Liberation of The Slaves

Chapter 98 – A Chorus of One Thousand Sorrows

Minutes stretched on as the black fire waned—biting, thrashing, yet slowly yielding to the relentless purity of our white flames. Though it raged, it was cornered—smothered by divinity. Our bodies, drenched in sweat, steamed beneath the heat, much of it evaporating the instant it surfaced. We endured, breath ragged, hearts blazing.

Then, without warning, the world shifted.

In the blink of an eye, Selena and I were no longer in the room.

We were adrift in a boundless realm of darkness—weightless, breathless, suspended in a silence so profound it pressed against our eardrums like a scream buried just beneath the surface. There was no sky, no earth. Only the void. And us.

Our bodies floated side by side, haloed by the soft, celestial glow of our heavenfire—white and shimmering, the only light in the suffocating abyss.

Then... shadows stirred.

From the gloom, silhouettes emerged—at first faint as mist, then clearer, solidifying one after another.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

They came from every direction, surrounding us like an audience of ghosts: children clutching empty dolls, women with hollow eyes, men with bodies broken and scarred, elders whose bones still trembled in silence. Humans, elves, dwarves, beastkin, demons—souls of all races, all ages, all walks of life. Each figure bore the weight of suffering, etched into their forms like grief carved in stone.

Their eyes were dark voids, but their emotions... they screamed.

Terror.

Rage.

Loneliness.

Betrayal.

We didn’t just see it—we felt it. This wasn’t a vision. This was a communion. An intimate connection formed between us and the somber emotions carried by the black fire. It was as if the black fire were sharing the profound feelings of its past, the anguish and resentment of countless test subjects.

A raw, unfiltered link to every soul the curse had consumed.

Their memories didn’t speak in words.

They bled through us—flashes of anguish, waves of despair.

Agonized screams erupted around us, echoes of the moments before death—pleas for mercy, cries for mothers, whimpers of children who died in cages. The scent of burning flesh, the clang of metal restraints, the heavy silence of unmarked graves where no prayers were whispered. Emotions poured into us, like rivers bursting their dams.

Their remnants surged into our minds—flashes of mutilation. Of experimentation. Of betrayal. The horror of being treated not as lives, but as tools. It was overwhelming. Intimate. Raw. Our hearts buckled beneath the weight.

Countless tears—shed in silence, with no hands to wipe them, no arms to hold them, no voices whispering ‘it’s okay.’ Some cried until their eyes dried into hollows, until sorrow was all they had left to offer the world.

The hatred—black and boiling—toward the world that never listened, the goddess who never answered, and the people who walked by as their suffering was carved into their bones. They hated everything—loved ones who betrayed them, strangers who ignored them, the mirror that reflected the shell they became.

The pain—not just physical, but spiritual. The kind of pain that gnawed at the soul, whispered in dreams, and turned every heartbeat into a curse. Pain from lashes, from branding irons, from failed experiments. Pain from loneliness, from abandonment, from the weight of never being wanted.

The scars—some visible, jagged and cruel. Others deeper, hidden in the heart, never healing. Scars left by the words of tormentors, by the silence of friends, by the helplessness of being broken again and again, until even the will to cry was crushed.

The trauma—a silent scream trapped inside. The fear of being touched. The dread of the dark. The terror of sleep. The memories that returned without warning, choking them like chains. Many had forgotten joy. All didn’t even remember their names—only the agony.

These emotions were not fleeting shadows. They were living wounds. Etched into the very essence of these souls—layered and entangled like roots of a dying tree, each one poisoned by its past.

We felt all of it—every sob, every lash, every final, trembling breath.

Our hands trembled. Selena’s eyes—though closed in the real world—were wet. Mine too.

From our real bodies, dark blood leaked from our shut eyes—thick, glistening, and silent. Tears not of pain, but of shared mourning. The somber cascade traced a path down our cheeks and chins, a poignant testament to our shared experience with the tormented souls.

The physical manifestation of a bond we never asked for, but could no longer deny.

They were us.

And we were them.

These were not just ghosts of the curse—they were the curse. The fragments of countless lives consumed and distilled into vengeance. They had been screaming for someone to see them. And now, they had.

A thousand voices wailed in harmony.

A requiem in the dark.

In unison, Selena and I opened ourselves—not through words, but through the silent resonance of our Heavenfire auras, radiating from our real bodies into this realm. The flames shimmered, shifting from pure white into softer hues, like recollections captured in light. Through that ethereal language, we began to share.

We bared everything.

Both from our past life and current life.

Our happiness shimmered into view.

My memories shimmered like fragile glass beneath the white glow, fragments of a world once whole.

Laughter echoed in dim-lit rooms where the glow of computer monitors bathed a circle of boys in flickering blues and greens. Their voices—cheering, cursing, teasing—rose above the clicks and clacks of keyboards, woven into the digital symphony of shared victories. Late-night snacks, careless sprawls across bean bags, the thrill of winning, the absurdity of losing—it was chaos, but it was joy. The kind that only blossoms between souls who had thought nothing but games.

Another memory entered—the soft, amber glow of an evening room. My head rested on a shoulder, the two of them wrapped in a blanket too small, watching a romantic anime unfold on the screen. Her hand brushed mine as the on-screen couple held hands. My heart beat faster—not because of the story, but because of the warmth beside me. It was peace. It was simple, yet it was the happiest moment in my life.

The dreamscape shifted once more.

Sunlight blazed across the metal tracks of a roller coaster, casting shadows over laughing faces. Colleagues—no, friends—raised their hands and screamed as the cart plunged. In that rush of wind and adrenaline, all titles disappeared. They weren’t employees. They weren’t cogs. They were people. One of them threw up afterward. Another cried from laughter. They bonded not in spreadsheets, but in moments like this—in chaos, in thrill, in humanity. And in this moment, my mind filled with joy.

Then the scenery shifted.

A new life. A different joy.

The scent of lavender danced on a gentle breeze. I sat in the heart of a lavender garden, its sea of violet waves swaying beneath a warm, golden sun. Petals fluttered like tiny wings around him. On either side, my sisters giggled, their fingers brushing over the soft blossoms as they pointed out oddly shaped flowers or imagined what kind of tea they could make. I laughed—loud, unrestrained. Their joy filled the air like music, and I let it soak into my bones. No pain, no past. Just that moment.

We linked hands as we lay back to watch the clouds pass, and for a heartbeat, it felt like eternity.

Then—

Selena’s memories unfolded like sunbeams through a cathedral—silent, sacred, fleeting.

She was kneeling in front of a wooden gate, a small bundle of coins in her hand. Children rushed out—barefoot, wild-haired, eyes wide with hope. The orphans didn’t thank her with words, but with games, with shrieks of laughter, with tiny hands tugging at her sleeves, begging her to join. She did. Royal blood forgotten, she ran with them across a muddy yard, her silken shoes stained, her heart unburdened. She was not a princess then. She was just… a girl who played in freedom.

Then—white silk, rose petals, candlelight.

Her wedding day.

Her dress shimmered like moonlight. Her hand trembled as it slid into her husband’s, the air thick with perfume and tears and a love so new it was terrifying. Her heart raced beneath layers of cloth, and when she stepped into his arms during their first dance, the time felt stopped. It was her beginning. It felt like forever.

A nursery came next.

A quiet room bathed in soft morning gold. In her arms, a baby boy—her boy—cooed, nestled against her chest. He smelled of milk and warmth and innocence. Her fingers ran through his downy hair as she rocked him gently, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion and wonder. She kissed his forehead, lips trembling. In that single touch, she poured every ounce of her soul. He smiled. It healed her.

The scene changed.

A different life. A different kind of peace.

Leaves rustled beneath her bare feet as she tiptoed through a forest, a basket in her arms. Beside her, a friend—laughing, teasing, pointing at fruit high in the branches. They worked until their backs ached, then lay down on a sun-dappled patch of moss, sharing bites of stolen sweetness and stories they barely finished because of laughter. That forest became their sanctuary. Those days, their treasure.

Then the warmth of village smiles—farmers waving, children hugging her legs, elders pressing gifts of bread into her hands. She wasn’t royalty. Just Selena. And that was enough for her.

And beyond it all—the battles. The collars broke. The hands were freed.

She stood beside her master, blade drawn and glowing with resolve. Together, they had liberated dozens—no, hundreds. Her heart swelled not with pride, but with something deeper. Fulfillment. Gratitude. Her smile then wasn’t of triumph—it was of purpose. Of being exactly where she was meant to be, doing what the world had always tried to prevent her from doing.

Loving.

Living.

Moments of laughter that once seemed eternal. Dreams whispered under moonlit skies. The thrill of possibility, the glow of holding someone’s hand for the first time, the warmth of being believed in. Fleeting sparks of hope that once made our hearts beat faster. Even the simple joys—like the scent of rain or taste of home-cooked meals—we gave them all to the black fire, like offerings.

But those were not the whole truth.

Our sorrows that stole many pieces of our joys.

We shared them all.

The anguish buried beneath the smiles. The nights spent awake, trembling, trying to quiet the screams inside. The hopes we nurtured only to watch them shatter—again and again. The silent battles. The betrayals. The moments we wanted to disappear. Every scar we kept hidden beneath cheerful masks, every step we took while bleeding inside—we let it all surface, letting the curse see the humans behind the light.

The air between us grew heavier, as if sorrow itself had taken shape and settled across our shoulders. In that silence, memories clawed their way up from the depths, not in words, but in sensations—raw, vivid, undeniable

The bitter taste of betrayal. The gentle smile of a woman who once whispered promises against my ear—twisting into the expression of a snake as she left me alone. Another lover’s kiss laced with poison, her affection feigned, her loyalty elsewhere. My heart had cracked long before my body had.

In that first life, I had died not once, but many times, each betrayal digging deeper than any blade, each bully’s words silenced my laughter, each loss left me lonelier.

And this life… had offered no redemption.

I still felt the heat of that moment. My parents’ voice calling my name—hoarse, desperate—right before the massive blade skewered both of them like butchered beasts. Their blood sprayed across my face, warm and wet, as their bodies hung in the air for a heartbeat too long. My mother’s hand reached out, trembling, before falling limp.

My sisters came like vengeful storms—Sis Celes, calm fury incarnate; Sissy, wild fire in her eyes—but they came too late. Sis Celes vanished in a blooming explosion, her final glance filled with silent apology. Sissy stood her ground, blades clashing, until a sword cut through her back and up through her ribs. She collapsed forward, her fingers extended towards me before going still.

I had not just lost them—I had been forced to witness it all.

Powerless.

Useless.

It was like a curse, pushing invisible pains into me.

And beside me, Selena’s silence spoke just as loud. Her memories burned differently—no less deeply.

A gilded palace, full of gold and rot. A throne she never wanted. The cold eyes of ministers, knights, and nobles, all weighing her worth with the sharp edge of expectation. Her every breath was a performance, her every smile was a mask. Her bed, a coffin of silk—where assassins came again and again. Each time she clawed her way back from the brink of death—poisoned lungs, pierced ribs, strangled air—but something inside her died all the same.

Freedom had come with chains.

In her current life, she had known only one true friend—another girl enslaved beside her, their hands clasped in the dark, their whispered dreams a rebellion. They had shared everything.

Until hope broke.

Their rescue had come like a miracle, but the girl never saw the sun. Blood leaked from her mouth as she died in Selena’s arms—her smile gentle, forgiving. That smile haunted her dreams. She had been saved, yet she never felt more cursed.

Years passed under a kind human master—one who treated her with warmth, who taught her that not all chains were made of iron. But as a half-elf, her time was stretched far beyond her master. She watched her wither, gray, and fade, holding her hand as her final breath slipped from cracked lips.

Another goodbye.

Another piece of her torn away.

Loss had become her shadow. Just as it had become mine.

No words were spoken. None were needed.

Our stories may have been named differently, but they tasted the same—like ash and memory, like blood and silence.

Our hopes, broken many times.

Our anxieties about the future.

Our traumas about the past.

Our lives danced with the fire, echoing with mourning.

We shared all of our emotions.

Selena's sorrow entwined with mine—her loss, her shame, her loneliness. I saw it. I felt it. As clearly as if it were my own.

And she saw mine—the guilt I carried, the betrayal I still feared, the torment that hadn't faded no matter how many times I smiled.

Yet even through that raw exposure, we did not flinch.

Our Heavenfire pulsed not with purity, but with honesty. It flickered with the tears before our smiles, the brokenness beneath our strength.

We were neither gods nor saints.

We were two fractured souls still walking, still choosing to love, still daring to dream.

It was a silent symphony—a dance of pain and perseverance, of despair and defiance.

And slowly, something shifted.

In the real world, the black fire hesitated. Its rage faltered. Its hunger dulled.

Where it once saw only light to hate, it now saw kindred ache. The envy it bore—the twisted bitterness that made it lash out—transformed into something quieter.

Awe.

Because it had seen the smiles we wore… but now, it understood the cost. It saw not perfection, but resilience. Not untouchable peace, but the scars we carried with grace.

And for the first time, the black flame listened.

The requiem faded, but its echo lived on—in us, in the fire, in every soul still waiting to be seen.

Then, an angel came into that darkness realm and reached all of us.