I have to admit: "desperation" doesn't even begin to describe my situation in this hellhole of a world. "Hopelessness" feels too mild compared to the feelings I have. It's like I climbed out of a pit, only to leap straight into quicksand, sinking deeper and deeper until I no longer have the strength to struggle or breathe.
The god who threw me into this world must have a twisted sense of humor. After all, who in my previous situation would turn down a second chance? Who, suffering from terminal cancer for years, wouldn't dream of a new life full of strength, vitality, and adventure?
I remember that, during some moments of pain, I would try to distract myself by focusing on other things like games, novels, books, or even porn. Anything to take my mind off the suffering. But I have to admit: I'd have been better off dying when I had the chance.
Three years have passed since I transmigrated to this hellhole. In that time, it took about four weeks for all my memories to stabilize. I got beaten so many times in the first four weeks that I can't even remember, but somehow, I kept surviving.
And the fucked-up summary of the situation? A delusional uncle obsessed with grandeur, selling demons as slaves to other nations and conspiring against the current demon ruler. He became immensely wealthy, but, just as quickly as he rose, his fall was just as meteoric. In a single day, the entire family was condemned for their involvement in the slave trade and rebellion against the monarch.
And here I am, mining "arcane metal"—as it's called. A very valuable metal in demon lands, it appears in veins deep within volcanoes that erupted in the past 50 years. And it's not the metal itself that's toxic, but the fact that from the still bubbling and hot walls of the volcano, thousands of toxic substances are released as gases that the miners breathe in.
"Thanks a lot, knowledge of the land, which I probably won't use for anything else."
In the second month I was here, I started using a piece of cloth I took from my shitty linen pants that we used as clothes. In the following days, I felt the effects improving.
'Three years in this shit-hole, fuck, three years!' This body is turning 18 today. When I transmigrated here, Glenn from this world was 15.
'Three years of slavery; it's as bad as anyone would think.'
Let me say something about slavery, especially when an old noble family is condemned. All the bad things they say about slavery don't even come close to what slaves actually go through.
First off, the beatings: we get beaten so much that, every day, at least five demons die. The scars that cover my body just keep piling up.
"I'm turning into fucking Freddy Krueger."
Hunger is the worst side of slavery. They feed us animal rations. Not even military rations are used.
'This is fucking dog food,' I complain, looking at no more than a handful of brown grains in my hand. But I eat everything, and sometimes even steal from those who are on the brink of death.
Hunger is maddening; some have killed their close companions just for a bite of meat. Of course, that last bite, since soldiers show up right afterward and kill both slaves.
'I don't know why they act ; maybe it's something intrinsic to demon kind that I don't feel the effects of.' Three years in this hell were more than enough time to organize my thoughts and finally use my incredible IQ of over 190.
Let's talk about escape attempts. Of course, there have been some, and all of them were so easily thwarted that it's not even worth calling them escape plans. A total of 11 escape attempts in the last three years, all thwarted in under 10 minutes. All those involved were immediately decapitated; anyone suspected of collaborating with the plan was also decapitated.
'This is madness! How well-guarded is this fucking place!' Lucky for me, I always decided to observe before acting. After all, the memories of the old Glenn were good for something. 'Damn rich brat, stupid fuck.'
As for the Glenn of this world, he wasn't guilty of anything that was happening. He was just a son dedicated to martial arts, with access to a lot of money and a weird tendency to buy expensive swords. Of course, until he was condemned along with his entire family to this place. And look at that, his parents died before I even transmigrated into this body.
"Okay, I'm venting in the wrong place."
In the last three years, I also discovered why, apparently, the influx of slaves in this mine is growing. At first, it was just fallen nobles, but now there are assassins, rapists, thieves, loan sharks, pimps, and kidnappers.
'A healthy and welcoming environment. Just how it should be. Hahaha.' Seriously, I'm pretty sure I'm not mentally stable anymore.
The reason is that Chaos, the capital of the demon empire, is preparing to receive a legendary blacksmith from this world, who isn't affiliated with any of the races of Atlas. That's why local blacksmiths are producing pieces to catch the attention of this legendary craftsman and maybe become his apprentices. Anyway, tough luck for us, who have to mine more and more every day.
"Old bastard, because of you, even my hemorrhoids are hurting from so much hitting the rock with a pickaxe." I complain to myself. This is also one of the habits I've picked up in this place. A mechanism to keep from going completely mad and killing myself.
"Maybe he's not even old, or maybe it's not even him. Haa, whatever."
However, something has changed in the last six months. Initially, for the better. Before, all the slaves slept in a large warehouse built on one of the subterranean levels of the volcano. But six months ago, I was selected as a lab rat—at least that's what I call it.
Hundreds of slaves were moved to a different room. Before, we slept on the floor, with some wool scraps to cover ourselves. Now, my quarters are, how can I put it... strange. It's a room similar to a military barracks, but without bunk beds: we have individual beds.
"That's it, you son of a bitch, I'm moving up in the world."
Each bed is separated from the others by an unbreakable, semi-translucent wall.
'Look on the bright side: at least now I have my own personal insane asylum room. Hehehe.'
After the exhausting 18-hour workday, we are fed three times the amount of dog food we were getting before. As soon as we enter the room, a pink gas fills the cubicle marked by the perimeter of the bed, and we, voluntarily, inhale that gas.
And this is where things got extremely dangerous.