Chapter 127 Chapter 125 Deep Pit
The blacksmith didn’t know if night had come. In the dimly lit mine, after working for several days, he had long lost his sense of the passage of time.
The only light source in the mine was a mining lamp hanging three meters away. The wooden supports of the mine were rotting wood that was many times older than him. The blacksmith had once used the mining lamp to observe the rotting wood and was horrified to find it covered in black mold, with the surface cracked.
Not far from him, there was a whiff of a putrid smell. The odor was coming from a collapsed section of the mine, where broken wood was wedged among broken stones, burying the unfortunate miners beneath.
“Thud!”
The blacksmith exerted his arms, the mining pickaxe struck the silver ore hard, sparking. But the putrid smell that lingered in his nose never dissipated, and he had yet to acclimate to the environment of the mine.
The ore shattered, and he gasped for breath, taking deep breaths. Only when he was exhausted could he momentarily not think of what awaited him above.
He squatted down, his bloodied hands picked up the shattered silver ore and placed it in a nearby wicker basket. The basket was as tall as his son, and he couldn’t help but think of his son at home—what had happened to him and his wife? What would become of his blacksmith shop after the pillar of the family was suddenly taken away?
It would probably be confiscated.
He dared not think further. After being thrown into this mine, he had worried so much that he had not slept for two days, begging for mercy. What he received were kicks from several fellow slaves who were his companions. Because he disturbed their sleep, they were furious and grabbed his ears, shouting:
“Nobody can get out! Stop making noise!”
His stomach gurgled, and the blacksmith felt a bit weak. He still remembered the little bit of moldy bread he had eaten earlier. It was even worse than what he had during his time as a slave. But now, he began to yearn for the bread speckled with mold.
The wicker basket filled with silver ore was extremely heavy. He strained his arms, but his body was tortured by hunger and lacked strength. Suddenly, his vision blurred, and the basket fell to the ground, spilling ore everywhere.
He had no choice but to kneel down and begin to put the ore back into the basket, handful by handful.
Until now, he still held onto hope. Two days ago, he had managed to speak with a visiting guard and bribed him with gold coins hidden in the layers of his shoes, asking the guard to tell his superiors that he was a skilled blacksmith, capable of producing iron tools, swords, and spearheads.
He was a blacksmith!
In wartime, troops would burn a village, kill the men, and insult the women, but they would not harm blacksmiths.
As long as the one managing the mine knew he was a blacksmith, they would surely pull him out of the pit, allowing him to forge iron again. He was only thirty-five years old, still strong. If the master showed some mercy, and if he worked hard for another ten years, perhaps he could redeem himself.
If the master was kind and wise, he would surely know that he was wrongfully implicated. Because the master could see his diligent work and would not allow a hardworking person to remain a slave.
He was different from those lazy, unproductive thieves who only desired easy gains. If he could redeem himself through hard work once, he could surely do it again.
The blacksmith’s chest filled with renewed hope, and he felt his body gain strength. He exerted his arms, picked up the wicker basket, and, enduring his hunger, stepped out of the mine, holding the mining lamp.
He passed through several winding passages. The sounds of mining—clinks and strikes—echoed from two nearby mining pits, also illuminated by a dim light. He listened to the frequency of the picks digging, judging that they did not swing their picks faster or harder than he did.
A bunch of lazy folks. No wonder they had always been trapped in the mine and were envious, saying he couldn’t get out.
He scorned them inwardly.
His knees ached severely, and he wanted to sit down to rest.
At that moment, he heard someone shout:
“Delivery! Delivery!”
The clanging sounds echoing in the mine suddenly stopped.
The blacksmith perked up, and his knees regained strength. He hurried forward.
It must be night now; time in the mine was judged by delivery time.
Every night, the miners had to make a delivery. Only after delivering enough would they receive a day’s worth of food; if not, they would go hungry, and if someone died of hunger, another miner would take their place.
Fortunately, the benevolent master had a system in place. Once a week, the best miner would be recognized, receiving rewards of good bread, good milk, and maybe even meat. Today was precisely the day for evaluating the best miners.
The blacksmith arrived at the mine pit. It was about fifteen meters in radius and very deep, with the only exit overhead. A lift platform was placed on the ground, with a thick rope tied to it. The blacksmith looked up along the rope and saw a thick iron railing at the top of the pit, behind which filtered a hazy white light.
That was the diffused sunlight.
Looking at that hazy white light, the blacksmith imagined the sunset in the west slowly sinking into the sea.
How he longed to be on the surface, to see the sun once again.
At that moment, he heard the dragging sound of chains on the ground.
The blacksmith quickly gripped his mining pick, protecting the fruits of his labor behind him, for there were always lazy folks wanting to take advantage of him.
A group of five or six miners formed a line, glanced at him, and passed by to sit on a rock on the other side.
Fearful, the blacksmith bore the wicker basket to the opposite side, gripping his pick tightly, keeping a close eye on them.
“Oh, the green hat expert is so scared.”
“Who did you say your wife remarried?”
Two miners taunted.
The blacksmith ignored these lazy folks.
One by one, people began to come into the pit carrying wicker baskets. The blacksmith counted—there were only forty-two people.
A voice from above, the guard shouted:
“Why are there only forty-two of you?”
“Jerry and Tom were crushed to death.”
“Then their food is canceled. Put all your baskets on the lift!”
Hearing the guard’s voice, the blacksmith became restless. He hoped for good news about his promotion from miner to blacksmith. There had been nothing yesterday, so it should come today. He hadn’t asked yesterday for fear of bothering the guard and making him unhappy.
One by one, people placed their wicker baskets on the lift. The blacksmith rushed ahead, ignoring the insults from other miners, placing his basket in the center of the platform. Each basket had a number, representing each person’s ID—he was forty-four.
The miners pushed the turntable with all their strength, and the lift slowly ascended.
The blacksmith watched his basket rise, focusing on the number on it. Hope filled his heart. He liked this cultured management system; it simply distinguished hard workers from the lazy. Using such a cultured and advanced management style, his unseen master must be kind and wise.
The wide lift descended and ascended nine times. Then, someone from above, sounding lazily, announced:
“This week’s best miner is number forty-four.”
The blacksmith’s breathing quickened; he almost forgot the taste of milk and bread. He looked up at the guard at the edge of the pit. Due to the depth of the pit, his neck ached from stretching to see, and he could only see a black leather boot. He eagerly awaited the guard to announce the next item.
The lift descended for the tenth time, seemingly awarding him for his diligence. Only the blacksmith’s basket was left above, so he hurried up to take the light wicker basket. Inside, he found two clay jars filled with murky water, four pieces of black bread about the size of two fists, and four small pieces of cheese, all covered in dust from the mine.
He was utterly disappointed. There was no milk, no white bread, and certainly no meat as rumored. The fruits of his labor had yielded hard, dry bread that could serve as a weapon.
“Master, did you forget something?” he pleaded, looking up while holding the basket.
“Tom is dead, right? I’m giving you his share. Isn’t double the food enough?”
“Yes, yes, it’s enough.”
The blacksmith lowered his head, not daring to retort.
The lift descended again for nine times. Yet ten empty baskets remained—ten people received no food.
“Sir, there’s no food. We can’t mine.”
“Yesterday, everyone still had food.”
The guard’s voice from above reprimanded:
“A bunch of lazy folks! Look at number forty-four, working so hard, mining more than double the previous best miner in a week! The standard for food distribution is tied to the productivity of the best miners. I was too kind in the past, spoiling you lazy slugs. If you want to eat, dig harder. If you can’t do it, starve to death. There are plenty of people outside.”
Instantly, the surrounding miners cast angry glances at the blacksmith. They closed in on him, gripping their pickaxes tightly.
The blacksmith was frightened; he saw the black boot above disappear and scared, cried out: “Master! Wait! Two days ago, did you deliver the news to the master? About me being a blacksmith.”
There was silence from above for a moment, and the blacksmith’s heart raced, beating faster and faster.
Finally, the voice above said, “I did.”
The blacksmith breathed a sigh of relief, smiling broadly.
But the voice continued:
“Because you colluded with the slaves, you’ll mine forever!”
The blacksmith’s heart immediately stopped. He widened his eyes and shouted, “I’m wrongfully accused! They framed me! I’m not one of those lazy good-for-nothings…”
The only response was the sound of a whip cracking.
“Get moving, you lazy slugs.”
The guard’s voice echoed from above, followed by the sound of footsteps leaving.
The blacksmith felt as if his soul had been pulled away; he knelt on the ground. A kick landed on his shoulder from behind, knocking him down.
A group of miners rushed over, punching and kicking him.
“Damn it, hard worker! Isn’t it nice to be so comfortable?”
“Shit, you made me go hungry!”
A kick hit his stomach, causing him to curl up like a shrimp, and he cried, “I just want to go home! You lazy folks don’t have families, how can you understand?”
The blows raining down on him grew fiercer.
He didn’t know how long it lasted, but soon the miners left, cursing. The blacksmith lay flat on the ground, watching the fading light above. Suddenly, tears streamed down his face.
How foolish he was. There was never any freedom; the master had no mercy. Everything was just his one-sided fantasy.
He was destined to work in this dark hole for a lifetime until he died. He would either starve to death or one day be crushed under the stones when the mine collapsed.
The blacksmith covered his eyes with his hands and cried out loud.
…
…
On the balcony of the benevolent master’s estate.
Jima sat at a round table, looking at Acanis, saying:
“Your dream is really special.”
Dressed neatly, Acanis replied disappointedly: “I’ve always wanted to sleep with all the women in the benevolent master’s house, but I can’t seem to have that dream. Can you help me out?”
“I can’t.”
Acanis, intrigued, asked: “Because you think it would betray your man?”
Jima hurriedly changed the subject: “How was the information I provided last night?”
“I found him; he’s working in a silver mine. I’ll wait for an opportunity to rescue him,” said the Shadow King Acanis. “By the way, he’s not some freedom fighter either; it’s just a sympathy ploy his brother made up.”
“Oh.” Jima, uninterested in others, asked, “How did that matter go?”
“She thinks she hasn’t taken the ‘Dreamless Potion.’ I replaced it with a new bottle, but you’ll have to pay me five gold coins for that!”
A stone lifted off Jima’s heart, and she extended her hand to ask, “Partnership?”
The Shadow King Acanis extended his pinky finger, saying: “Come, let’s pinky swear. We don’t need to sign useless contracts, but I warn you, the last person who pinky swore with me and then broke the deal is now shark bait.”
