“Money, money, money… all I talk about is money? Of course I talk about it! Not only do I talk about it, I think about it, dream about it… It has become my entire life! And why shouldn't it?

“I’m a mage and magic is just a gilded grave. The grave of Wealth.”

- Shylock; Executive Head, National Guild of Mercantor

When every step you take has to be calculated for profit and loss, you naturally become extremely prudent. Magic is but a game of strategy. One with as many approaches as there are mages. Some freeze up when it is time to take action, indecisiveness binding them in shackles stronger than steel. Some are overly reckless, trading momentary magnificence for years of grief. Others hoard their wealth, finding the very idea of using it abhorrent. Yet others perform those calculations with every effort, alas, reaching all the wrong conclusions. These people – without exception – don’t live very long.

Dawn dyed the sands of the Tyhr the colour of the rising sun, the scarlet rays illuminating the figure of a boy running laps around the housing complex where the ore slaves lived. As he ran, his shadow ran along with him, stretched long and thin by the slanting sunbeams. Each of his steps was the same as the last, lending a cast of perpetuity to his motion. He didn’t pant, he didn’t sweat, the only sign of his exertion was the ruddy flush that was visible even on his sun and wind burnt skin. The boy was Sand.

Following their first day at work, the slaves from Garo’s caravan had been distributed among the various veteran groups and put to work. And they had been given an introduction to Magic. The temporary atmosphere of harmony that had come about on the first day had been shredded like the flimsiest of parchments under the enticement of a path to power. Magic meant status and for those at the bottommost rung of the social hierarchy, nothing was more important.

Sand gradually slowed from a run into a walk and then came to a standstill in the shadow of the short and squat wooden buildings that served as their dorms in the short periods of time the slaves were allowed to rest. He exhaled slow and long, the scalding hot breath fogging up in the chill of the desert dawn. Inspecting the state of his body, he couldn't help but frown slightly. His wound was mostly healed and with the meagre wisps of mana he had generated with this run, it would finally be enough for him to climb out of the red and finally start building his reserves.

‘It took too long. Barely a week left…’

When Kreg had announced that they had a chance at becoming mages, he had also set a date for an inspection a month later. The slaves with the most talent would – in his words – be destined for greater things in life. Including, but not limited to the halidom of mages: a skill shard. Understandably, that had sent the slaves into a tizzy of activity. It had become every man for himself and every other slave was a competitor. Hostility was the only emotion that defined their relationship these days.

Sand sneered inwardly, even with the memories of his future, he had been caught off guard by the sinister tactics of the slavers. He had been too gullible. ‘Too naïve.’ All it had taken was sharing a meal for him to mellow out towards them.

But he couldn't be blamed, after all, most of his interactions with humans in his last life had been with former slaves who had scratched and clawed their way out of their cages. The cream of the crop. It had skewed his perception. The way the slaves fawned over and flattered Kreg while scratching and biting at each other at the mere promise of an advantage sickened him. He turned his dark eyes towards the dorms. ‘I wonder how they’ll feel when they realize what exactly that skill shard is.’

It was a very sound tactic. Separate the slaves and then promise them an overwhelming advantage, setting them at each other’s throats. Even after it was all over, after the truly talented had been sifted out, the ones left in the mines would be in a state of utter disunity. The grudges accrued over this period of infighting wouldn't allow them to unite in revolt against their masters. And it had worked like a charm.

As Sand stepped into the communal sleeping quarters, a hayloft with a few worn blankets spread out serving as their beds, he was greeted by the stench of unwashed bodies and fart. Ignoring the noxious odours by habit, he walked over to his own ‘bed’ to retrieve his shirt which he had left behind for his morning run. When his hand came into contact with it, his eyebrows twisted into a lump as he found it soaked through, and going by the dark patch on his blanket, it was too. He didn’t need to investigate further to realize that someone had relieved himself on it.

“It’s time for food, squirt. Or, maybe you don’t need it? You seem to have too much energy, running like mad in the mornings.” Crooked’s mocking voice came from behind him, revealing the identity of that someone.

Sand’s expression grew icy, “I’ll be there,” he replied unemotionally.

“Hmph!” the sturdy slave turned around and stomped away with a derisive snort.

Crooked’s intentions were sinister. A wet blanket in the frigid desert night would mean a cold at the very least, if not a fever. Both causes for a missed day of work. A missed day of progress.

Tossing the shirt onto his blanket, Sand simply left them there. He still had his bandages wrapping around his torso, they would have to do. He could understand why the slaves were so hostile to him. He had demonstrated extreme tenacity and determination, and while those were desirable traits in an ally, in a competitor, they were most unwelcome.

Progressing through the ranks of magic was like climbing up an oiled pole. For every few feet up, you would slide a foot down. The only way mana could be supplemented was through strenuous exercise and to fuel that, large amounts of nutritious food was required, otherwise, instead of generating mana, the body would only consume it. And all this laboriously generated mana would exhaust itself to heal a minor scrape if one was a bit overzealous in their efforts.

Simple exercise was way too inefficient. Supplementing one’s energy through food was the legitimate way. And food was rationed based on contribution. Work hard, eat more, generate more mana, work harder – it all spiralled into a cycle that could be considered positive or vicious depending on one’s perspective. Clever rationing by the orcs ensured that the humans saw progress, while at the same time, were kept hungry for more.

‘Seven more days…’

Shovelling down his meal, Sand walked over to the clay pit and slathered his body with a layer of the sticky mud then waited for it to dry, blocking all his pores. The only reason he could close his pores was the experience he had carried over from his previous life. The slaves had no such advantage. Therefore, they had to resort to the layer of clay to make up for their deficiency. To fit in, he had to use it too.

And clay in the desert was expensive. If not for Gehenna’s proximity to the tributary of the river Jhelum that cut through the edge of the desert, the cost would have been too prohibitive for the orcs to bother with investing the resources on human slaves. As it stood, the income barely justified the expenditure. So, if one couldn't emerge from the slaves and get selected during the inspection, their path to magic would forever be cut off and they would be doomed to languish in the mines as mortals.

‘Well, it’s not that the mages will have a better fate. It’s a better looking cage, but still a cage in the end. A much sturdier one.’

After the clay dried, he made his way to his workstation and invested himself in the work. It was monotonous, mind-numbing labour. Sifting through the piles of rock dug up by the miners to separate out the ores, filling baskets with them and finally, lugging the heavy baskets, dumping their contents into the cart. The only solace was the steady stream of red mana filling his body. Now that his wound was healed, he could finally accumulate mana.

At the end of the day, he dragged his aching body to the clay pit where he cracked up the layer of dry clay and dusted it off his body before going to the mess to receive his second meal of the day. The orcs didn’t allow the waste of even a bit of soil.

The advantage Sand had over the other slaves was his high natural talent and ability to seal his pores even without the clay, allowing him to gain mana from his morning jaunts. If the others tried that, they would find it unfeasible.

The next few days passed by in a blur of gluttony and labour until the sun rose over the horizon, bringing with it the promise of a brighter future. Usually, only one in ten people had magical talent and out of that the majority fell firmly in the category of ‘barely talented’ therefore, it was no surprise when out of the eight slaves sold to Kreg by Gura, only two demonstrated magical talent. In fact, it was a great ratio and Kreg couldn't keep a grin off his ugly face.

Over the years, there had been many a batch that hadn’t produced even a single mage, rendering all his investments moot. But this year, it seemed that Lady Luck had taken a shine to him and blessed him with not one but two valuable commodities.

An enslaved mage was obviously much more valuable than a mortal, enough to justify the training costs several times over. Unlike Garo, as the supervisor of the silver mine, he had a lot more spare cash from his embezzlement and could afford one or two years of failed harvest if it meant an ultimate profit in the end. The fact that all the slaves he bought were healthy young males made his success rates higher as well. There seemed to be a vague correlation between magical talent and physical or mental aptitude. For all races, children that had higher strength inborn or were unusually intelligent seemed to make for the best mages.

The six other slaves had tried their utmost to condense their mana but had to give up in the face of destiny in the end. They left the chamber under Kreg’s orders, shooting backward glances of hatred and envy at Crooked and Sand, leaving the two newly awakened mages alone with Kreg.

“Well, well, well… who’d ‘ave thought it’d be ye two in the end?” he said, looking down his snout at the two of them. “Then again I guess it makes senses for it ta be ye two. The strong one and the stubborn one, ain’t it?”

Sand remained silent as Crooked heaped flattery on the orc. Curiously, Kreg tilted his head as he sized up the small form of the boy. It had only been a month, but with proper food and a lot of exercise, his body had improved drastically and now, rather than his ribs jutting out of his skin, there was a visible layer of developing muscle. He had even become a mage, overcoming the hurdle of his wound in the process. ‘This one’s more talented than ‘e lets on,’  thought Kreg. ‘All the better for me though. I can sell ‘im for more. But before that…’

“I promised ye a shard if any of ye made it. But ye should know by now that there’s nothing in this world such as a free lunch. If ye want it, ye earn it. Take the day off, stuff yer face as much as ye want. And tomorrow ye’re comin’ to the city with me. Whether ye get that shard or not, depends entirely on ye.”