The Seventy-Third

In the Abyss, you dont get a name. You get a hot iron to the flesh.

My warlock father took one look at my thin human blood, called me a bad batch, and sold me to the demon lines for three wretched crossbows. I was built to rot in the camp muck—a ditch where the old iron-hides dont waste breath on mercy. Down in those tents, the math is crude: you either carry the weight, or you feed the crows.

They stripped me of everything and left me with a number. The Seventy-Third.

To stay off the butchers block, I had to choke down their brutal drills and prove my wits could cut deeper than an overseers cleaver. A man has to be realistic out here—no one is indispensable, and the mud doesnt care who it swallows.

But you cant buy cold, concentrated malice for three cheap bows. You cant trade away the raw spite that keeps a man breathing when career soldiers are drowning in their own blood. As long as my calculations hold, I keep my head.

The rules change with every breath, and a single slip puts you under the axe. Lets see who bleeds first.