(Planet Vorthas,48 Hours After Its Fall)
The air above Vorthas hung thick with smoke and silence, as the fires born from hours of relentless bombardment at last began to fade, leaving behind only drifting embers and the bitter scent of scorched metal that clung to everything like guilt.
The green banners of the Righteous Faction fluttered across every street and government building, their insignia,a silver sun devouring a black serpent, gleaming proudly where the Cult's banners once flew.
In front of the largest city square stretched a queue of Cult Commoners that never seemed to end.
Thousands of civilians stood barefoot on the cold cobbled floor, their faces pale, their wrists trembling as they clutched one another for comfort.
The once-bustling plaza of Vorthas had now been converted into a processing ground for slaves, where human dignity was methodically stripped away and replaced with obedience.
Every few seconds, the sound of clinking chains echoed from within the make-shift processing tent, followed by the hiss of collars being sealed around necks and ankles, each sound marking another soul broken, another free man captured.
*CRACK*
*WHIPAK*
A whip snapped somewhere near the front, as a Righteous soldier barked, "MOVE!" and struck a middle-aged man across the back.
The man stumbled forward, clutching his wound, while his wife covered her mouth to keep herself from screaming.
"Keep your eyes down, Cult rats! You're lucky we're letting you live!" another soldier shouted, kicking over a crying child whose sobs broke through the uneasy murmurs of the line.
Amidst the crowd, a youth in his early twenties lifted his head, his jaw tight, his dark eyes burning with quiet fury, as he didn't move, didn't bow, nor looked away.
However, the nearby soldier immediately noticed his stare and frowned.
"What? What, eh? Cult dog, you got something to say?"
The soldier stepped forward, towering over him, the metal plates of his armor clinking together with each movement. "You wanna say something? You wanna rebel?"
He asked, as the young man said nothing, but replied through a faint smile, a flicker of defiance flashing through his face, which irritated the Righteous Soldier and shattered his fragile ego.
*CRACK*
His whip struck the young man's shoulder once.... Then twice, thrice, yet the boy neither screamed nor flinched, as he simply laughed through gritted teeth as blood trickled down his arm.
"You think this is funny, do you?" the guard asked, drawing his blade, as the youth simply spat blood in his face in defiance.
*PTUI*
That single act — small, meaningless, yet louder than any word — was enough for the soldier to lose his calm, as in one fluid motion, he sliced the boy's head off.
*SHING*
*THUD*
The young man's body fell to the ground, lifeless eyes still open, as the queue erupted into horrified gasps.
A mother screamed, a child wailed, but no one moved to help.
"DO WE HAVE ANY MORE JOKERS WHO WANT TO DIE!?" the soldier roared, his face splattered with blood, his voice echoing across the square.
But no one answered.
Only the sound of wind moved between them, carrying the scent of iron and ash, as every man and woman lowered their heads even further, their rebellion buried deep beneath the weight of fear.
*Step*
*Step*
*Step*
The line crawled forward again, one step at a time, like a wounded serpent dragging itself through dust.
Until they reached the processing tent, where the stench of burnt mana filled the air.
Rows of commoners knelt in silence inside as mechanical arms descended from above, attaching collars and chains to their necks and limbs.
*HISSS*
*FSSHHH-*
The collars glowed faint blue for a moment before fading to dull gray as they sealed the occupants mana circulating capacity completely and turned them into powerless slaves, incapable of staging a rebellion.
*Shiverr*
*Whimper*
A woman in her forties trembled as the collar locked around her throat, her breathing turning shallow, as though even air had betrayed her.
A young boy beside her whimpered when the anklets were fastened, the sound of metal clicking shut feeling like the end of everything they had ever known.
"Next," barked a soldier, dragging the next group forward.
There was no pause, no mercy, only the endless rhythm of chains, the hiss of energy, and the hum of submission.
When each group exited the other side of the tent, they were met with a stage — a raised platform built hastily from the rubble of the old Cult library.
Upon it stood a Righteous orator dressed in silver and white armor, his golden cloak fluttering as he addressed the masses gathered below.
"Listen well, former citizens of the Evil Cult," his voice boomed, amplified by mana speakers. "From this day forth, you are no longer free men and women. You are laborers of repentance." MORE CHAPTERS in t.me/+yv9m3XKk8BxjMmEy
He paced slowly, his words dripping with mock sanctity.
"You will go where we tell you to go. You will work where we tell you to work. And you will eat only what we give you to eat. Your lives belong to the Righteous Faction now."
The crowd remained silent, their heads bowed low, though tears streamed freely down many faces.
"Cult dogs are forbidden from entering restaurants, forbidden from trade, forbidden from using mana, and forbidden from touching weapons," he continued, raising his hand dramatically. "From this moment until the day you die, you will repent for your sins against the True Gods. You will live and die in service to righteousness, praying for forgiveness that will never come."
He smiled cruelly, his eyes scanning the crowd like a predator studying its prey.
"But if any of you," he said slowly, his tone turning sharp as a blade, "even think of rebellion... then your punishment will not be death."
He paused for effect, as a row of captured soldiers were dragged forward, their tongues cut out and their eyes gouged.
"It will be this."
Gasps and cries rippled through the crowd as the orator spread his arms wide in mock benevolence.
"Rejoice, for your lives are spared. Repent, and perhaps the true gods will cleanse your souls."
Behind him, the corpses of those who had resisted earlier were piled like discarded trash and displayed as silent reminders of what mercy looked like under righteous rule.
The crowd said nothing, only lowering their heads further, as silent tears carved streaks down faces that no longer dared to dream.
And as the orator's sermon faded into the smoke-filled air, the truth settled over them all like a curse.
Their god had not saved them.
Their Dragons had failed to evacuate them on time.
And hence what remained for them now was not life... but rather an existence worse than death.(More chapters in Buyers club for TMT)