It had been… what felt like years.
But June no longer kept track.
Time inside this warped, broken space had no reliable measure. Days bled into nights, nights bled into sweat-drenched work, and the boundaries of "before" and "after" blurred until all that remained was now — and June owned the now.
The masters? Dead.
Their fortress burned, their bodies shattered, their magic bled dry and consumed.
June had torn through them not as some noble liberator, not as some rising hero, but as a force — arrogant, furious, unrepentant.
He hadn't come to lift the slaves into a better life.
He hadn't come to free the oppressed or dismantle the cruel system.
No.
June had risen because they mocked him.
They beat him.
They tried to break him.
And June did not break.
He shattered them.
The other slaves now called him master, called him god, called him king — whispered his name with fear, awe, trembling worship.
But June wasn't interested in loyalty.
He was interested in control.
