I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

The servant picked up the cleaver from where it had fallen and resumed the task of slicing along the pig's spine. Timmy's lack of confidence in handling the cleaver suggested his hesitancy in participating, likely indicating he was not a free man. Yet questions lingered. How is he doing this? Is this some kind of magic? He claims to have seen it somewhere.

Occasionally, the cleaver slipped beneath the skin, yet it was sharp enough to remove the layers without pausing the servant's motion. In some twisted comfort, he felt glad there was only a piece of wood against his back.

"Are you an NPC or a Player?" the Baron inquired.

"What? I've told you I don't know what you mean," he replied.

"Wrong answer."

The servant drove the cleaver into the pig's lower back with a sickening thud. Simultaneously, a blow landed on his own lower back, ripping a scream from his throat. The pain sent his heart racing. Without hesitation, the Baron pressed the stick to the top of his spine, mimicking Timmy's actions once more. Realization struck him—this was all a mental trick. He was convincing himself of the cleaver's presence on his back. He attempted to focus on the skin being peeled away and dropping to the floor. Don't let him get into your head.

"Hey, eyes open and to the front," the Baron snapped.

Reluctantly, he complied, observing the synchronicity between the cleaver's movement and the stick on his back.

The Baron pressed on, "Maybe this will help: Are you an Adventurer or a slave?"

"I'm a slave," he grunted in response.

"That was an obvious answer, wasn't it?" Bonatelli remarked. "I can see your belly button is missing, but your Status tells a different story."

My belly button?

He glanced down at his stomach in alarm. Sure enough, his belly button was absent. He had sensed something was amiss but hadn't given it much thought until now. Staring at his flat, featureless abdomen with no visible 'middle', he understood how wrong that was. It was like someone had erased him with a brush of divine indifference. As if even his birth had been overwritten. How?

"I don't understand," he said in disbelief, "where is it?"

"So you're aware of the anomaly. And the game perceives you as a Player. How do you achieve that without the mask?" the Baron asked.

A sense of dread welled up inside him.

"Please, you must believe me, I don't understand any of this," he begged.

"Wrong answer."

The cleaver struck again, as did the stick on his neck. Timmy flinched, then pretended he hadn't. The anticipated pain was still shockingly intense. He checked his shoulder again—no wound. No bruise. Not even a scratch. Then how…?

Bonatelli unleashed a torrent of questions: "Explain your Status! What's wrong with your stats? How are you LVL 1? What's your Class? Where are you from? What's your name?"

"I don't know. I don't know what any of this means!"

"Wrong answer!"

The cleaver descended, along with the stick on his left shoulder. The pain was tolerable this time. His brain must have seen through the trick.

"What are you?!" Bonatelli shouted.

"I don't remember anything before yesterday; you have to believe me," he pleaded.

He didn't know what else to do in this situation other than plead. Clearly, the Baron remained skeptical.

"So what? You were born into this world but as a Player? That's it? You're just an anomaly? I'm supposed to believe that?" The Baron became more and more unstable.

"I don't know," he answered, frightened.

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"Timmy!" Bonatelli noted the servant had paused. "I'll gladly make you the pig in this experiment if you don't get back to it."

The servant hastily resumed his task, cleaver in hand. The Baron turned his attention and got up in his face.

"So what's it gonna be? NPC by birth or Player by Status?" Bonatelli asked with menace.

Weary, he found the only answer he could muster was a question: "What is a Status?"

"You don't learn, do you?"

A scorching pain seared through his body, unprecedented in its intensity. His body convulsed uncontrollably; he couldn't even scream, much less breathe. What did he do?

His eyes tried to locate where the pain was coming from. Looking down, he saw it—a blade protruding from his abdomen. His vision blurred as panic signals flooded his brain, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. Attempting to calm himself with deep breaths, his chest constricted, yielding only groans and involuntary shudders. Then the blade was withdrawn. His legs buckled, and he hung limply by his wrists, gasping through bouts of coughing.

"Look at me!" the Baron commanded icily.

He struggled to regain control over his body, still reeling from the stabbing, perplexed by the absence of blood or wound. The God of Life?

A hand gripped his face, forcibly turning his head to meet the Baron's gaze. The Baron gestured upwards with his sword. He recognized the translucent white box above the Baron. At the top, the name: 'Lucio Bonatelli', beneath it a vibrant green and a light blue bar. Both bars were filled completely. At the bottom, the text and numbers read:

LVL. 50 Life Points: 6250/6250 Mana: 100%

"This is what a Combat Status looks like," the Baron said.

"It's a Status that appears when a Player engages in Combat," the Baron explained. "What LVL am I?"

Still trying to regain his composure, he hesitated. "I— I think you're 50."

The Baron smiled. "A correct answer. What a nice change of pace."

He wanted to retort, to silence the Baron's smugness, but he felt too weak to say anything. Bonatelli let go of his face, leaving him dangling by the rope.

"Now that we've confirmed you can see the game's interface, let me ask again." The Baron pressed the blade of his sword against the captive's throat. "Are you an NPC or a Player?"

"I am a Player," he replied, the only logical choice.

Admitting it felt like defeat, yet the Baron pushed on.

"Then are you an Adventurer or a slave?"

He paused. Players were supposed to be Adventurers. Why ask again? He'd already answered. Hadn't he? What do you want to hear from me?

"Well?" Bonatelli pressed.

He met the Baron's eyes, as artificial in their smile as his lips. Choosing his response carefully, knowing it might lead to deadly consequences, he faced the truth he felt within. Deep in his heart, he already knew what he wanted to say, and all he needed was the courage to speak it out loud. There was no turning back.

In an act of defiance, he declared: "I'm a slave."

Bonatelli's smile vanished as he lowered his sword. He swallowed. Was that the right choice?

"A Player slave? An enslaved Adventurer?" Bonatelli queried, "is that what you are?"

He nodded.

"That's what you choose to be?" the Baron questioned.

He nodded again, slowly this time. He anticipated Bonatelli's judgment. He could already hear the 'wrong answer' coming out of Bonatelli's mouth. He braced for the worst.

"A lot of people won't like this," the Baron remarked, "But I'm glad I could help you figure out the truth. We finally know what you are."

He glanced at the servant, ensuring Timmy was listening, then refocused on him.

"If that's your choice, so be it."

The Baron swung his sword wide. Fearing he'd be struck, he shut his eyes. He fell, scraping his chin on the floor. When he opened his eyes, he realized Bonatelli had severed the rope tethering him to the ceiling. His wrists, still bound, had left him unable to brace for the fall. Blood from his chin mingled with the dried stains on the floor. The Baron appeared amused. He felt deceived. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!

"Let's get one thing clear," the Baron said, "just because you're a Player, it does not mean that you'll be treated differently. You're still a low-life piece of trash slave who disrupted my operations. You will be punished. You have 30 hours left in this place, and if you act out again, I can easily make it 30 days. Am I understood?"

"Yes," he replied.

"Yes, what?" the Baron demanded.

He lowered his head. "Yes, my Lord."

Bonatelli eased up a bit.

"I'm doing you a favor here. If you leave the manor at LVL 1, you'll be eaten by mobs the second you step outside," the Baron said. "But who am I talking to here? You already know that from what I've heard."

A mix of guilt and shame welled up inside him. Yes, I know that.

"The Starting Zone has become a fuckfest teeming with goblins. No single player can train there alone," the Baron explained, "but even if you wanted to get stronger, the bastards from the Heavenly Union and B4 have occupied those territories."

The barrage of names confused him further, stirring anger and helplessness. He fought back tears.

"It's best you stay here and live a life of servitude. All I'm asking in return is for you to follow the rules. Don't you think that's a good deal?"

All he could manage was a quiet: "Yes."

The Baron leaned closer. "I'm sorry, I don't think I've heard you correctly. You have to speak up a bit. Yes, what?"

He swallowed. "Yes, my Lord."

"Attaboy."

Bonatelli signaled the servant towards the door, and Timmy rushed to open it, letting sunlight flood the cabin once more.

"Just remember: your life is in my hands," the Baron said as he left, "it's only through pity that you've survived your first day."

Timmy held the door as the Baron donned his sunglasses. Once outside, the Baron paused.

"Oh, and one more thing." Before the cabin door closed, he added: "Welcome to the game, Player."

The door shut with a loud clank. The sound, like the sunlight, vanished from the cabin, leaving him alone once more. As he lay on the filthy ground, bruised and broken, there was only one thing occupying his mind. What kind of game allows Players to act like this?

Unable to hold back any longer, he began to cry.