There were no thin orcs.

Not surprising, considering that their entire race was an amalgam of human and swine. A young race at less than three millenniums old, they originated from the Chimaera Project: vampire High Lord Enzeal’s attempt at creating a new race by merging existing species.

Composed of the skill shards: Variation, Evolution and Mutation among others, the interior of Lord Enzeal’s Dungeon provided the perfect environment for the study of the origin of species. Rumour has it that in his reckless enthusiasm, the High Lord ended up creating a monster too powerful for him to control, perishing together with it, shattering the Dungeon in the process.

The orcs, along with the nagas were the only two viable races that survived the collapse of the Chimaera Dungeon. Their high sex drive and corresponding fertility was the reason for their subsequent rapid expansion.

Ashamed of the death of one of their High Lords at the hands of his own experiment, the vampires sealed all knowledge of the Chimaera Project, forcing the orcs and the nagas as far away from their metropolises as they could.

Driven into the Tyhr Desert, the orcs were forced to survive on the harsh sands, while the fate of the nagas was left to the whimsies of the Thousand Seas.

Sand stood at the very end of the line of slaves, with several paces separating him from the next person, watching the orc slaver pacing from one end of the line to the other. Idly, he contrasted him with his previous master.

Unlike Gura, whose tunic often found it difficult to constrain his jiggling stomach and breasts that would put most women to shame, Kreg’s shirt revealed barely any wobble as he strode from one end of the line to the other. His sleeves, that were rolled back to reveal his thick forearms, bulged over the corded muscles of his upper arms.

‘A Strength shard; most likely at Tier 2,’ judged Sand with an experienced eye. ‘To support the energy demand of that, he needs to be a Yellow Mage at the very least. Green Mage is unlikely. If he was so strong, he wouldn’t be assigned such a dead-end job. So, Yellow it is.’

Some skill shards had very distinctive effects on their owners, making it easy to pick them out by mere visual examination. Of course, a broad knowledge base and experienced eye was required for such analysis, and even then, the information obtained was very fragmentary. For example, Sand had no idea what Kreg’s second skill shard could be, or whether he even had one.

All sorts of strange and unusual skills abounded and without completely figuring out every detail about the orc, Sand was unwilling to commit to any plan of action. For even the best laid of schemes could be derailed by the appearance of the wrong skill.

As Kreg passed by each of the slaves, they would subconsciously try to stand straighter even if there wasn’t a single curve in their spine. Not standing straight enough, fidgeting and even blinking while the orc was passing by could be grounds for a whipping. Back when they were still part of the slave caravan, this sort of hazing was a part of the takeover ritual. The batches of slaves would often be shuffled internally to break up any possible relationships and right afterwards, the orc in charge of the newly formed batch would pace in front of them in a re-enactment of some primitive dominance ritual. The slaves would be conditioned to stand straight, motionless and unblinking as a sign of submission. It was supposed to make takeover much simpler for their subsequent owners.

Sand observed it all detachedly, finding it ironic that the humans standing the straightest had the least iron in their spines.

There were only two slaves that didn’t need to worry about this ritual. The Favour, who was standing apart from the rest of the group facing them from behind the pacing orc, because he had been exempted from it. And the Fool, because no matter how well he performed, it wouldn't change the result of him getting picked if none of the other slaves slipped up.

As he had been unconscious the other day, Sand didn’t know who it was that got picked as the Favour. Now that he saw him, he couldn't help but commend Kreg on his choice. It was the sturdy slave who had been ordered to carry him by Gura. It appeared that even pigs could be poetic.

Finally satisfied by the performance of the slaves, Kreg walked up to Sand, towering over his diminutive form with his two-and-a-half metre tall frame. The flickering flames of the sconces cast the orc’s shadow over him, yet Sand kept his eyes on the ground.

A large hand gripped his hair and jerked his head back, forcing him to look up into the eyes of the orc. “Did that ol’ medic wrap ye up right?” asked Kreg, in mock concern.

“Yes, Master Kreg.” replied Sand, concealing his desire to slit the orc’s throat behind a scared expression.

“Tsk..” Kreg clicked his tongue, obviously regretful that he hadn’t been able to trip Sand up on how he was to be addressed. “Smart kids ain’t any fun,” he pouted, causing his grotesque face to distort further. His eyes flashed with a cruel light, “But since yer so smart, I’ll do ye a big favour.”

Dragging Sand to the front of the line of slaves, Kreg barked out, “Listen up ye worthless maggots! I feed ye. I clothe ye. I give ye a place ta sleep. Without me, ye’d be dying on the sands. Freezin’ at night, burnin’ in the day. Ye’d think that ye sorry lot’d be a bit grateful, eh?”

Looking down at Sand, he spoke in a stage-whisper, “Yer grateful, right?” then he forced him to nod with the grip on his hair.

“See that! Even a kid knows to be grateful. And ye? None of ye even said a thank you. Hurt me poor little heart.” Turning to his side, he slapped the back of the Favour with his free hand, making him stagger and cough from the force of the blow. “Only this lad ‘ere had the sense ta thank me. So ‘e gets ta be in charge.” Pointing to a pile of pickaxes, he said, “Take those and get ta the end of the tunnels. There’s some ol’ hands waiting ta show ye the ropes. Hand over whatever ye get by the end of the day ta the lad, he’ll tell me how each of ye did and I’ll decide who gets the whip and who gets the meat.”

“As for ye,” Kreg sneered down at Sand, “I wouldn't want ye ta hurt yer back again, now would I? So, ye get to carry whatever they mine to the cart. Aren’t ye grateful now?”

Carrying the baskets laden with ore to the cart was the most strenuous part of the job and Sand had to do it in the place of all the other slaves.

“Thank you, Master Kreg,” he replied, maintaining the nervous façade.

Kreg seemed to lose interest at his servile attitude and with a contemptuous snort, he released his grip on Sand’s hair with a push, sending him sprawling on the ground. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away.

After he was gone, the slaves went into a tizzy of discussion as Sand picked himself up and tamped down his hair. The orc had nearly pulled his hair out by the roots. Maybe he was jealous of his lush crop of hair when all he had was three limp strands.

It didn’t take long for the slaves to get their pickaxes and make their way down the tunnel with the Favour taking the lead with Sand following behind them. At the end of the passage stood a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man leaning against the wall with a pickaxe resting on the ground beside him.

Noticing their approach, the man shouldered the implement and stepped forward to greet them. “Follow me.” he ordered in a gravelly voice, leading them down a couple of corridors to a region where the mine tunnel widened out into a cavern. Several large baskets along with a wooden cart presented themselves to their view.

“This here’s your spot.” Walking up to one of the walls, he pointed out a mineral vein that glinted under the flickering torchlight. “Find these veins in the rock then dig them out, like so –” he said as he unshouldered his pickaxe and in one practised movement, swung it down, embedding the piton deep into the rock. Then with a twist of the handle, he dug out a large chunk of the glinting, mineral-veined rock.

“Got it?” he asked. Noticing the unsure looks on their faces, he shook his head. “Alright, just try it out. I’ll help you get the hang of it.” As the rest of the slaves moved into position, the Favour walked up to the man and whispered something into his ear. Seeing that the man looked at him, Sand could approximately guess the contents.

Sure enough, on the grounds of his recent injury, he was forced to sit out while the man helped adjust the stance of the others.

If he’d been a common slave, this method was sufficient to ruin his future. Without the knowledge of how to correctly mine ore, his output would be much lower than the others, resulting in repeated penalties. But now, his memories of the future insured him against such mishaps.

He might have never held a pickaxe in his previous life but his combat experience meant that he knew just where to strike and how hard, to eke out the maximum effect.

The man left after about an hour of instruction, leaving them to their devices.

“How long are you gonna keep slacking off?” asked the Favour, swaggering up to Sand. He was named Crooked after his nose, which hadn’t set right after one of the orcs had punched him in the face.

Ignoring him, Sand silently walked up to one of the baskets that had been filled and bent down to lift it up, wincing as scabs on his back split at the exertion, causing blood to soak into his bandages. ‘Since, I’m already exerting myself, I might as well start training my magic,’ thought Sand as he staggered towards the cart, strenuously carrying the heavy basket full of ore.

Unnoticed by everyone present, every single pore on Sand’s body shut tight, isolating the inside and the outside. The heat produced by his straining body began to accumulate, making each of his breaths scalding hot.

The temperature of his body rose drastically, making his line of sight fuzzy as he was hit by a bout of dizziness. Yet his expression remained the same. No clenching of jaws, no bulging veins, no rapid breathing… just a mechanical uniformity in his strides, an unchanging countenance and steady breaths as he put each step before the other towards the cart, dumped the contents of the basket into it, returned to the miners, exchanged a full basket for the empty one, then walked back towards the cart. Again, and again and again… and again.

It wasn’t the time for desperation. It wasn’t the time to go all-out. It was just the beginning of his journey. The first step of many.

It was the time for a firm heart, a still mind and perseverance.

The slaves had been deriving sadistic pleasure from watching him struggle. Some had even used this feeling as a motivation to work faster. The more ore they mined, the more baskets Sand would have to carry. That was the kind of thought driving them to work. And in fact, that was the purpose of the Fool’s existence.

They even taunted him when he came to pick up their basket.

Slowly but surely, they grew silent as they watched this child, aged no more than ten, work tirelessly without complaint. Shame welled up in their hearts and they turned away from that emaciated form, unable to keep watching any longer.

Yet their ears couldn't help but pick up the sound of his steady footsteps no matter how loudly and vigorously they used their pickaxes. Each step seemed to tread upon their heart, guiding its rhythm.

The sound of metal against stone slowly faded away. What replaced it was the sound of a child’s footsteps, each step deliberate, measured… as if it wasn’t a basket of rocks he carried in his arms but the future of an entire race.

Caught up in that mood, the slaves watched silently as one basket after another was emptied into the cart. A voice ascended in their hearts cheering the little figure on. They had an inexplicable feeling that they would gain something if the boy succeeded.

The final basket.

Sand’s steps seemed heavier, more ponderous, yet just as steady as before. ‘Do it.’ ‘Just a few more steps.’ ‘Don’t stop now.’ ‘Come on.’ The slaves silently encouraged him in their hearts.

Just a few steps from the cart, Sand stepped on a loose rock and stumbled, the basket spilling out of his hands and scattering the ores everywhere.

The hearts of the slaves dropped into the pits of their stomach. A desolate feeling welled up in their minds. Some even turned their back and sobbed silently. Would it always be this way? Was there no hope?

Smiling sadly, they turned back to their tasks, the dark thoughts already creeping back. ‘Damn that Fool, making me waste so much time.’ ‘It’s all his fault.’ ‘What if they don’t give me my ration because I didn’t deliver enough ore?’ ‘Damn!’ ‘Bastard!’ ‘Idiot!’ ‘Fool.’

Face twisted with anger, just as a slave was going to swing his pickaxe –

*clack*

They all turned around at once. While they were busy cursing him, Sand had struggled to his feet. His expression was still that calm. His gaze was still that steady, as if staring at some goal deep into the future.

In his hand was a stone – one of the pieces of ore that had rolled away.

Meticulously, he placed the stone back into that basket.

*clack*

It was like he wasn’t handling a stone, but a human life. One after the other, until they had all been gathered back into the basket, he worked without cease, heedless of the blood that now flowed freely from his reopened wounds, soaking through the bandages and through his shirt. When the blood touched his heated skin, it evaporated, wreathing him in a light bloody mist.

Bending down, he picked the basket up yet again. Then he began to walk the final three steps.

One step.

Two steps.

Three.

*crasshhh*

The moment he dumped the contents of the basket amidst the cheers of the slaves, an airwave proliferated from him, blowing away the bloody mist.

He had broken through.

Yet, there was no change in the expression on his face.

Success, failure, it mattered not.

For his goal was still far away.