despair that threatened to overwhelm me. Instead, I needed to keep my wits about me, to observe and learn and adapt. I would use every opportunity to gather information about this strange and brutal world, seeking out allies and potential avenues for escape.

As I lay down, I stared up at the rough stone ceiling, thinking about my future. The idea of being sold off like a piece of property made my blood run cold, but I refused to give up. I would find a way to survive, to thrive, no matter what it took. I would adapt, learn, and grow stronger, for my own sake and for the sake of others who suffered as I did. But unfortunately, I was wrong. The auction block would come to me, faster than I had anticipated, and the events that unfolded would force me to confront the harsh realities of my situation head-on.