I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

Reacher's horse led the way, his hands bound to it, much like Cadmun that morning. The difference was he wasn't unconscious or dragged on the ground. They walked for an age. In the dark, he couldn't make out any paths or fields they traversed. The sole guide was the mansion's tower on the hill, looming as if it watched them. Judging by the tower's position relative to the mansion, they were on the eastern side of the manor, moving north. Away from the slave camp.

Montgomery was ordered back to the camp alone, and he was left surrounded by the two knights. In essence, he was all alone. A trace of dread crept up his spine as they suddenly veered from the beaten path to a sheet metal cabin. Descending downhill, his hair stood on end. That place doesn't feel right.

In front of the cabin, Becket waited with a torch. A rope from Becket's horse was bound to another man: Cadmun! Relief was short-lived as he saw Cadmun covered in cuts, rags soaked in blood. Cadmun looked bewildered, even scared. At least he's alive.

Becket and Reacher only needed a few nods to communicate. Reacher approached Cadmun and tapped his bald head, making the cuts vanish. It was then he noticed Reacher's hand glowed faintly when healing. Without a word, Becket rode away. Cadmun, realizing they were swapping places, looked him in the eye. His fearful expression turned worried. Worried about what awaited him in the cabin. Even as Becket's horse pulled his bindings, their eyes remained locked. Is that a warning?

Reacher wasted no time. He dismounted to open the cabin door.

"Come on," the Mace said, his voice lacking its usual authority. "Let's get this over with."

"Are you alright?" he asked the Mace.

Reacher was taken aback by the question.

"Shouldn't you be worried about yourself?"

Reacher tugged the rope, leading him inside the dark cabin. The first thing he noticed was the putrid smell. A rancid odor assaulted his nostrils, nearly making him retch. Amid the foul smell of rot, he discerned a hint of iron. He could almost taste the vile concoction on his tongue. He also noticed his shaking hands. The cold metal underfoot registered slowly; the Slaughterhouse's interior was freezing. Unaffected, Reacher guided him to the room's center, and he heard a splash.

"Of course," the Mace muttered.

He stepped into a puddle, immediately knowing what it was. Unlike Reacher, he wasn't wearing boots; the cold liquid slithered between his toes. A shiver ran down his spine, not from cold but disgust.

"There we go," Reacher said.

The Mace searched the low ceiling for a place to tie the rope. Reacher tightened it so much he had to hold his hands above his head, forced to stand. His breathing flattened, heart pounding uncontrollably. What is this place? And what will happen to me?

"Are you comfortable?" Reacher asked.

What? What kind of question is that?

"No," he answered, "not really."

Reacher apologized: "I've never had to tie up another Player in here."

The Mace paused, searching the room but not finding whatever he sought.

Finally, the Mace rather unenthusiastically said: "Hang in there!"

An awkward silence filled the room.

If that was an attempt at a joke, he failed miserably.

A voice came from outside.

"Are you finished? It's time to go." It was the armored knight. "We must return to the mansion."

Reacher took a last look at him, tapped him on the shoulder, and left the cabin. The door slammed shut, taking the moonlight with it. After a while, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The cabin had no windows, only small slits near the ceiling that didn't truly illuminate the interior. The low light left room for imagination, and soon shadows danced in the corners. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore them. All he perceived were the sporadic creaks of sheet metal and the wet puddle of… whatever he stood in. His heart had calmed, oddly enough given the circumstances. I feel calm… and tired.

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That's when he realized he no longer felt cold. In fact, he felt quite warm inside. Reacher must have left him a present of sorts. Come to think of it, Reacher had changed his behavior since the cave. But why is that? What's with the whole 'Player' thing? What is my status?

Fading worries about the Baron or some Adventurer showing up circled his mind, but exhaustion grew uncontrollably. Just what did Reacher do?

He tried to open his eyes again, but his eyelids were too heavy. Any panic that might have arisen was quickly quashed when he suddenly fell asleep.

***

He awoke to the echo of a resounding bang. Jolting upright, he found his movements restricted by the ropes binding his wrists. His wrists ached, his hands turned a chilling blue. He must have been suspended by those ropes for quite a while. Straining to adjust his arms, he managed to loosen the bindings slightly, feeling the warm rush of blood returning to his hands. It was soothing yet unsettling, like ants crawling over his palms. Oh, I hate this.

Surveying his surroundings to trace the source of the sound, he noticed, in the dim sunlight filtering through the ceiling slits of the Slaughterhouse, that the room remained empty. The sole difference was the drying of the dark liquid that had pooled around his feet. He turned to face the door behind him, where a carcass lay sprawled on the floor. It was a pig. As the door swung open, blinding light flooded in, momentarily overwhelming his vision. When it shut with another loud bang, he discerned the silhouettes of two men.

"Good morning, Sunshine!" one greeted.

It was Baron Bonatelli, removing his sunglasses and tucking them into the lining of a light brown, sleeveless doublet embellished with gems in place of buttons. The woolen tunic beneath extended its white sleeves into black leather gloves. The Baron's black trousers, more tailored and of superior quality, mirrored those of the other man, who was clad in red garments like the servants, complete with long sleeves ending in brown leather gloves. A leather apron shielded the servant from the waist down. A featureless black mask concealed his face as he carried the pig to the center of the room. A sense of unease crept over him.

"What do you want from me?" he asked the Baron.

He had long abandoned formalities. The Baron merely shook his head.

"Where I'm from, people return a greeting. But I guess it's straight to business with you."

The servant proceeded to hang the pig by its front legs, positioning its head directly in front of him. Shouldn't it be hung the other way?

"Well, my little piggy, I just want to find out the truth," the Baron said, "And since your Paladin friend in the… let's say 'Player Ethics Committee' has a problem with Players being harmed, we'll experiment a bit."

Experiment? What does he mean?

Baron Bonatelli produced a cleaver from beneath his doublet, handing it to the servant.

"You see, Timmy here wanted to prepare something special for the twins' birthday tomorrow."

The servant reluctantly accepted the cleaver. Beneath the mask, it was unclear whether he feared or revered the Baron.

"The pig has already been largely bled in the actual slaughterhouse. You'll notice the hygiene standards here are disgraceful, but they should suffice for the little lords'."

"What—," he asked with a trembling voice, "what does that have to do with me?"

"Good question, little piggy. Normally, a pig would be slaughtered and eaten on the same day of the feast, unless you want to preserve it somehow," the Baron explained, "but as you're questioned today and we're not inclined toward PvP, I thought we'd try something new. So, I advanced this pig's slaughter to avoid wasting another. Considerate of me, isn't it?"

Timmy rotated the pig, exposing its backside. Then, the servant gently traced the cleaver along its spine, avoiding cutting the flesh.

"Back in the real world, I saw something on TV," Baron Bonatelli remarked.

Real world?

A cold touch on his back startled him. The Baron was trailing something up and down his spine, mimicking the cleaver's path.

"I think it was called the rubber hand illusion or something. I watched a lot of TV as a child, and it's been years."

Gradually, the cleaver's movements and the sensation on his back began to align. Soon, they synchronized perfectly.

"It doesn't matter," the Baron mused, his words directed more at himself than anyone else. "If this works, we'll call it the Bonatelli Piggyback Illusion."

Though he couldn't see it, he was certain the Baron was smiling with pride. He didn't completely grasp the situation, too afraid to inquire further, but he had a vague sense of what was unfolding.

"Don't worry, I just need the truth," the Baron reassured him. "You'll answer some questions, and if I don't like the answer then… Timmy!"

The servant abruptly stopped tracing the cleaver. Instead, he lifted it and struck the pig's right shoulder. At that instant, he felt an excruciating pain sear through his own shoulder. He screamed in agony, the sound startling Timmy into dropping the cleaver. The room resonated with the metallic clatter and his desperate cries. The Baron laughed maniacally, applauding himself.

"Splendid!" Bonatelli exclaimed. "How wonderful."

How is he enjoying this? What's wrong with him?

"You sick bastard!" he shouted.

"Easy now," the Baron said, "there's no need to worry. Just take a look."

Glancing at his right shoulder, he realized the Baron had struck him with a harmless stick, leaving no wound. As the shock subsided, so did the pain. How?

"Timmy, pick up the cleaver!" the Baron commanded. "Let's get this started!"