I stumbled, my body pitching forward, yet my body never made contact with the ground.
Instead, a sudden, searing pain erupted as a chain tightened around my throat, coiling around my neck like a serpent constricting its prey.
"Son of a bitch!" a furious voice bellowed from behind me.
My eyes widened, straining as I twisted my head toward the source of the enraged cry.
The voice belonged to a woman, her complexion as pale as a corpse. Her gaze, piercing and intense, resembled a river of blood, a dark, fathomless circle at its center.
Her hands clutched firmly onto the chain that linked my neck to hers, preventing the dead weight of my body from dragging us both down the precipice.
A stern voice cut through the air, "What's the cause of these noises?" The rhythmic thud of horse's hooves drew nearer, growing louder with each passing second.
"Slaves should not talk without permission." A whip cracked sharply through the air, and the woman trailing behind me began to cough, blood blossoming on her lips.
The warmth of her blood seeped into my skin as it made contact with my neck.
At that moment, the brutal truth slammed into me: I was utterly, irrevocably screwed.
Mere seconds ago, my stepsisters had caught me jerking off. And now, here I was, walking along the narrow, treacherous edges of a mountain, chains shackled around my neck, my footsteps falling in grim sync with the rest of the slaves.
My limbs felt alien, disconnected—too long, then too short, an unsettling distortion.
The air hung thick and heavy, tasting like volcanic ash. The gritty dust, combined with the slick sweat from our unwashed bodies, coated the back of my throat, making me gag.
As we walked, the path snaked relentlessly upwards, patches of stubborn, withered vegetation clinging desperately to life on the barren slopes.
The other slaves, clad in the same roughspun rags, moved with shoulders slumped, heads bowed.
The mountain range itself was a series of jagged, formidable peaks, resembling the spiny backbone of a colossal, petrified creature, stretching endlessly into the hazy distance.
After what felt like hours of walking along the treacherous edge of the mountain, I found myself standing in a line, my wrists restrained by a rough rope, my gaze fixed upon the forest ahead.
A middle-aged man with deep purple hair and piercing red eyes stood before us. His armor, crafted from shiny steel, was intricately carved with wolf motifs, glinting dully in the sparse light.
"Lord Henry the Third, for his amusement, demands you entertain him," the middle-aged man announced, gesturing with a sweep of his hand toward a figure mounted on a horse behind us.
Lord Henry was clad in green and gold robes, with finely crafted arrows ready at his side.
He sat relaxed, almost bored, on his horse.
Fifteen armed guards stood still next to him, each holding a massive wolf on an iron chain.
"The game is straightforward: when your name is called, you run, and Lord Henry will shoot an arrow at you. The game continues until only one slave remains alive."
The armored knight spurred his horse forward with a firm kick, prompting the beast to begin walking with a slow, deliberate pace.
He guided the horse, proceeding along the orderly, terrified line of slaves.
He approached the first slave in the line, a young man, and covered his eyes with a black scarf.
With a key, the knight unlocked the heavy chain fastened around the slave's neck, separating him from the rest of us.
With a dagger scarcely larger than a table knife, the knight swiftly cut through the rope binding the slave's wrists.
"At the count of three, you shall run," the Knight instructed, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
He pointed his sword forward, its tip aimed toward a cluster of trees a hundred meters away. The trees loomed tall, their gnarled branches reaching into the dim sky like skeletal fingers.
"The Forest of Diva," the knight said, glancing briefly at a crow perched on one of the branches. "It is strongly advised to avoid visiting that place; your goal is to reach the edge of the trees, but no further."
I inhaled the rusty, metallic air, the acrid scent burning my lungs. The scene unfolding beside me felt surreal, like a morbid movie playing out in slow motion.
The blindfolded slave trembled uncontrollably, his knees knocking together rhythmically as though he were straining to lift a heavy trailer with his bare hands.
A profound numbness consumed me. His death would bring mine sickeningly close, with only one life separating us.
I had lived a life as a loser, drowning myself in video games and watching porn rather than making any effort to engage in meaningful conversations with people.
If God existed, he must harbor a deep disdain for me. He gave me a shitty life on Earth, and when I thought I had a second chance, he threw me into slavery.
Even worse, he threw me to my death, a cruel spectacle for his amusement.
"One, two, three," the knight yelled, his voice echoing.
I watched the first slave run, a small, pathetic figure. Standing merely four feet tall, his desperate strides covered only a short distance before he was fully exposed.
Instinctively, I turned back and saw the noble, Lord Henry, a cruel smile twisting his lips. He held his bow in his right hand, drawing the arrow with the other, his gaze fixed on his prey.
As he released the bowstring, a sharp, piercing twang reverberated through the air, followed by the swift, silent arc of the arrow.
My gaze tracked the arrow as it traced a parabolic trajectory across the sky. The first slave stood no chance against its deadly precision.
The arrow descended upon its target, and for the first time in my existence, I bore witness to a murder.
The arrow struck the torso of the first slave with a sickening thud, releasing a spray of dark blood that splattered the ground, forming a small, rapidly expanding pool around the lifeless figure.
The knight spurred his horse once more and approached the second slave. With a key, he unfastened the chain securing the slave's neck.
With careful, almost ritualistic hands, he blindfolded the second slave using a black scarf and then severed the rope binding the slave's wrists.
The second slave's face twitched, a spasm of terror. He glanced at the grotesque corpse of the first slave and stumbled a step back. His hand trembled violently, as though he were clutching a vibrating object.
"One, two, three," the knight shouted, his voice a chilling countdown.
The second slave remained motionless, frozen by fear. Instead of running, he urinated on the spot, a dark stain spreading on the dirt.
The knight struck the slave with his foot and ordered, "Run!"
The slave crumpled into the black dirt. "I don't want to die," he pleaded, his voice a desperate whimper.
The knight scowled, his face contorting in disgust, spurring his horse forward once more, advancing menacingly toward the desperate slave.
"His majesty is patience; run or perish."
Instead of running toward the forest, the second slave, in a desperate, misguided act, bolted westward, toward the setting sun.
"Feed him to my children," Lord Henry murmured, his voice a low, chilling command.
At that moment, the guards encircling Lord Henry unchained the monstrous wolves.
These wolves bore no resemblance to those found on Earth; each was the size of a donkey, their powerful bodies rippling with contained ferocity. They possessed striking, luminous green eyes and pristine white fur that seemed to glow against the bleak landscape.
The second slave fled, a desperate, futile dash for freedom.
However, as soon as the chains fell to the ground, the wolves sprang toward the slave with terrifying speed; within moments, they had encircled him, a living, snarling cage.
My gaze should have averted, but I was rooted, witnessing a scene of absolute, unadulterated terror unfold before me.
The wolves tore into the slave, devouring him methodically until only a dark stain remained on the blood-drenched black dirt.
The knight looked at me, his gaze cold and assessing. It was my turn to run toward the forest.
My fate was sealed: to be Lord Henry's next cruel amusement.