I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

Stick's heart pounded as he stared down at Reacher, who was gasping for breath on the ground. Reacher's Life Points flickered dangerously low at 7 [LP]. Stick could feel the weight of the moment pressing on his chest.

"What are you doing, Stick? Get out of here!" Cadmun's shout pierced through the tense air.

Stick's head snapped towards Cadmun, who was still reeling from their brutal exchange. Distracted by Stick's presence, Cadmun failed to notice the telltale shimmer in Reacher's hand. The mace reappeared with a flash, and before Stick could shout a warning, Reacher swung the weapon with all his remaining strength. It smashed into Cadmun's knee with a sickening crack. Oh no!

Cadmun howled in agony as his leg collapsed under him, his kneecap shattered beyond repair. He crumpled to the ground, writhing in pain, clutching at his mangled leg. Stick watched in horror as Reacher took the opportunity to pull himself to his feet, coughing violently but still managing a smirk through the pain.

"Damn, Baldy," Reacher rasped, rubbing his throat as he caught his breath. "You're a tough one. Two more hits, and I'd be a goner."

As Cadmun struggled to rise, Reacher's shield shimmered out of existence, replaced by a flask filled with red liquid. Stick's eyes widened in realization. A healing potion.

"No!" Cadmun growled, trying to push himself up, but Reacher's metal boot connected with his ruined knee, sending Cadmun back to the ground, screaming in agony.

"Nice try." Reacher sneered as he raised the flask to his lips, taking long gulps.

Stick watched helplessly as Reacher's [LP] shot up, the red liquid rapidly restoring his health. With each swallow, hope drained from Stick's body. There's no way Cadmun can fight him now.

Reacher let out a satisfied sigh, tossing the empty flask aside, making it dematerialize. Instead, his mace materialized once again in his hand.

"Now, what was that you were saying about facing the God of Death?" he asked mockingly.

He raised the mace over his head, ready to end the fight once and for all. Cadmun, gasping and half-blinded by pain, raised his sword to parry. But Reacher didn't aim for his head. With a swift, brutal swing, Reacher brought the mace down on Cadmun's sword hand. The sound of metal clashing against the hilt mixed with the sickening crunch of bones breaking. Cadmun screamed, his sword clattering to the ground as his fingers twisted at unnatural angles.

Stick had seen enough. Without thinking, he leapt off the horse and ran between Reacher and Cadmun, throwing himself in the line of fire.

"Stop!" he yelled, his voice cracking.

Reacher froze, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What the hell are you doing?"

Stick, panting heavily, squared his shoulders. "You've won. He can't fight anymore."

Reacher's face twisted into an ugly expression. "Get out of the way, you wimp."

"I said, stand down!" Stick's voice trembled.

"I won't spare you. You're not an Officer."

"Then strike me down," Stick panted, holding his ground. "If you want to get to Cadmun, you'll have to go through me."

Behind him, Cadmun groaned. "Stick, no! You have to leave!"

Stick glanced over his shoulder. Cadmun was barely upright, his face pale from pain. His hand, a gruesome dark blue, hung uselessly by his side. It's over.

"He's done," Stick said firmly, turning back to Reacher. "You've won."

"Stick, no…" Cadmun weakly said.

Reacher's eyes gleamed coldly. "This is a fight to the death. There's only one way it ends."

Before Stick could react, Reacher lunged. His mace swung out, but instead of striking Stick, Reacher shoved him aside. Stick stumbled, nearly falling, but regained his footing just as Reacher raised the mace again. Cadmun got up on his knee, shield in hand, ready to conclude their fight, when suddenly, a massive shadow was cast over them. PP—his enormous arms trembling with effort—threw himself between Reacher and Cadmun, locking his arms around Cadmun's torso and holding him down. Reacher's mace connected with PP's back with a dull thud. PP grunted in pain but didn't let go. He took the full force of the attack.

"What the fuck is this?" Reacher roared.

Straining under the weight of his injuries, PP gritted his teeth. "Don't worry, Sir! I'm restraining him, so you can concentrate on capturing the weaker ones."

Reacher blinked, momentarily thrown off. "What?"

"They've surrendered, Sir," PP said, his voice strained.

Stick's eyes darted towards the group of men who had been holding PP down earlier. They were slumped in defeat, their heads bowed. Silent tears streamed down their faces; however, they all carried smiles. They posed no threat anymore. I see.

"That's right!" he shouted. "We give up. We know we've lost."

Reacher looked incredulous. "Do you now?"

"Yes," Stick said firmly, his voice gaining strength. They had bought enough time for the others. There was no need for more death. Even if it means giving up on freedom, it's the right decision.

"Stand down, John!" a voice barked from behind.

Stick whipped around to see Becket, finally free from his restraints, courtesy of PP.

"There's no need for further violence," Becket said, his voice authoritative. "They've surrendered."

Reacher's face twisted in fury. "I don't give a fuck!"

"This is an order, Soldier!" Becket snapped.

"An order?" Reacher's nostrils flared. "I'll show you what I think of your orders!"

He raised the mace again.

Stick stepped forward. "I know you won't commit a PVP crime."

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

For just one fleeting moment, one split second, Stick saw hesitation in Reacher's eyes. It was a very rare and short-lived glimpse of the humanity that still sparked inside the Mace. However, it fizzled out as quickly as it came.

"You decided to be an NPC today."

Before Reacher could make another move, a loud, panicked neigh tore through the air. The group turned in unison as a blood-soaked horse stumbled and collapsed nearby. At the last second, the rider, Stamos, leapt from the horse, landing heavily on the snow. The atmosphere shifted instantly. Stick's heart sank. Now it's really all over.

Stamos dusted the snow off his armor. He didn't mind all the blood smeared on his armor over the course of the day; instead, he eyed the horse's body ravaged with bite wounds. With a single, brutal motion, he swung his battleaxe down, ending the horse's suffering instantly. Its death rattle made Stick's hair stand on edge. Blood pooled around its body, steaming in the cold.

"How insubordinate," Stamos's voice echoed ominously behind his helmet.

Cadmun, reinvigorated by hatred towards Stamos, struggled to get free, but PP tightened his grip.

"John Reacher," Stamos's voice boomed, "are you really going to disobey a direct order from a superior officer?"

Reacher stiffened, understanding the gravity of the situation. Slowly, he sheathed his mace, his face sinking into a deep scowl.

"No, Sir."

"Then clean up this mess." Stamos delivered his orders with cold precision. "Take these rebelling NPCs to the shanties. The Baron wants more hands dealing with the fire. It can't spread to the mansion."

Stick's eyes instinctively darted towards the center of the estate. The once towering pillar of smoke had thinned, but flames still licked at the edges of the buildings. The thought gnawed at him. It's still burning. After all of this, it's still burning.

"Yes, Sir," Reacher responded, though his voice carried none of the malice it held earlier. It was subdued, defeated.

"Good," Stamos said, but as Reacher turned to mount his horse, Stamos raised a hand. "No."

Reacher paused mid-motion, his head tilting in confusion.

"On foot," Stamos commanded, his voice cold.

For a moment, Stick thought Reacher would argue, but he didn't. He simply nodded, a subtle but unmistakable sign of submission. Without a word, he turned away from the horse and moved towards the gathered slaves, rounding them up with a mechanical detachment that had replaced his earlier fury.

"Becket," Stamos called next, his tone unchanged. "Watch over those three until further notice."

"Yes, Sir," Becket replied with a firm nod, his expression unreadable.

Stick watched as Becket walked over to where Cadmun had dropped his sword. He picked it up, gripping the hilt tightly as if he promised to never lose it again, before sheathing it in the scabbard it belonged to. Stick couldn't help but feel a pang of shame. That sword had been Cadmun's lifeline in the fight, but it was also used to harm and potentially kill a human being. We're no different from them.

Stamos, without another glance at the chaos he had orchestrated, mounted Reacher's horse. He rode with effortless grace, like the whole world bent to his will. The others—Stick, PP, and Cadmun—were left standing in the snow, watching as he moved towards the barricade blocking the exit.

"Open it," Stamos ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.

Michael stood in front of the barricade, his shoulders tense, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He didn't move. Stick's heart sank. Don't do it, Michael.

Stamos stopped the horse, his gaze drilling into the miner. "Out of the way."

Michael's jaw tightened.

His voice trembled but held a steely resolve. "No. Many died today so the Lords could escape."

Michael was standing there, defying Stamos with every fiber of his being. He was no stranger to a fight, but this was just lunacy. Stick's hands clenched at his sides, and for a moment, he thought there might still be a chance for peace. Stop it!

But then, with a swift motion, Stamos struck. His battleaxe came down in a blur of steel, slicing clean through Michael's chest. The enormous pain, even though dulled by his Protection, subdued any screaming.

"No!" Stick screamed, but it was too late.

Stamos didn't stop. With cold, ruthless efficiency, he swung the axe again. The sound of metal meeting flesh was sickening, a sharp crack that echoed in the cold air. Michael staggered, gasping, his eyes wide with shock as blood sprayed across the snow. This time, it bit deep into his side, and he crumpled to the ground with a muffled cry, blood pouring from the wound like a river. Stick's legs moved before his mind could catch up. He ran towards Michael's fallen body, his heart thundering in his chest. This can't be happening.

He dropped to his knees in the snow, his hands shaking as he pressed them against Michael's wounds, trying in vain to stop the bleeding.

"And you're just one more on the list," Stamos said dismissively, as if Michael's life had been nothing more than an afterthought.

"You asshole!" Stick shouted. "You fiend!"

But Stamos didn't even look back. He simply ordered the remaining miner to open the barricade. The poor man, trembling from head to toe, complied without a word, his face pale as he removed the wooden defenses. As Stamos rode off towards the forest, disappearing into the trees in pursuit of the fleeing Lords, Stick was left alone with his grief. He leaned over Michael's body, blood staining the snow beneath them.

"Michael… no." His voice cracked, a desperate whisper. "Why did you do it?"

"These boys… they're our future." Michael's chest heaved weakly, his breath rattling in his throat. "We… can't give up on them that easy."

Stick's vision blurred with tears. "This is my fault. I'm so sorry."

Michael's hand twitched, but his eyes were unfocused, his skin turning an ashen grey. He coughed once, then twice, and then… nothing. His body went still. His vacant eyes stared up at the cloudy sky, unmoving.

"No… no, no, no." Stick shook him gently, his voice breaking. "Please no."

But Michael was gone. Stick's world crashed around him. A cold dread, deeper than anything he had ever known, took hold of his heart. He buried his face in his hands, blood streaking his skin. All of the Goblin Hunters were gone. And it was his fault.

"Fuck no," he whispered, the weight of loss suffocating him.

A hand touched his shoulder gently. Stick looked up, his tear-streaked face meeting Becket's concerned gaze. Becket offered him a flask, his expression softening. Without thinking, Stick grabbed the flask, unscrewing the cap and pouring the red liquid into Michael's mouth. Please work. Please…

Stick knelt by Michael's lifeless body, his hands trembling as he cradled his friend's head. PP and Cadmun knelt beside him, their faces etched with worry, but the potion did nothing. The red liquid from the flask dribbled uselessly from Michael's lips, pooling with the blood on the cold ground. Michael's body remained limp, his chest still. There was no sign of life. The despair in Stick's chest solidified into a cold, hard knot. It was supposed to be a rebellion for freedom, but here they were, with yet another body on the ground. He had failed.

Suddenly, a voice rang out, cutting through the thick silence. "There they are!"

Stick looked up, his blood-drenched hands slipping off Michael as he turned to face the oncoming group. The Baron Bonatelli approached with his entourage, flanked by the old man and the masked jester. The Baron's eyes narrowed, his face twisted in fury. The Baron's cold eyes landed on Stick.

"You," he said, pointing with disdain. "You led this little insurrection, didn't you?"

Stick's mouth felt dry. He wanted to deny it, to tell them that it had all spiraled out of control, but what would it matter? They had already decided he was to blame.

"Answer me!" the Baron barked.

Stick met the Baron's gaze, steeling himself.

"Yes," he said, voice steady. "I did."

The Baron's lips curled into a twisted smile. "How noble of you to admit it. But nobility won't save you."

"My oh my," the old man said, his voice dripping with condescension. "What will we make out of this mess?"

The old man stepped forward, bending low to inspect Michael's body.

"What a waste of good labor," he muttered, kicking at Michael's limp form with his boot.

Stick's blood boiled, and he had to fight every urge to strike him down where he stood.

The jester clapped his hands excitedly, his voice high-pitched and giddy. "What an exciting holiday!"

The face behind the mask was unreadable, but Stick got the feeling that that psychopath got some sort of excitement out of their situation. He glared at the ground, his fists still clenched. The weight of failure settled on his shoulders like a shroud. We were so close. So close.

"Well, then," the old man said as he stood. "Let's have these three locked up. This has become a matter for the High Council."

As Becket motioned for them to move, Stick gave one last look at Michael. The man who had believed in his plan, even to the very end. I'm sorry, Michael.

They were led away to be shackled by Carnifex once again, their hopes of freedom dashed for now. But deep inside, Stick knew this wasn't the end. The fire hadn't died—it was still burning. And it had to keep burning, for their future was uncertain and the nightmare far from over.

I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave - END OF BOOK 0 Part 1: Captivity