The Prologue

The world remembers kings.It forgets slaves.
In the diamond pits of Dhaara, men aren’t men. They’re tools. Flesh and bone bent until they break, swallowed by the mines and replaced by another body the next day. The Lords own everything—every stone, every scream, every drop of blood that seeps into the dirt.
The women? They are not spared. Their beauty is a debt. Their bodies are a tax. Their daughters grow up knowing they are nothing more than offerings to men who sit in fortresses built on the misery of thousands.
No one escapes.No one fights back.No one dares to dream.
Yet, in the silence of broken nights, a different kind of prayer circulates. Not for gods. Not for saviors. Those words died long ago.
It is a darker prayer.A whisper that spreads from hut to hut, mine to mine, like forbidden fire.
"If no savior comes… then let the Devil rise."
The mothers tell it to their children like a bedtime story, though their voices tremble with both fear and hope.
"One day a man will come. Not a king. Not an angel. A man forged in dust and violence. A man who carries no mercy in his heart and no fear in his eyes. He will not bow. He will not kneel. His shadow will fall upon the diamond mines, and chains will shatter in his wake."
The children listen, half believing, half afraid. For they know: the Devil is not salvation. He is retribution.

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Far from the mines, in the black hills, a man walks alone.His boots crush the gravel beneath him.His hands carry steel.His eyes are the color of war.
He does not walk like a savior.He does not move like a king.
He moves like a storm searching for a battlefield.
And whether he was sent by God or by Hell itself no longer matters—because the people of Dhaara have stopped asking for angels.
They only asked for the Devil.And tonight… the Devil is on his way to the diamond mines.