Fireseed

"What should we do next?" "You decide. We all trust you." Behind him, an enslaved worker who had remained quiet until now spoke up. He had sunken cheeks and a tall, gaunt frame, dressed in filthy, tattered rags. His skin was pale from long deprivation of sunlight, so translucent that veins were visible beneath. From years spent in the dim darkness, he suffered from trachoma, leaving his eyes cloudy. Yet at this moment, an inexplicable resolve shone through them, faintly gleaming even in the darkness of the mine tunnel. This worker was named Nick. He had also been born a serf, but had once served as a book-boy for a time. Both his parents had been trampled to death by the horse of the count's youngest son, and he himself had eventually been sold into the mines. Deep in his heart, he harbored a profound hatred for the Northland nobility. He had also been the earliest worker to embrace new ideals and advocate for resistance. Now, he had become Spark's right-hand man and a capable lieutenant in this long-premeditated rebellion. Spark looked around, his gaze sweeping over the workers' eyes—some bewildered, some furious, some terrified. "We keep going." "Keep going with what?" someone in the crowd asked in confusion. Spark answered firmly, "Keep liberating the workers here so they can become part of our strength! And also—kill every last noble lackey in the Valier Mine!" He raised the overseer's severed head high into the air. "We are going to show them who the true masters here are!" "Yeah!" "Kill them all!" Several workers raised their arms and shouted in unison, and soon more were caught up in the fervor, joining the roaring uproar. Yet Spark knew well that only the few he was familiar with were truly trustworthy. In the hearts of the others, deep-seated fear still lingered; under the weight of sheer power, they could easily sway with the wind. The scale of this mine was far larger than just this single branch pit where they stood. As the count's most prized asset, the Valier Mine held over a thousand enslaved laborers and nearly a hundred overseers, continuously funneling gold and silver ore to that greedy count, producing thousands of gold coins each year. And now, it was his best recruiting ground. Kindling, trailing behind Spark, summoned his courage and asked timidly, "B-but... we don't have weapons, and we don't have food. How could we possibly..." Spark raised the overseer's head again, shaking it in the air. He grinned, flashing a row of white teeth. "They have them. All we need to do is take them—no, take back what rightfully belonged to us in the first place." Terrified by the bloody head, the timid Kindling's legs went weak, and he swallowed hard. Spark projected his voice across the mine shaft: "If anyone has ideas, speak up! After all, many hands make light work!" He paused, his eyes turning sharp. "But let me lay out the ugly truth first. Now that we've killed an overseer, there's no turning back. Anyone dreaming of surrendering is living in a fantasy!" "We could steal the noble lords' golden hoes! That way they won't be able to plow their fields!" "Let's snatch their piglets!" "..." Spark gave a helpless, wry chuckle. "Er... very creative ideas. Anything else?" Nick spoke up again with a suggestion: "We need a name." "Those damned nobles always call themselves righteous, honorable knights. We ought to give ourselves a resounding name too—one that spreads across all of Anzeta." "Aye." "Nick's right." "But what should we call ourselves? None of us can read." Everyone waited, dozens of expectant gazes settling on Spark. Looking into the eyes of these workers, Spark seemed to see, buried beneath those suffering depths, sparks waiting to catch fire—seeds of flame. These fireseeds would blaze fiercely, perhaps even reshaping the world. After a moment of thought, he spoke: "Fireseed." "No matter what they call us—no matter if they slander us as demons, lowly wretches, or beasts—we will call ourselves Fireseed. Within our ranks, there will be differences in duties, but no difference in status. Everyone will address one another as 'comrade,' signifying our shared purpose." Though many of the words flew over the workers' heads, they could still feel the stirring passion in his voice and nodded vigorously in agreement. Spark tossed the head to the ground, hoisted his bloodstained pickaxe onto his shoulder, and took the lead out of the mine pit, shouting back to the crowd: "Guns in hand, follow me!" "Liberate the whole mine!" He wiped carelessly at the blood spattered on his face, his eyes gleaming with excitement. As a lore enthusiast, Spark had never felt this kind of immersive rush in any game before; previously, he had always felt like a bystander. Now, however, he felt like a maker of history. It was as though he truly lived in this world, and every enslaved worker beside him was vivid and real. "What's a gun?" "All we've got are pickaxes!" "Don't worry about it—you'll understand when the time comes." Surrounded by the crowd, Spark wiped the blood from his pickaxe, looking toward the light streaming in from outside the tunnel. In a whisper only he could hear, he muttered: "I'm just an ordinary lore enthusiast..." "How on earth did I end up as a rebel leader?" ... A few days later, the event that the Northland nobles would come to call the "Valier Uprising" broke out. An enslaved worker killed an overseer, and immediately following that, incited over a thousand slave laborers in the Valier Mine to stage an unprecedented revolt. Calling themselves "Fireseed," they slaughtered nearly a hundred overseers sent by the count, including even an honorary baron. Immediately afterward, pursued by knights, the rebellious serfs fled into the deep mountains, turning into a band of ruthless outlaws. According to the count of the Principality of Carter, the serf leading them was possessed by a demon, capable of gaining strength by drinking human blood and eating human flesh—an evil scourge that had to be eradicated. Nobles across the Northlands offered active support, determined to wipe out these demon-bewitched slaves. "A demonic cult." "A cannibalistic horde." "Scavenging hyenas." These were all "titles of honor" bestowed upon them by the Principality of Carter. Serfdom was deeply entrenched in the Northlands, having persisted for centuries until it was practically etched into everyone's bones. Although there had been sporadic resistance over the years, the region had not seen a serf uprising of this scale in decades. The emergence of such a spark struck absolute terror into the hearts of the Northland nobles, who sought to nip it in the bud at any cost. Yet the Northland nobility underestimated just how dire the situation was. Twenty thousand players had spawned across the Northland nations; aside from those co-opted by the authorities, plenty among them were troublemakers. Furthermore, the Northland nobility lacked the overwhelming military suppression of the Kingdom of Cinders, allowing resistance groups large and small to spring up like bamboo shoots after a spring rain.