Weak

The first thing Voldrak felt upon regaining consciousness was a throbbing pain shooting through his chest. He grimaced, lifting his upper body off the ground, eyes squinting as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

The room wasn't entirely dark; a few faint sources of light flickered here and there, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls. As he looked around, he realized with a start that he had been lying on the cold, hard ground—and he wasn't alone.

Around him, men and women lay huddled together, their bodies pressed close for warmth. Dirt smudged their faces and skin, their clothing torn and scant, barely covering them. The men were almost naked, while the women's tattered garments did little to hide their bodies. Voldrak's eyes remained dark and cold as he ignored the pitiful scene around him, instead turning his focus inward. He could feel every muscle, every nerve, burning with the aftershocks of pain.

"Hugor should have killed me," he thought grimly, "and burned my soul in Hell flames." Yet, here he was—alive. The realization sent a frown spreading across his face as he surveyed the dingy room. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and despair, and Voldrak wondered if dying and being reborn might have been preferable to the squalid conditions of whatever rung of the earth he had been cast down to.

His thoughts were still racing when a sharp pain suddenly pierced his head, like a hot needle threading through his skull. He didn't flinch, though; instead, he focused on the pain, feeling his mind begin to unravel a torrent of knowledge he was certain he never possessed before. The pain seemed to fuel the awakening, driving deeper and deeper into his consciousness.

"What… is this?" Voldrak murmured to himself, his brow furrowing as the knowledge began to take form. The realization struck him like a hammer blow, and a sneer twisted his lips in disgust A Dual-Cultivation Technique.

Even in his mind, the technique glowed red, as if written in blood—a clear sign it was cursed, a forbidden art lost and forbidden for a reason. It was a technique of profound and dark power, one that required feeding off others' energies, both spiritual and physical.

"Hydria..." he whispered under his breath, a memory surfacing of her tossing herself on him and touching him just before he was torn from his immortal body and killed. It was her doing, her last-ditch effort to give him a fighting chance in the mortal realm. But to use such a method...

Voldrak clenched his fists, feeling the dirt and grime on his skin. The dual-cultivation technique could offer immense power, enough perhaps to climb back to where he once stood—or higher. But at what cost? He knew the tales, the whispered warnings of those who attempted such paths and were consumed by them.

'I refuse!; he internally sighed intent on never using it. He was Voldrak of the dark and he would rise back to his former glory without it even with the mortal body he now had, squeezing his fists delighted to still feel a tiny trace of the dark energy he once weilded.

Voldrak had scarcely made this vow to himself when a loud tapping sound echoed from outside the cramped, dimly lit space. The sound was sharp, deliberate, like a drumbeat meant to rouse the dead from their eternal slumber. Within seconds, the inhabitants around him began to stir, springing up one after the other in a frenzied rush.

One man barely managed to stifle a yawn as he stumbled to his feet, while a woman nearby sneezed violently, her eyes bloodshot, evidence of a night spent in restless agony. Yet, as some struggled to their feet, others remained sprawled on the cold, hard ground, unmoving. For a brief moment, Voldrak assumed they were simply unwilling to wake, perhaps lost in the depths of exhaustion or defiance.

His assumption was shattered when he watched a rough-looking figure—one of the more robust slaves—move among the prone bodies. This man kicked at them with a heavy foot, his kicks forceful enough to rouse even the most reluctant sleeper. But none of the bodies stirred. Voldrak quickly realized that these poor souls were beyond waking, their spirits likely departed in the night, leaving their shells behind.

Despite this grim realization, the others continued to move, shuffling out of the space with a weary determination. Voldrak remained seated on the cold, damp ground, watching them with a detached curiosity. He felt no urgency, no rush to join them. He would follow, of course, but he saw no reason to hurry.

That was until he heard a voice speak from behind him.

The voice belonged to a young man, one who, under different circumstances, might have been handsome. But his face was marred by a grotesque wound—a deep gouge where one of his eyes had been, the skin and bone around it seared by something unbearably hot. Voldrak, with the detached clarity of an immortal, found himself wondering how this fragile mortal hadn't lost his mind from the pain alone.

"I would get up quickly if I were you," the young man said, his voice low and urgent. "The slave masters aren't very forgiving," he spat on the ground as he turned to leave.

Voldrak didn't move immediately. He stared at the spit that now glistened on the ground a few feet away, his expression unreadable. "I've never seen someone so eager to lose a tongue," he muttered to himself, finally deciding to rise. His movements were deliberate, slow, as though he were testing the limits of his now fragile body, feeling the strange mortality of it.

As he stood, he noticed a stirring from one of the bodies that had remained on the ground. There was a loud groan—a deep, guttural sound that echoed in the small space. Voldrak didn't spare it a second glance. Whatever fate awaited that soul, it was not his concern. He stepped out of the enclosure, his eyes squinting against the brightening light of the day.

The outside world was harsh and unwelcoming. The sun had barely begun its ascent, yet its light felt oppressive, harsh against his eyes that had grown accustomed to the dark. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, dirt, and despair—a potent mix that spoke of suffering and toil.

Voldrak's gaze swept over them, his mind already beginning to calculate, to plan. He needed to understand this place, the base realm he seemed to have fallen in where he now found himself. But more importantly, he needed to regain his strength, to find a way back to where he truly belonged: to get the revenge he was owed.

He was no mere mortal, He was Voldrak, an immortal cast down from the heavens. And he would rise again with the power of his own hands. "...he muttered into the wind," stretching out his hand into the last fragments of the night, trying to weave it, only to fing absolutely nothing there. He was still weak.