We were in the bowels of the estate, a cold, dark dungeon. The walls wept with humidity, and shadows danced like spectres from a forgotten past. But even in this horror, there was a tragic beauty, a humanity that shone like a star in the night.

 

I stared at Suraken, his eyes filled with pain, his face marked by suffering. The silence stretched on, a thick veil enveloping our souls. Finally, my voice found its way through the silence.

 

"Suraken," I whispered, "how did you survive all that? How do you still find the strength to go on?"

 

He slowly turned his head towards me, his eyes filled with sadness. "Zayn," he replied, "survival isn't a choice, it's a necessity. Strength comes from hope, from faith in a better future."

 

We looked at each other, two broken but unsubdued spirits. Worry gnawed at me, and I asked another question. "What happened to your friends, the other villagers, and especially your little sister, Anaya?"

 

He closed his eyes for a moment, then answered in a gentle voice. "They've all been bought, Zayn. Anaya was taken by a different master. I'm worried about her."

 

His words resonated within me, awakening a series of questions that had germinated in my mind during his account.

 

"When my father was educating me and teaching me about the world, he had told me that before I was born, the 6 continents had signed a peace treaty," I had said, my voice trembling, betraying my confusion. "A treaty that forbade slavery between allied continents. How was this possible, Suraken? How had Novea let this pass, and why had Kibara turned a blind eye to it?"

 

Suraken had looked at me. He'd taken a deep breath, as if trying to gather his thoughts, then answered slowly, weighing each word. "I can only assume, Zayn. The information I've been able to glean is fragmentary and contradictory. But what I do know is that the attack on our village was not an isolated act."

 

He paused, his gaze dark. "There are beings in high places, powerful enough to have dared to violate one of the clauses of the peace treaty. As for Kibara, our monarch was in a delicate position after the treaty was signed, and he didn't have the authority to react."

 

I could see the pain in his eyes as he continued, his voice trembling. "I remember Jengo, drunk on the success of the plan, expressing his fears that the plan would fail. But their leader had given the order to continue, despite the ban. We were caught in a web of intrigue and betrayal, where the rules were flouted by those who should be defending them. We were victims of our masters' cruelty, but also of the machinations of powerful and elusive forces."

 

Silence fell again in the cell, heavy with revelations and unanswered questions.

 

The betrayal, the intrigue, the complexity of the situation - it all resonated with me. "I can't believe that people in such high places could act like this," I said, my voice laden with indignation. "How can they play with our lives?"

 

I looked at Suraken, trying to understand. But his eyes reflected only harsh reality, a bitter reality we had to accept.

 

After a moment's reflection, marked by the weight of the revelations and the harsh reality of our situation, I felt the need to divert our minds from these overwhelming thoughts. "Have you ever heard of the legend of the Soulmaster?" I asked, my voice trying to bring a glimmer of hope into the darkness of our cell.

 

Suraken looked at me, his eyes filled with curiosity, and shook his head. "No, I've never heard of it," he replied, his interest piqued.

 

"Then allow me to tell you this story before we go to sleep," I offered, a shy smile lighting up my face. He settled himself comfortably, tending his ear, ready to immerse himself in the tale I was about to unveil;

 

In ancient times, when the shadows of war stretched across the land and the blood of the innocent was spilled for futile causes, a light emerged from the darkness. A mysterious man, whose name was whispered with reverence and awe, appeared. He was no ordinary man, but a transcended being, having surpassed the limits of human existence.

 

The Soulmaster, as he was known, was endowed with immeasurable power, a might that defied comprehension, and an influence that extended beyond the borders of realms. He controlled the elusive, mastered the uncontrollable. Animals followed him, plants flourished in his wake, and the winds whispered his name.

 

With unwavering determination, he put an end to the conflicts that tore peoples apart. He built roads that united territories, established rules that brought order, and punished those who sowed discord and hatred. He planted seeds of peace and harmony, and under his guidance, once barren lands sprang to life.

 

The Soulmaster was a living legend, a beacon of hope in a troubled world. He guided lost souls to a path of peace, transforming pain into love, war into brotherhood. His legacy endured for hundreds of years, an eternal echo of his greatness.

 

And even today, in the whisper of the wind and the gentle song of the birds, its call can still be heard. The Soulmaster, the being who guided mankind to a world of peace, remains an immortal legend, a symbol of what humanity can achieve when guided by wisdom and compassion.

 

I saw a gleam of intrigue in his eyes, and he asked me why I had chosen to tell him this particular story. I looked up at the damp ceiling of our cell, my thoughts wandering to memories of a bygone era. "My mother often told me this legend," I confided softly, my voice tinged with nostalgia. "It was my favorite story. I dreamed of becoming that exceptional being who would guide mankind towards a world of peace. But that hope was extinguished when I realized that I might never have the abilities to achieve it."

 

I paused, my eyes lost in the distance. "The Soulmaster, you see, wasn't just influential in the world. He was endowed with a power so extraordinary, so unattainable, that even the most advanced technological advances would never allow a man devoid of Ruh to master such great strength. He was a symbol of hope, an ideal to strive for, but also a reminder of our own insignificance."

 

"In the past, this legend was only a source of fascination for me, a distant dream. But after my little sister was born, I realized that the role of big brother was inseparable from that of protector. I nurtured the hope of guaranteeing my family eternal happiness, but the harsh reality of my limitations soon caught up with me. Nevertheless, I wanted to tell you this story, Suraken, because I still believe that such a being could one day see the light of day and repair all the evil that plagues our world. Let's not lose hope. Who knows, maybe this being will be the one to save us, the one to bring light to the darkness that surrounds us."

 

Suraken looked at me, his eyes reflecting a glimmer of hope mixed with sadness. "Thank you for telling me this story, Zayn," he said. "It gives me something to hold on to in these dark times. Maybe we'll find our own way to peace, in our own way."

 

I offered him a tired but sincere smile. "We'll find our way, my friend. But for now, let us rest. Tomorrow will be another day, and we'll need all our strength."

 

We each settled on our own side of the cell, seeking a comfortable position on the hard, cold floor. Soon, sleep overtook us, leaving us with our dreams of freedom and peace. Silence fell over the cell again, a soothing silence this time, full of promise and hope.

 

The awakening was brutal, a cold shock that pulled me from my dreams and brought me back to the harsh reality of my life. Daylight was a distant dream in our dark, cold dungeon, and the only sign of morning was the ominous creak of the cell door opening.

 

"Rise and shine, slaves!" the guard shouted, his cruel voice echoing through the walls oozing with moisture. "Work awaits you."

 

I stood up, my aching muscles protesting the movement, and looked at Suraken, his face scarred by routine. We would exchange a silent glance, a mutual understanding of the pain and determination that united us.

 

The day began with a frugal meal, an insipid, cold porridge that was barely enough to sustain us. We ate in silence, our thoughts focused on the task ahead.

 

Then we were led to our workstations, each assigned to a different task at the whim of our masters. For me, the day was a mixture of exhausting manual labor and humiliating tasks.

 

I spent hours cleaning floors, polishing furniture and washing my masters' clothes. Every move was watched, every mistake punished with blows or insults. My hands were chapped and sore, my muscles trembled with exhaustion, but I couldn't stop.

 

The abuse was constant, both physical and emotional. The blows were frequent, the words were sharp as blades. Every day, I had to fight to keep my dignity, not to let myself be broken by the cruelty of those who owned me.

 

But perhaps the hardest part was the loneliness. Although I was surrounded by other slaves, I was isolated by my particular position. The other slaves saw me as privileged, and their jealousy drove a wedge between us. I had no one to talk to, no one who could understand my pain except Suraken, who was affiliated with other work.

 

The hours stretched into an eternity, every moment a torment, every task a challenge to overcome. Hunger, fatigue and pain were my constant companions, shadows that followed me wherever I went.

 

Finally, the day came to an end, and I returned to my cell, my body broken, my spirit exhausted. I'd lie down on the cold, hard floor, seeking some respite from sleep.

 

But even in my dreams, I found no peace. Images of the day haunted me, the faces of my masters taunting me. I'd wake up sweating, my heart pounding, unable to escape the reality of my life.

 

This was my daily life, an endless cycle of pain and humiliation, struggle and hope.

 

Every morning, I woke up with renewed determination: to break down the barriers between me and the other slaves, to erase that privileged image they had of me. When we had a few moments of respite or an opportunity to regroup, I would scrutinize their interactions, seeking to understand their bonds and their suffering.

 

One day, in our miserable canteen, I noticed an old man, his back stooped from years of hard labor, sharing half his meager food with a young girl in poor health. Their interaction moved me deeply, and I felt the urge to get closer to them.

 

I approached, a shy smile on my face, hoping to make a connection. But the girl gave me a hateful look, and the old man brusquely pushed me away. "Go away, privileged one," he spat, his face marked by distrust.

 

I felt like an outsider, rejected by those I considered my peers. I turned to the mistress's slaves, hoping to find compassion and understanding among them. But they too pushed me away, their eyes filled with jealousy and resentment.

 

"You're not like us," they told me, their voices full of contempt. "You haven't suffered like we have."

 

I felt lost and isolated, rejected by those who shared my pain. I turned to Suraken, seeking comfort, and he explained the situation of each of the slaves who were pushing me away. He told me the tragic story of the young girl and the old man, stories that broke my heart.

 

The girl had been taken from her family in a faraway village, chosen by the master for her beauty. When she tried to fight him off, she lost her eye as punishment. As for the old man, he was among the first of the master's servants captured after seeing his family die before his eyes, and his presence was only due to his good work, which had spared him death.

 

I also witnessed the cruelty of masters towards slaves. I once witnessed the lynching of a pregnant woman, ordered by the mistress. The reason was chilling: our master had knocked her up, and to prevent the birth of the child, our mistress had ordered the other slaves to attack her to the death, on pain of being deprived of food for a week. The cruelty of the scene haunted me for a long time.

 

A few months later, the masters arrived with a young boy who appeared to be my age, covered with bandages on his face that revealed appalling scars. Gossip among the slaves suggested that he had been purchased solely for the resale of his organs.

 

I often visited his cell, trying to establish a link. At first, he avoided talking, but he never tried to push me away, as if my presence meant nothing to him.

 

Our conversations were often silent, but in that silence I found a connection, a mutual understanding of our pain. We were linked by our condition, by our humanity, and by our desire to find some light in the darkness of our existence.

 

I talked to him about positive things, avoiding mentioning my own suffering, trying to make him forget this hell. He looked broken, as if someone had stolen his soul. But little by little, he opened up to me, telling me his tragic story, how he'd ended up here, his daily life and the time he had left. He had been purchased for organ harvesting in three years' time, on his tenth birthday.

 

I never knew what to say to him, so I often let silence take over the room. But this silence was different, it was filled with understanding, compassion, and a silent promise that we would find a way to survive, together. Despite rejection and prejudice, I continued to seek compassion and empathy, hoping to find meaning and humanity in a world that seemed devoid of it.

 

Days passed, turning into weeks, then months. Every moment erodes my sanity, every day a battle. My hope hangs by a thread, fueled only by my desire to be reunited with my family. And as this struggle continues, I cross the threshold of my eighth year, another year in this cruel and humiliating existence.

 

That year, like a curse, my beauty had grown even stronger, attracting inquisitive glances. Our mistress devoured me with her eyes, and our master, consumed with jealousy, intensified the harassment and torture. He'd order the guards to slip centipedes into my dishes, inducing instant vomiting. A phobia of insects and multi-legged creatures crept up on me, a terror I would later learn to call entomophobia.

 

But the real torture, the one that marked me most deeply, was not physical. Every night, the guards would tie me to a table, immobilizing me under a crack in the ceiling. Drops of water fell, one by one, on my forehead. The wait was unbearable, the uncertainty all-consuming. Each drop was a cruel surprise, an intrusion into my thoughts. Frustration mounted, concentration faded. I clung desperately to the rare memories of my parents and my little sister, but madness stalked me like a hungry beast.

 

I drifted away from Suraken, visiting the bandaged child's cell less and less often. Our conversations were few and far between. Solitude and pain were my only companions.

 

Then, one evening, as I was enduring another session of this insidious torture, I heard the guards talking beside my cell. The words they spoke struck me like a stab: the village I'd come from had been wiped off the map, and everyone living there was missing!