Chapter 105. Overthrowing Prison
Rhys pressed a hand on each body, filling them with mana or whatever filthy energy his trash generated, then sat back to wait. There would be rats for the bodies, he knew it. He’d seen it happen often enough, the rats swarming the bodies of deceased prisoners. They ate no better than the prisoners—no, worse, because they got the scraps the prisoners left behind. The beasts were starving, and fresh meat was fresh meat.
They came. Slowly, quietly. First one rat, darting out of the darkness to nibble at the guard’s ear. Then another, this one bold enough to try the eyes. Then another, and another, and another, until a swarm of gray-brown bodies writhed over the dead guards, tearing them to pieces. As they ate, they ate Rhys’s mana, and with it, they grew more maddened, more desperate. Their eyes began to glow a foggy green-brown, their teeth sharpened, and their chitters grew louder. The mana filled them, consuming them, until it colored every piece of pitiful mana that existed in their tiny bodies, then overwhelmed it, then reforged it, making them more, making them strong.
The rats stopped eating. Only skeletons remained. Rhys snapped his fingers, and they whirled, all facing him. The two of them shared one mana, one thought, one mind. He felt their hunger, and they felt his hatred, his desires, his need for revenge. He’d spent too long here to remain neutral, to see it from the outside, to be ‘walking his path’ and no more. The guards were brutal. They attacked children, women, and men with impunity, forced themselves upon those they favored, played games with the prisoners’ minds and bodies. They had left the path of humanity, and strode upon the path of beasts instead.
So it was fitting that he killed them with beasts.
Rhys strode forth. He was in the deepest part of the mine, where the most toxic stones existed. Magical mines, it turned out, were little different from non-magical mines, save that some of the ores within them possessed magical properties for the better, but also for the worse. He’d seen prisoners die from touching the wrong vein, or lose their minds from seeking after the wrong ore. The guards just laughed and sent more bodies into the depths, careless of the casualties they incurred. Careless, but no longer. He would make them care. Even if it was only in the last heartbeat of their worthless lives, he’d make them regret it.
As he walked, the rats darted out. They rushed off to their homes and hidey-holes, calling forth the other rats, sharing their newfound mana with them. Their eyes, too, changed to a murky green-brown, and they dashed out to join the swarm, following their Rat-King, their savior. They connected to him, and felt the future he promised, the song of a fat meal and fresh meat, and that was all they needed to know. He was their King; he would lead them to glory.
He swept past the other prisoners in Cadre 7E, the rats at his heels. One of them stood at the sight of him and stepped forward to block his path. His eyes flicked at her numbly, registering her face. He recognized her, her once-blonde hair desperately smeared with mud to avoid the guards’ lustful eyes, her pretty face ruined with silt and grease to become unappealing, so she could survive. Her name… he forgot. Names weren’t meaningful down here. The guards beat those who remembered them and dared to use them. He’d kept his name close to his heart, and never spoke it, but he knew there were prisoners down here who no longer had such a treasure, who had been completely, utterly forgotten. She wasn’t one of them, but casting his eyes to the side, he saw a wreck of a man who had, a skin-and-bones figure who even now gazed at the wall with hollow eyes and chipped endlessly at bare stone, unaware he wasn’t mining a vein any longer.
“Where are you going? They’ll beat us all if one of us abandons our post,” she reminded him, with a voice full of fear. The guards’ beatings were worthy of her terror. They held nothing back, seemingly forgetting that the ones they beat no longer had any magic, and if they had imbued no regenerative powers into their bodies during their magehood, they had no ability to heal beyond that of a mortal. Prisoners came back broken, if they were lucky enough to come back at all. He glanced at her arm, at the lump on her forearm where it had healed wrong. It was their reality, but no longer.
“They won’t beat anyone anymore,” he murmured, and gently pushed her aside. When they were both reduced to their bodily powers, their strength had been about equal, but with his renewed power, he could move her aside as easily as he might move a child.
She stumbled aside, then blinked and stared at him, shocked. “You… how?”