The man's boot lingered where the slave's head had once been. Crimson painted the dust around him. Not a single word dared rise against the silence his violence had forged.
His name wasn't spoken aloud, but in hushed whispers across border towns and frightened camps, he was known only as "Vernox the Black Fang," a name mothers used to hush children and warriors whispered with clenched teeth.
Now, he stood in Mine One, amidst the ash and carnage, and the air itself seemed to shrink around him.
"I am a generous man," Vernox said, breaking the silence. His tone was light. Calm. "I give chances."
He looked down at the corpse near his feet.
"One," he raised a finger.
Then, he looked at the trembling slaves.
"Now, I wonder. Do I need to give a second?"
He let the question hang like a blade in the air.
A few slaves glanced sideways, but none moved. None answered.
