A famous saying echoed in Rain's mind—"I freed a thousand slaves. I could have freed a thousand more, if only they knew they were slaves."
Not many people ever realized it. Some were slaves to others, some to empty promises, some to their jobs, or even to their governments. Yet as Rain looked at his surroundings, there was no metaphor to hide behind.
He was a slave. A real one.
Heavy shackles bound his wrists and ankles, the cold metal digging so tightly into his skin that it left angry red welts behind. The iron bit deeper with every step, tearing slightly at flesh already worn raw. Any normal person would have winced, would have cried out—but Rain had long since grown used to it.
A sudden, violent tug on the chain ahead sent him stumbling forward. The force dragged him down into the snow, along with the line of slaves chained before him. Bodies hit the frozen ground in a scattered collapse, breaths knocked from their lungs as the cold seeped through their thin clothing.
"GET UP! GET THE FUCK UP, YOU FUCKING ANIMALS!"
The commanding officer's voice cut through the storm like a whip. It was harsh, filled with nothing but contempt—but it was enough. One by one, the slaves forced themselves up, driven not by strength, but by fear. They pushed forward again, enduring the biting wind that clawed through their skin.
"Fucking asshole…" Rain whispered, his voice barely leaving his lips before the freezing wind devoured it.
Rain hadn't always been a coward who muttered insults under his breath.
There was a time when, despite being constantly reminded he was nothing more than a slave, he refused to believe it. Every time a commanding officer lashed out—whether through shouting or violence—Rain would step in, standing up for the others without hesitation.
Until they turned on him.
The beatings were relentless.
The bruises that once bloomed across his body, the scars that still remained, the countless cuts that had never fully healed—all of them stood as reminders of just how merciless the commanders truly were.
Now, he obeyed.
Rain wore tight jeans that offered no warmth, his socks wrapped in thin plastic bags—not to fight the cold, but to delay frostbite for just a little longer. Over his body hung a flimsy rain jacket, identical to the ones given to every slave. It did almost nothing against the storm.
They had been walking for what felt like forever.
Two weeks, at least.
'Where are we even going…?'
The question had crossed his mind more than once, but asking it was pointless. The commanding officers never gave information—only orders.
Still, something felt different now.
As the storm briefly thinned, a shape began to emerge ahead of them.
At first, it was just a shadow against the white.
Then it grew.
And grew.
Until Rain finally saw it for what it was.
A mountain.
Massive beyond reason, its peak piercing straight through the clouds, as if it didn't belong to the same world as everything below it. The sight alone was enough to make the slaves around him begin murmuring quietly, unease spreading through the line.
Rain's stomach tightened.
He already knew part of the reason they had been brought here—the trial.
But this…
There was no way.
His eyes traced the impossible height of the mountain. They flicked down to the frozen ground beneath his feet, then back up again, as if hoping it might somehow shrink.
It didn't.
Without realizing it, Rain twisted the chain around his wrist, over and over, like a nervous fidget.
Rain's mind throbbed, overwhelmed by the flood of questions crashing into one another.
Why are we here…? What do the commanding officers want from us…? We're not actually expected to climb that… right…?
At the command of the officers, the long line of slaves came to an abrupt halt. The commanding officers stepped forward, lining up side by side—ten of them in total.
Assistants moved quickly through the crowd, unlocking chains and freeing wrists and ankles one by one. You'd think the sudden freedom would bring relief.
It didn't.
Rain's heart began to pound instead, heavy and uneven, filled with emotions he didn't want to face.
One of the leading officers stepped forward.
He was a man with long blond hair, his appearance almost noble—like someone born into wealth and privilege. He stood taller than the rest, easily over six feet, his presence alone enough to silence the murmurs.
"All one hundred of you will be assigned a leader," he said, his voice calm but cold. "You will separate into groups of ten, each following a commanding officer of your choosing."
A brief pause.
"If you fail to choose within thirty seconds…"
His gaze swept across them.
"…it will be considered disobedience."
Another pause.
"Punishable by death."
"Death?"
"Did he say death?"
Murmurs spread quickly through the slaves, quiet at first, then rising into a wave of panic.
Only seconds passed before someone moved.
One slave broke into a run toward a chosen officer—then another followed, and another. Within moments, the crowd erupted into motion, groups forming in chaotic bursts as slaves rushed to align themselves with whoever they believed offered the best chance of survival.
Some groups filled too quickly, exceeding the limit of ten. Those unlucky enough to arrive late were forced out, scrambling to find another before time ran out.
Rain didn't move.
Not yet.
His eyes scanned the forming groups, watching carefully, thinking. Why groups?
The answer came quickly.
The mountain.
They were meant to climb it—and if that was true, strength would matter. Maybe even more than strength. If it came down to survival… fighting other slaves wasn't out of the question.
Rain didn't doubt the kind of cruelty the commanding officers were capable of.
Most of the slaves were the same—thin, worn down from starvation and exhaustion. Some were taller, some shorter, but nearly all of them shared that same fragile frame.
Except one.
Rain's gaze locked onto him immediately.
A boy—around his age, maybe sixteen—but far different from the rest. He stood out without even trying. Taller than everyone nearby, easily around six foot three, with a build that hadn't been completely hollowed out by hunger.
He looked strong.
Capable.
Dangerous, even.
And that was enough.
As the seconds slipped away and more slaves began to crowd into groups, panic finally pushed Rain into motion. He broke into a run, heading straight for the group he had chosen.
Just in time.
As the final seconds passed, the groups were set.
The groups began to separate, each commanding officer leading their chosen ten away from the others.
Rain followed his.
Their leader looked to be around forty. He had a large, sturdy build, a scruffy beard covering his jaw, and a thick sword strapped across his back. There was something about him—something steady, battle-worn—that made him seem dependable.
That was part of why Rain had chosen him.
When the man spoke, his voice was stern and rough, like it had been carved out of years of war.
He pointed toward the mountain.
"That mountain," he said, "is your trial. You will climb it."
A few slaves reacted with quiet shock, but most stayed silent. They had already expected it.
At least some of them had common sense.
Rain felt a small, bitter sense of relief at that.
"At the summit," the officer continued, "there are two flags. Ten teams. Only two out of the ten teams will pass the trial.
Murmurs spread through the group, low and uneasy.
Rain's mind began to turn.
Capture the flag…? So it's true. We really have to climb all the way to the top…
He waited a moment, expecting someone else to speak.
No one did.
Of course not.
Slaves didn't speak up—they couldn't. Not when fear had been beaten into them. Truthfully, Rain wasn't much different… but he tried anyway.
Rain let out a quiet breath before stepping forward slightly.
"What happens," he asked, his voice steady despite the tension in his chest, "if our group doesn't pass the trial?"
All of the slaves turned toward Rain.
For a brief moment, no one spoke.
Then their leader answered, his tone indifferent.
"Well… nothing much. Simply put, you all remain slaves." He paused slightly. "And I lose my position."
His words hung in the air.
Slowly, realization began to settle over the group. If failure meant staying slaves…
Then success could only mean one thing.
Before anyone could voice the question, the officer spoke again.
"Yes. It's exactly what you're thinking."
His gaze moved across them.
"If you capture a flag… you will no longer be slaves."
A brief pause.
"You will be free."
The word hit harder than anything else he had said.
He swallowed, then continued, almost as an afterthought.
"And as for me… I will no longer be a commanding officer." His voice remained steady. "My authority will be elevated to that of a High Commander."
Free.
Rain turned the word over in his mind like an unfamiliar object. He wasn't sure he believed it.
The group of slaves turned to one another, disbelief spreading between them.
But Rain wasn't focused on them.
What did the slave owners—and the commanding officers—get out of this?
There was no way it was that simple. Climb the mountain… take a flag… and walk away free.
His eyes drifted back to the towering peak.
A quiet unease settled in his chest.
That wasn't just a mountain.
It felt wrong.
It wasn't simple, and it wasn't something he could explain. It was just a gut feeling—one that refused to go away.