I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

The forest pressed in from all sides, a tangle of gnarled roots and skeletal branches slick with frost. The Whispering Woods lived up to their name. Every gust of wind carried a thousand hushed voices, leaves rustling like distant murmurs, as if the trees themselves whispered warnings in a language none of them could quite understand. Snow clung to the undergrowth in pale clusters, disturbed only by the crunch of their boots and the occasional rustle of something unseen deeper within the thickets. The dirt path had long since faded, swallowed by creeping vines and years of neglect, forcing them to push forward by instinct alone.

Just as fatigue began to weigh on Stick's limbs and the silence turned oppressive, the trees thinned, and beyond the black lattice of trunks, dim and skeletal against the dying light, stood the faint silhouette of a small town.

Pridtur. Cadmun's home.

The town looked half-dead.

It slumped at the southern edge of the Whispering Woods like a forgotten outpost of a forgotten war. The buildings leaned like old men in the wind, stone walls flaking, wooden signs cracked and faded. Snow clung to the rooftops like ash, untouched and unmelted, and not a single soul wandered the street.

Stick stopped at the edge of the square, scanning the hushed stillness. "This is it?" he asked.

Nakamura didn't answer. He trudged on past the silent smithy, where the only sign of life was a thin, bitter thread of smoke curling from a neglected chimney. Big Man followed without a word, snow crunching beneath his heavy steps.

Only one building showed signs of activity: an inn with warped shutters and a crooked sign that read Boar's Hollow. They paused for a moment in front of the entrance, exchanging looks.

Stick exhaled. "It's an inn." He pushed the door inward.

Inside, warmth greeted them in flickering patches. A hearth still burned, barely. The furniture was mismatched and battered. The air smelled of old wood smoke, tanned leather, and faint traces of meat.

"Didn't I tell you he won't pay another copper to you bullies? Let the man sleep for once!"

The voice came from behind the bar. A young woman stood there, barely tall enough to lean over the counter. Her armor was cobbled together from scavenged plates and stitched leather, and a green hoodie peeked out from under her shoulder guards. Her long ginger hair flared wildly in every direction, like a lion's mane. Ginger hair?

She dried mugs with mechanical precision—until she saw them. Then she froze.

And dropped the mug.

It shattered on the floor.

Her demeanor shifted immediately. "Oh no, not again!"

She crouched to pick up the pieces, her eyes locked on Stick the entire time.

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"You," she said slowly, tilting her head. "You're a Player?"

Stick blinked and nodded, just as surprised as she was.

"You've got the white status box, yeah," she murmured, still staring. "But… what is wrong with your Class? And Stats? And your LVL? Are you bugged?"

Stick glanced helplessly at Nakamura. "No?"

Nakamura responded by taking a seat at the nearest table.

"Tanja," he said after checking her Status, "meet the most confusing mess of coding I've ever seen."

"I thought I was the only LVL 10 Player left," she said, moving behind the bar. "This is great! This is—"

Then her eyes scanned Nakamura's Status.

"Oh. You're Carnifex members."

Stick shook himself from the daze. "No, we're not."

He inspected her Status window: Tanja Novak, [Warrior] Class under [Paladin] specialization. Her Life Points sat at 1848/1848. Mana: 100%. And she was LVL 10! The numbers made Stick blink. Are you for real?

He looked the Status window all over.

Strength: 17

Intelligence: 9

Regeneration: 13

Armor: 19

Resistance: 12

Constitution: 16

Her [Origin] was from Poland and her [Affiliation] was with- Fling Drgns?

"What do you mean, you're not with Carnifex?" Tanja asked, more cautious now.

Behind her, a man emerged from the back room. Wiry, mid-forties maybe. Deep red hair tied at the nape. He wore a satin nightshirt and moved with the stiffness of someone long accustomed to pain.

He locked eyes with Stick. The moment stretched.

Stick stared back, struck by something he couldn't name. The color of the man's hair. The quiet gravity in his gaze. Something about him felt familiar, like a half-remembered dream. For a second, it was like seeing a ghost. On both sides.

"You alright?" Big Man asked beside him.

Stick blinked. "Yeah. Just—yeah."

The man gave a slow nod, then looked to Tanja. "You going to stare at them all night or serve them?"

"I'll do both," she muttered, waving them toward Nakamura's table. "Sit. You're lucky. We still have leftovers from dinner."

Nakamura looked between Tanja and Stick. "I'm sure we all have questions. But dinner sounds nice."

"Y-Yeah," Stick agreed, his voice catching slightly.

The man gave Tanja a look. Sunken-eyed but warm.

She rolled her eyes and vanished into the kitchen with a groan.

He turned to the guests and offered a hand, the smile on his face brittle from disuse.

"Ceridwen Redfield," he said. "But Redfield suffices."

Redfield? Stick's pulse jumped. Like the Redfield?

Before he could speak, a pot clanged from the kitchen, followed by an ear-splitting cascade of falling utensils.

"Will you keep it down? It's three in the morning! Aspen is still sleeping," Redfield yelled to the back.

A muffled "Sorry!" came from Tanja, followed by more clatter.

"Hopefully," Redfield muttered. Then he turned back to them. "So. Who are you?"

Nakamura stood and offered a polite nod. "Hirohiro Nakamura. I'm—"

"The son of High Council member Alois Herzog," Redfield interrupted. "I know."

Nakamura blinked. "You do?"

"Certainly," Redfield said, rummaging in the pocket of his nightshirt. "It's been what—four, five years? You passed through here with your father before the border was erected. You were a feisty teen back then, as most are."

"And you still remember that?"

"Yes. It's not every day you see someone with blue hair," Redfield said, stuffing herbs into a pipe.

"Still… my name and everything?"

"You gotta remember faces and names when dealing with so many travelers," Redfield explained as he lit a match. "You never know when some of them suddenly take over the country."

Nakamura had no answer, so Redfield continued, pipe now lit, pointing at Big Man.

"And you I know as well. The Baron's Prized Possession. Easy to differentiate a black man with blonde hair in the east when there's only one Westerner on this side of the border."

He turned to Stick. "But you… You're new. Even though your face is familiar."

Stick finally found his voice. "Familiar? You know me?"

Redfield exhaled a ring of smoke, eyes never leaving Stick's.

"I know that face," he said. "You look like you could be the Great Hero's younger brother… or maybe his ghost."