Chapter 20: No More Human

  “144… Wow! You lot are ruthless.” Rachad’s laughter echoed through the still prison. The words struck the already distraught Elves with a cruel finality. “You managed to kill it in half the allotted time.”

  His chuckle was low, almost amused, but there was something else beneath it—something sharper. “Did you despise that poor slave?” He tilted his head, feigning curiosity before announcing, “Now, in order, call out the number of times you threw the sphere and successfully hit Nunaka.”

  He let the moment linger, lips curling, his expression one of twisted delight. “The one with the lowest score gets ten lashes.”

  His tone turned colder. “I’ll verify by counting the wounds on Nunaka’s corpse. If the total you report doesn’t match the number of injuries, everyone gets whipped three times.”

  As his words hung in the air, heavy footsteps echoed through the chamber. Soldiers stomped down the stone steps, their boots hitting the ground in a steady, almost threatening beat.

  Rachad flicked his hand toward one of the Elves, his gaze cold and unyielding. “Now,” he said. “Tell the truth, or everyone suffers.”

  “Four!” the first Elf blurted out, his voice tight with panic.

  “Seven,” another muttered, his disgust barely hidden.

  “Six.”

  “Four.”

  One by one, the Elves shouted their numbers, their voices brittle with dread. A soldier stood nearby, recording each answer with methodical detachment.

  Meanwhile, a group of seasoned experts knelt beside Nunaka’s lifeless body. They examined every wound, counting the distinct marks left by the wooden spheres. Their hands moved with the precision of those who had done this countless times before.

  “Fourteen,” Zetaka grunted, his red-rimmed eyes betraying his anguish.

  “Seven.” Mahnaka trembled, his body stiff with fear.

  “Four.” Pinaka’s throat tightened, veins bulging on his neck as disgust churned in his gut. ‘This world is beyond fucked up.’

  Rachad exhaled through his nose, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze before he spoke again. “One thousand, two hundred and eighty-seven hits.”

  His eyes swept over the broken Elves. “You slaves are disgustingly cruel to your own kind.”

  Then, with an air of detached curiosity, he turned to the soldiers. “And? What’s the final count?”

  “1,282, sir.” One of the experts reported, his tone devoid of hesitation.

  In truth, they had counted exactly 1,287 hits. None of the Elves had lied. But that wouldn’t be any fun, would it? Distrust needed to fester, to take root.

  This was why, half the time, the experts deliberately falsified the numbers. Not always—just enough to keep the Elves guessing and doubting each other. And it worked.

  Because no matter how cruel Rachad was, he had no reason to lie. That was the reality they had been forced to accept. If the numbers didn’t match, the fault had to lie with one of their own—someone who had chosen to deceive the rest to save himself.

  Rachad’s grin widened as he snapped his Fire Whip against the stone floor, the crack reverberating like a gunshot. “Well, well... What do we have here?” His voice was laced with mock amusement.

  “Who lied?” His eyes gleamed with sadistic delight. “We can’t have a liar among us, can we?”

  His gaze swept over the Elves, lingering just long enough to let paranoia settle in.

  “So.” He spread his arms. “Find the culprit yourselves.” A pause. Then, his smile sharpened.

  “Or everyone suffers the consequences.”

  “It was him!” An older Elf jabbed a finger at a younger one—an easy target, someone his group had tormented before. His voice carried a desperate urgency. “I saw him hit only twice, but he claimed four!”

  “He threw three times but lied, saying five.”

  “He only threw twice and pretended it was three.”

  One after another, accusations flew. Each group shoved someone forward, desperate to shift the blame and fix the count.

  Rachad leaned back. He could never get tired of this. The sheer thrill of it sent a rush through him, almost dizzying.

  With an easy flick of his fingers, he gestured to the accused. “Ten lashes each.”

  The Fire Whip cracked through the air.

  “—Argh!”

  “—AIEEE!”

  Their screams tore through the chamber, raw and jagged, as the lashes cut deep, burning through flesh. The stench of scorched skin mixed with the thick, metallic tang of blood, making the air feel heavier.

  Rachad let it all sink in, soaking up the moment before clapping his hands twice. “Good work, everyone.” His tone was almost cheerful, like he’d just wrapped up a normal day’s task. “Back to your cells. You’ll be called when it’s time for dinner.”

  No one spoke. The crowd shuffled away in stiff silence, leaving behind only the ragged, uneven breaths of those who had just learned their lesson.

  The soldiers moved through the chamber, gathering up the wooden spheres one by one. They counted them, turned them over in their hands, checking for anything off. Weighing, measuring, making sure nothing had been tampered with—because they knew how desperate the Elves were. Only after double-checking everything did they finally leave, dragging Nunaka’s lifeless body with them.

  Two soldiers stayed behind a little longer, scrubbing at the bloodstains. When they were done, they, too, filed out, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than before.

  Pinaka walked back to his cell, his steps slow, careful. His wide, unblinking eyes stared straight ahead, but as he passed Rulruka, he gave the smallest nod. The plan was still on. That much was certain.

  Tears streamed down his face, burning as they slid over the raw welts on his cheeks.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Once inside his cell, he sank down into the corner, pulling his arms around his knees. His chin rested against them, his breathing shaky as he glared at the iron bars. He was exhausted. Completely drained.

  His body felt like it had nothing left to give. Even sleep seemed impossible. And really, there was no guarantee he’d even make it to tomorrow. He’d pushed himself too far. And now, the weight of it was crashing down.

  ‘Tonight… I have to do it.’ His fingers dug into his arms. Just one piece of the World Tree Fruit. That’s all he needed.

  The plan had been to talk things through with Rulruka tonight—to go over the details and try to steal a whole fruit tomorrow. That was the backup plan. The safety net in case tonight didn’t work out.

  ‘I have to do it tonight.’

  He trusted Rulruka. He really did. But if the plan failed, Rulruka would be the one to suffer for it, not him.

  And failure wasn’t an option.

  Not now. Not when all he had to do was survive one more night.

  As he sat there, motionless, Pinaka could hear the quiet cries of the young Elves. The sound filled the prison, slipping through the thick, stale air like a ghost that refused to leave. No one spoke aloud. They didn’t have to. Every Elf had sharp hearing—each and every one of them could hear everything.

  For Pinaka, the whispers were even sharper. His body, pushed past its limit, had heightened his senses to something unnatural. Every tremble in their voices, every shaky breath, every muffled sob—it all rang in his ears with painful clarity.

  ‘Damn it.’ Pinaka clenched his fists, his breath catching. The thick, metallic stench clung to his skin. It wouldn’t go away. No matter how much he willed it, it was still there—Nunaka’s blood. A sickening, inescapable reminder of what had just happened.

  ‘I’ll never forget this. Not as long as I live.’

  His mind replayed the scene again and again—the look in Nunaka’s eyes, filled with quiet resignation. The way he died, bit by bit, at the hands of his own people. His own people. The thought sank deeper, festering.

  “Hic…!” A sharp breath escaped him, his body trembling on its own. He tried to hold it in, to push it down, but the feeling only grew stronger.

  ‘If there's hell, this is it.’

  His chest tightened, bitterness clawing at his thoughts. ‘I already paid for my sins back on Earth! I already suffered! So why? Why is this happening to me now, just when I finally had a shot at happiness?’

  Something inside him cracked.

  ‘I will return home. I will return home. I WILL RETURN HOME.’

  His grip on his knees tightened, his fingers digging in so hard they hurt. But the pain barely even registered. He was unraveling. The torture, the powerlessness, the endless cycle of suffering—it was sinking in too deep.

  ‘I will butcher all the Humans.’

  The shift was subtle, but it was there. An undeniable change. At that moment, he no longer felt like one of them. Humanity was now a different race. And he… he was an Elf.

  Maybe it was madness. Maybe it was just survival. Maybe it didn’t matter.

  But when he thought of his family—his daughter, his son-in-law—something strange happened. His mind twisted the image, reshaping them. He still saw them, still recognized them. But their faces… their features… they weren’t Human anymore. They were Elven.

  He caught it instantly. ‘That’s not real.’ But the thought didn’t unsettle him.

  ‘That is that. This is this.’

  Pinaka exhaled, his mind settling into something cold. ‘I was Human once. When I go back to Earth, I’ll be Human again. But here, on Gangnea, I am an Elf.’

  His eyes darkened.

  ‘And this Elf will slaughter his enemies.’

  The change inside him was final. His body reacted, his stats shifting—small, but definite. His instincts sharpened, his mind clearer than ever.

  This wasn’t just survival anymore.

  This was war.

  And in response to the change, his stats improved, by a little, only accommodating his existing training into their growth.

  [Name: Pinaka]

  [Race: Elf]

  [Authority: Wood]]

  [Control Factor: 1]

  [Weight Factor: 2]

  [Volume Factor: 1]

  [Range Factor: 2]

  [Speed Factor: 2]

  [Spell: -]

  Pinaka knew he was holding himself back. He could feel it.

  His Control Factor was accumulating experience at an alarming rate. His current state—teetering on the edge of death—was the perfect breeding ground for rapid development. The body unleashed its full potential only when pushed to the absolute limit.

  He was close. Too close.

  ‘If I push any further… it’ll reach two units.’

  His Control Factor teetered on the brink of two units. If he pushed himself any further, if he trained for just a few more hours in this state, he would reach two.

  And that was not an option.

  ‘But I have Zetaka’s Spell of Status Epidermis.’

  His heart pounded at the thought. ‘Once I succeed tonight, I’ll be able to use it without worrying about losing my Authority over Wood.’

  With that resolve, he forced himself to stay awake.

  The prison had quieted. The whispered cries gradually faded, replaced by the heavy, exhausted silence of resignation. Time stretched endlessly as hunger gnawed at their already starved bodies.

  The soldier, ever sadistic, delayed his arrival. It was deliberate—meant to give the Elves ample time to stew in their misery, to turn their despair into self-loathing.

  —Clap! Clap! Clap!

  The sound echoed sharply through the chamber. A soldier strode in, clapping ten times before wordlessly distributing the food.

  Some of the Elves ignored the rations entirely, too lost in their grief to eat. Others had already succumbed to exhaustion. The meal concluded swiftly, and the prison fell back into silence as the Elves retreated into restless sleep.

  Pinaka remained still, listening.

  One by one, he focused on each cell, straining to detect movement, waiting—waiting until he was certain.

  They were all asleep.

  Then, the sound of footsteps.

  Six humans entered the prison, carrying a ladder. Pinaka’s breath slowed as he listened, his fists clenched as they approached Rulruka’s cell.

  A soft grunt. The rustling of fabric. And then—

  ‘They’re feeding him World Tree Fruit.’

  Rulruka’s muffled groans of pain filled the air, each one tightening the coil in Pinaka’s chest. He clenched his fists harder—not just in anger, but in restrained excitement.

  Then, a human clicked his tongue.

  “There’s less than twenty-one liters tonight? Tch!”

  Pinaka’s pulse quickened. His mind raced.

  ‘It was almost twenty-two liters yesterday…’

  That meant only one thing.

  ‘Rulruka succeeded.’

  Relief and exhilaration coursed through him in equal measure. The plan was in motion.

  For minutes longer, he remained perfectly still, listening—waiting until he could no longer detect the scent of the humans.

  Only then did he move.

  Silent as a shadow, he slipped out of his cell and made his way to the ground floor. His steps were measured, controlled. The pillar loomed ahead, its surface worn but unassuming.

  He stopped before it and, without hesitation, flashed his Status Window once.

  A brief flash from above.

  Then—

  —Thump! Thump!

  A tiny container struck his head before dropping onto the floor.

  Pinaka knelt, fingers wrapping around the cool surface. The moment his skin made contact, he knew.

  A shiver ran through him. His grip tightened.

  ‘There it is, inside! A piece of it!’

  Inside the container, nestled securely—

  Wood Relic—World Tree Fruit!

  …