Malik had been called a Black Eye.

That confirmed these slavers to be invaders.

Invaders that came into his home and enslaved his people!

Despite the incredible rage that he felt, he gave no reaction to the slaver.

Noting but silence.

Finding no interest in his ’silence,’ the slaver shrugged.

"There’s still life in you, it seems. C’mon, take the basket."

He shoved one into Malik’s hands.

"You see those shining things inside the bodies? They are called hearts. Bring the basket back when it’s full of hearts. When I say full, I mean that it should reach the top of the basket, understand? Don’t try anything stupid."

Ignoring how the slaver talked to him like one would a kid, Malik looked down at the basket.

It was clean, at least, unlike the other baskets nearby that were drenched dark with the blood that had leaked out of the hearts.

For a moment, he thought about swinging the basket at the man’s head, grabbing the whip, fighting his way out, and running for the surface.

But the slavers stood everywhere in the cave, watching and waiting.

Many carried only whips, sure, but most carried proper steel.

Class Twelve against one of them, maybe, but against all of them? No.

So, without any way out of this, Malik walked towards the piles of bodies.

The smell hit him first, stronger here than anywhere else.

It was pure rot.

A sweet, cloying thing coated the back of his throat and made him want to gag, but he did not.

He would not.

Malik found a spot between two other slaves, both looking ready to collapse, and knelt.

The Demon in front of him had its face smashed in, making it uglier than it already was, but that did not matter.

He grabbed the small knife sitting on the ground next to the body, left there by whoever had worked on it before, and got to work.

Its flesh parted easily, too easily.

He’d already expected there to be no resistance, but it still managed to surprise him.

Malik reached inside its chest and felt the heart.

It was still warm, like it had been beating moments ago.

He pulled it out, dropped it in his basket, and moved to the next body.

All he was thinking about currently was how he could get out.

Still, no idea came up, none at all.

He was lost.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

But hey, at least he hadn’t lost his life to starvation and dehydration.

Oh, and speaking of, Malik frowned as he reached into another chest, realizing that he didn’t feel hungry or thirsty even though at least half a day must have passed since he arrived here, maybe longer.

He couldn’t see the Suns from this deep in the cave, but he was sure that it was currently nearing the afternoon.

Malik arrived here near Sunsdown, so he should have felt something.

He did not.

Nothing ailed him except tiredness and ache.

Was that due to his Ascension? Becoming a Bringer of Light? Did it help alleviate his mortal needs that much? Maybe.

Or maybe something else was happening. Something more cruel and heartless. He did not have enough information to know, and that frustration burned more than any thirst.

Eventually, Malik filled his basket, the work taking longer than expected.

It was far from hard, but there were just so many bodies waiting:

Body after body, heart after heart, until his hands turned dark with blood, much like the rest.

He stood up, basket in hand, and looked around at the other slaves still working.

Some had filled multiple baskets already, stacking them atop each other.

Malik walked back towards the man who called him a Black Eye.

The slaver pointed his whip towards the wall without saying a word.

A chalkboard hung there, lit by a lantern above it, and on the chalkboard, in many different handwritings, were names.

The Slaves’ names, with numbers next to them, each likely indicating how many baskets they had deposited.

Some had reached hundreds: hundreds of baskets, thousands of hearts.

How long had these people been here?

How long had they lived in such a despicable horror?

Malik’s eyes scanned the board, looking for his name, and sure enough, he saw it.

Written in the corner of the board, in handwriting he recognized as his own, too royal not to stand out.

Actually, no, it wasn’t his name.

It was something that he should’ve never forgotten but somehow did.

’System.’

He stared at it for a long time, and his heart skipped a beat.

How had he forgotten the one thing that could actually help him?

The moment his eyes locked onto the word, a jolt of electricity shot through his brain like a dam breaking, and memories of the Fear System, the interface, the points—everything he had forgotten—came rushing back.

Knowing that he had written the word down when he first came here, when he was lucid enough to write it down to remind himself, sent a chill down his spine.

A chill that spoke of how close he was to a most horrific death.

—

╔════════╗

║Fear System║

╚════════╝

{Class: 12 (Bringer of Light)}

{Unlocking Class (11): 0/27}

{Fear Points: 11}

—

Malik blinked at the screen.

He wasn’t seeing it wrong.

Eleven Fear Points.

He barely had any after unlocking Class Twelve, which meant that he had gained at least nine points since then. Nine.

Malik was beyond shocked, leaving him to wonder a single thing:

’Just how long have I been here?’