I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

The sky was painted in shades of orange and black as Stick rode past the burning shanty town. Flames roared through the makeshift homes, turning the world into an inferno of chaos and despair. The acrid scent of burning wood filled the air, each breath searing his lungs. Slaves dashed around in blind panic, tossing buckets of water drawn from the well onto the flames, but the fire only seemed to grow hungrier, devouring everything in its path. Desperation clung to the scene like a shroud. Some miners had taken matters into their own hands, their pickaxes crashing into the walls of nearby shacks. They were trying to tear down the buildings before the fire could consume them too, a last-ditch effort to stop the blaze from spreading further. But even as the structures fell, Stick knew it was a losing battle. His eyes were drawn to a peculiar sight as he passed the mayhem. Two figures stood beside Baron Bonatelli, spectating the chaos from a safe distance. One was a middle-aged man with a monocle dressed in a grey doublet. The other was masked, dressed like a twisted court jester who seemed to be... dancing with small but noticeable movements. An odd and unsettling presence amidst the chaos. When they noticed Stick, the Baron erupted in a silent, raging fit, his mouth moving furiously, but the distance muffled his words. Don't think about it too much.

Stick's pulse quickened, but there was no time to decipher the enigma; he spurred his horse onward, heading for the manor's southern exit. When he arrived, Cadmun was there, flanked by a few able-bodied miners, along with Shadis and the twins. Becket was tied up, looking defeated. The hopeful expressions of those waiting quickly faded when they saw Stick alone.

"Where's Smith?" Michael asked, his voice tinged with a mixture of dread and disbelief.

Stick dismounted, the weight of the world pressing down on him. He offered the reins to Cadmun, his hands trembling uncontrollably.

"Stamos…" he started, but the words choked in his throat.

"No, fuck… no…" Michael's voice broke as he collapsed to his knees, hands clutching his head. "What did he do?"

Stick's silence was answer enough. He couldn't bear to say it aloud.

"Tell me this isn't true," Michael pleaded, his voice barely above a whisper. "Did you see him die?"

"I'm sorry," Stick muttered, each word laced with the bitter taste of failure.

Michael covered his face, the weight of the loss crushing him. "Gods, this can't be real…"

Shadis, cold and unyielding, seized the reins from Stick and moved towards the twins.

"Open the gate!" he commanded, his voice sharp and unfeeling, ignoring Michael's grief entirely. "The Lords leave now!"

"But Sir, what about Smith?" Michael's voice was desperate, a thin thread of hope hanging in his words.

"If we don't leave now, his sacrifice will be for nothing," Shadis replied with a harsh finality.

He walked over to the Lords, urging them to mount the horse. Jacoby, pale and shaken, obeyed without question.

"What about Stick?" Cadmun interjected, his voice laced with concern. "You don't have any provisions without him."

"Nothing we can do about it now," Shadis replied, his tone devoid of sympathy. "We only have one horse. I apologize, Stick, but we have to leave you behind. You've failed."

A murmur rippled through the crowd, a silent agreement that cut deeper than any words. Stick's stomach churned, the scenes from the stables flashing before his eyes. He glanced at Michael, crumpled on the ground, and a tear escaped down his cheek. He's right. I've failed. PP was right all along.

But then Varyan's voice rang out, defiant and strong. "He didn't fail!"

All eyes turned to the young Lord.

"Without him, we wouldn't have gotten this far," Varyan continued, his voice growing more fervent with each word. "We have a real shot at escaping only thanks to him."

"Varyan…" Stick whispered, unsure of what to say.

"You can't put him down like that," Varyan insisted, ignoring the tension building around him. "He doesn't deserve this treatment. He should come with you for everything he's done."

"Milord, what are you saying?" Shadis's voice was edged with frustration.

Varyan walked over to the spiked defense and lifted it, determination burning in his eyes.

"What kind of nonsense is that? Get on the horse now!" Jacoby shouted, his patience fraying.

"Cadmun said it: Stick has to come with you, or else you'll starve," Varyan argued, standing his ground.

"We will hunt something on the way," Shadis snapped. "We don't have time for this, Milord."

But Varyan ignored him. "Stick, what do you say? Will you help my brother escape?"

Stick was torn, honored but overwhelmed, unable to find the words.

"Stop this nonsense!" Jacoby barked. "Get him on the horse right now!"

Some miners grabbed Varyan by the shoulders, apologizing as they restrained him. "Sorry, Milord."

Varyan struggled, his protests growing more frantic, but the miners managed to lift him onto the horse. Cadmun opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, a roar echoed from behind them. Reacher, with a wild look in his eyes, was bearing down on them, an arrow striking the ground near their feet and startling the horse.

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"Go! Now!" Jacoby yelled, his voice tinged with panic.

"Out of the way!" Shadis screamed, whipping the reins as the horse bolted forward.

The miners scrambled to clear a path, and soon the horse was galloping away, Shadis holding the struggling Varyan in place. The cries of protest faded as they vanished into the woods, leaving the remaining slaves to hurriedly reset the spikes, sealing the gate behind them.

A collective sigh of relief went through the group. Some of them even started to cheer.

Stick stood there brushing away his tears, his heart heavy, as he whispered, "Thank you, Varyan."

The young lord was right. Even though Stick ultimately didn't escape with them, the plan was still a success. It is done. We did it!

A sound behind him made him turn. Reacher, with a crazed look in his eyes, brought his horse to a halt, glaring at Stick with a dangerous intensity.

"Aren't you a hero, Mr. Arslan?" Reacher sneered. "Running off when shit hits the fan."

Stick opened his mouth to reply, but Cadmun stepped forward, sword drawn, his movements fueled by a barely contained fury.

"No, John, you don't understand," Cadmun growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "We're not running away. At least not yet."

Cadmun turned to give a quick wink to Stick. His smile said everything. We're gonna get that horse!

Reacher yelled, his bow drawn tight, arrow quivering against the string. "I don't remember asking you a goddamn thing!"

Just as they had planned, Reacher became the only Adventurer able to pursue them. Now, they were alone, with him and the last usable horse in the entire estate. If we get Reacher off that horse, we basically guarantee the Lords' escape. Not only that, but I still have rations in my Inventory. If I catch up to them in Pridtur, we'll save so much time getting help.

"That meek arrow won't do, John," Cadmun taunted, with Becket dragged in front of him like a shield. "Or do you really think you have that great of an aim?"

Reacher's eyes scanned Cadmun's gauntlets, boots, and helmet. He inspected Becket, missing those exact pieces of armor, who in ashamed silence looked at the blood dripping from his nose onto the ground. The sign of being reduced to 0 Life Points. A flicker of something crossed Reacher's face. Confusion, suspicion.

"How did you get his stuff? What did you do to him?"

Cadmun's grin widened, malicious. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"You really want to die, Cadmun?" Reacher narrowed his eyes, voice low with a dangerous edge. "Is that so?"

He lowered his bow and slung it over his back, which made it disappear, drawing his mace and shield instead.

"Do you think the barking of a lapdog can intimidate a knight of the House Blitz?" Cadmun spat, pushing Becket forward slightly.

Reacher's horse took a tentative step forward, its powerful hooves leaving imprints in the dirt.

Cadmun's voice sharpened, "Hold your horse! One more step, and he gets it."

The horse stopped, but Reacher only tilted his head slightly, the edge of a grin tugging at his lips. "You know killing him won't change a thing? The next Player in line will come around and replace him. And guess who'd be up for a promotion if that fucker's gone."

Cadmun's blade hovered at Becket's throat.

"Wanna test that theory out?"

"You'd be doing me a favor." Reacher shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

"Just returning the gesture."

"See if I care."

"You're bluffing," Reacher said, his voice calm, probing.

"And you're stalling," Cadmun shot back.

Reacher's expression shifted. The two men stood in a tense silence, both weighing the next move. It was as if time had frozen around them, the air thick with tension.

Then, Reacher broke it with a sneer, "Is that the honor of the House Blitz you're so proud of? Face me like a man."

Cadmun sneered, "Then why don't you get off that horse, John?"

Reacher dismounted slowly, his eyes locked on Cadmun's. Stick's heart leapt for a moment—Reacher was off his horse! Great work, Cadmun.

"I've been waiting a long time for an excuse to kill you, Baldy."

"I can face the God of Death with no regrets. Can you do the same?"

Reacher's smile was cold, his mace heavy in his hand. "I won't have to because you'll be sending him my regards."

Reacher dashed forward, closing the gap between them in an instant. With a snarl, Cadmun threw Becket to the ground and rushed to meet him. The clash of metal rang out as their weapons collided with each other's shield, the force of the impact reverberating through the air.

"I'll feed you to the wolves, you little goblinshit!" Cadmun bellowed, his voice cutting through the tension like a jagged blade.

Reacher sneered, eyes wild with fury. "I can't wait for Stamos to rip your tongue out too, you fucking pushover!"

Cadmun's face twisted in anger. His pent-up fury snapped like a taut string. With a guttural roar, he released the interlocked weapons and pushed back Reacher, sending him staggering back. Reacher barely had time to recover before Cadmun drove his shield upward, bashing it into the opponent's face. Reacher recovered quickly, his mace swinging in a brutal arc toward Cadmun's head. The heavy weapon connected with a metallic screech, and Cadmun, to his credit, took the blow without hesitation. He used the opening, driving his sword between the gaps in Reacher's stance, stabbing into his opponent's torso. Yet, no blood flowed. The sound was a metallic clank, as if the sword had struck iron instead of flesh. Each blow that landed—the mace, the sword, the shield—seemed to enter and exit the body without leaving a mark, but with the unmistakable sound of metal as if the weapon had hit itself.

"Fuck," Reacher grunted, stumbling slightly, but remaining uninjured.

The same was true for Cadmun, whose temple showed no sign of blood. It seemed that victory in this "game," as the Baron had once called it, wasn't just about skill; it was about drawing first blood. And right now, both were waiting for the other's Protection to fall. Both men knew what was happening, of course, but it was still all new to Stick.

Cadmun's eyes gleamed with a feral hunger. "Afraid of a little blood?"

Their battle was marked by sheer, raw aggression. Every swing of their weapons was intended to inflict maximum damage, as if each were racing toward the moment when the other's Protection would shatter. Mace met sword in a furious, unrelenting rhythm, the clang of metal striking metal ringing in their ears. Focusing on defense was optional. Every few seconds, however, one of their shields would flare crimson red, blocking an incoming attack every time without fail. It was in these moments that the weapons seemed to move on their own, drawn to the glowing shield like magnets. Reacher's mace crashed into Cadmun's crimson shield with brutal force as if the mace was being pulled by some unseen power. The same happened when Cadmun's sword was drawn to Reacher's glowing defense, battering it with a series of rapid strikes. Not willingly.

Stick had been watching the battle unfold from the sidelines, wondering what the glowing shields meant, but more important matters guided his attention. His eyes darted between the men and the abandoned horse. Now was his chance. While Reacher and Cadmun were distracted, he could steal the horse and escape. His feet took flight, and he made a run for it. He sprinted as fast as he could, his lungs burning from the winter cold and all exhaustion accumulated over the course of the day, but he ignored all of it and kept running. He didn't turn around, confident that Reacher had no possibility to come after him. Not with Cadmun on his neck!

The horse was at arm's length, freedom within his grasp, but just as Stick reached it, a silhouette stepped from the trees, framed in the flickering firelight—broad-shouldered, scarred, unmistakable. PP. The traitor.