I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

Of the six servants, just one donned a black uniform, meticulously overseeing the actions of the four women and Timothy. Two servants ensured a constant supply of cool water in the glasses, while the other two circled the table, serving plates filled with a selection of meats, nuts, and fruits from the sumptuous spread.

"Timmy, fancy some goose?" asked the Baron.

Timothy approached Bonatelli, who, not offering him a knife, instead summoned a cleaver from his inventory. Stick's heart quickened. The servant clumsily detached the legs of the goose.

"Brings back memories, doesn't it?" Bonatelli remarked, his gaze fixed on Timothy, who struggled not to damage the plate with the unwieldy tool.

Stick's stomach churned as he watched the severed goose leg land on the bloodstained floor of the Slaughterhouse.

"I must say, it's quite impressive how you've managed thus far."

Stick's eyes remained fixated on the goose leg dripping with meat juices on the plate before him.

Bonatelli turned to Stick. "Come on, dig in! Buon appetito!"

Stick's hand trembled as he attempted to grasp the fork. The Baron watched him intently until he took the first bite.

"Delicious, isn't it?" Bonatelli asked slyly.

Stick nodded. It truly was delicious, yet whatever hunger or appetite remained quickly vanished.

The Baron clapped once. "Wonderful."

The same couldn't be said about the manner in which the Baron ate. He crammed his mouth with a mix of everything on his plate, seeking to savor the maximum variety of flavors, while juices and saliva stained the fine linen over his thighs. Bonatelli devoured his food with no regard for decorum, smacking his lips and drinking water when struggling to swallow. That boy is not a lord.

Once the Baron finished, a servant removed the dirty plate, while another readied the next course. Bonatelli seized the break to initiate a conversation.

"Now that you are nearly a fully-fledged Player, Stick," Bonatelli began, "I have a proposition for you."

"What is it?" Stick asked, nearly forgetting to add, "Milord?"

"I want you to join Carnifex under my command."

"Join you?" Stick echoed, his voice uncertain.

"Yes," Bonatelli said. "You'd skip right past the Citizen, Vassal, and Soldier rank. As an Officer of mine, you'll be part of the Middle Echelon of the guild."

"I don't understand," Stick admitted.

What do you want from me?

The Baron smiled. "I'm offering you Becket's position. Horse, armor, the works. We'll ensure you reach the appropriate LVL. But you won't be just a mere Soldier like him. You'll be an Officer of the guild comfortably below the Gentry, people like me. You, Sir Arslan, will have authority over others. Take Reacher or Gallagher as an example. You could treat them however you see fit."

Stick's heart sank. Authority over Reacher?

"Your duties would remain the same as Becket's." Bonatelli took a sip from his glass. "The only difference being that the daily quota will rise to eight gems per miner."

He gulped. Eight gems was an impossible target for many miners. But the offer was tempting. Power, comfort, security. He could finally escape the endless suffering. And if as an Officer his word was over Reacher's, he could improve the situation of the miners. Where's the catch?

"Why me?"

"It's an easy choice." Bonatelli stuffed his face with the second serving before continuing. "You've spent the most time directly working with the NPCs here. You understand them better than anyone else. You know them, they know you. If anyone can keep them obedient, then that would be you."

"What will happen to Becket?" Stick asked, fearing the worst.

"What a nice guy you are, always thinking about the others," the Baron's lips smacked. "Don't worry about Becket. He'll move on to bigger duties and return once he's finished. I'm sure he will. If he survives."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

What does that mean?

Bonatelli refused to elaborate further and instead waited for Stick to speak.

"If I accept," Stick said slowly, "I'll be able to treat the others how I see fit? And Reacher has to follow my lead?"

The Baron nodded. "Yes. You'll have that power. But remember, the quota must be met."

Stick felt a surge of conflicting emotions. Joining the Players would definitely make him a traitor in the eyes of the other miners, but it would also give him the leverage to protect them, to make their lives a little less hellish. He needed to consider all angles. Should I still go through with my plan? The next holiday is coming up, and I don't know when we'll have the chance to escape again. Or is this the best way to bridge the time until Cassandra returns? To buy time and make our lives more comfortable until the next birthday of the twins?

"I need some time," Stick finally said. "To think it over."

The Baron's eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded. "Very well. But don't take too long. This opportunity won't last forever."

With one swift motion, the Baron produced a letter with an intricate seal on it. Upon adding it to his [Inventory], Stick revealed it to be a [Letter of Initiation].

"I want an answer by the end of the week," Bonatelli said. "Goodbye."

With that, the Baron turned his focus completely on the meal in front of him. The servant in black asked Stick to leave, although it was less of a request and more of an order. A quick look to the disinterested Baron confirmed that he wasn't welcome anymore. He left the grand hall with the lavishly laid table having eaten only one bite.

With his dealings with the Baron concluded, Stick reverted to his role as an ordinary slave miner. As midday hadn't yet passed, Gallagher transported him to the mines on horseback. They sped along the forest path, his mind weighed down by the Baron's proposal. Is there even a possibility to decline?

As they rounded a bend, the caravan came into view, returning to the manor, the wagons now empty of logs. The servants, weary and disheartened, trudged alongside, heads bowed, while the Players lounged comfortably in the driver's seat, commanding the horses. Stick watched them pass, a pang of guilt twisting in his gut. If I accept the offer, what would they think of me?

He stared at the [Letter of Initiation] in his [Inventory] for a long while, unaware they had arrived at the mine until the red gleam of the knights' armor caught his eye, prompting him to dismount from Gallagher's horse. The Sword and the Mace occupied their usual spot under the canopy. Reacher was by the fire, slumbering beneath a large pelt, his face softer and more relaxed, a stark contrast to the sleepless night he must have endured. Becket, awaiting their arrival, unceremoniously handed Stick a pickaxe, sending him to work the moment he arrived. Maybe he once looked like me, before he started breaking faces over dropped logs.

"Your quota remains unchanged. No exceptions today," stated the Sword.

Stick snatched the torch Becket had just lit for him, immediately hurrying to his position at the cave's end. His fine clothes drew suspicious glances from the other miners as he passed, aware that something about him had changed. Stick kept his head down, the weight of his impending decision heavy upon him. What would Montgomery say right now?

In the cave's deepest recess, a wooden tunnel, where he had previously worked with PP, led further into the darkness. Surprisingly fresh air lingered, an oddity in the usually stifling depths. As he ventured deeper, the air grew colder, yet the torch, which he would usually extinguish for safety, burned brightly still. He held it low, cautious not to ignite the wooden structure above. Stick marveled at the craftsmanship; it was solid, designed to endure the perilous conditions of the gravel above. Reacher sure knows his work.

The tunnel opened into a spacious cavern, its walls glittering with embedded gems. Stick's breath caught in his throat at the sight—rubies, emeralds, and even diamonds lined the walls. This is big!

"Amazing, isn't it?" a voice echoed.

It was the Battleaxe, approaching from deeper within the cavern with heavy, clanking footsteps, navigating the darkness without a torch. Stick's hair stood on end, the knight's bulky armor tainted with blood on its left side. What the hell?

He [inspected] the [Warrior] [Knight] and learned his name was George Stamos. And he's [LVL] 50!

Stick gulped.

"I didn't think we'd discover this place," the Battleaxe remarked.

"What are you doing down here?" Stick queried, noticing a trail of blood leading further into the gloom.

The Battleaxe halted. "Me? Just ensuring that business is handled properly."

Business? What business?

With one concern in mind, Stick asked, "Where's PP?"

Stamos tapped a finger against his helmet as if in thought, leaving a bloody mark on his left temple. "The Prized Possession? It's further inside."

A nauseating sensation began to swell within him as the red liquid pooled beside the Paladin's boot. The knight moved again, his heart pounding. The air before his face filled with his vaporous breath, his breathing growing increasingly shallow. The knight steadily closed the gap between them, resolved. Stick's grip on his pickaxe tightened, his fingers turning white. Don't come any closer. Or I'll… I will—

Yet the knight passed him by without a second glance. Stick remained frozen.

"I'd hurry if I were you. It's dangerous around here," Stamos warned as he entered the tunnel.

When the sound of metal on wood faded, a wave of relief washed over Stick. He coughed, realizing he'd been holding his breath the entire time. If he wanted to kill me now, I'd be powerless to stop him. Damn! I'm such a weakling. What kind of hero are you, Stick?

There was no time for self-pity, however. Someone was in danger ahead. Stick set his doubts aside and ventured deeper into the cave. There was only one path to follow, and the more he ran, the more prominent the blood trail became. Damn it!

He picked up the pace, his sprint becoming a full-on dash when he saw the dying light of a torch on the ground. In its flickering light, he discerned the silhouette of a large man sitting against the wall, clutching his belly. Directly opposite, a… creature with numerous large, rigid appendages lay motionless. PP!