I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

Stick awoke on the cold, unforgiving stone floor of the Palace dungeon. His body ached, his head heavy with the kind of drowsiness that came from restless sleep. He rubbed his eyes, groaning softly as he pushed himself up, but beside him, Shadis was already awake, his eyes sharp and clear. He sat calmly, as if he had spent the night on a feather bed, not the damp, hard ground of a cell.

"The youth of today," Shadis muttered when he heard Stick getting up.

The sound of metal clinking spread through the cell block. The guards were coming. Stick could hear the rhythm of their footsteps long before they appeared. He pulled himself together as the familiar gleam of silver armor with gold lines caught his eye.

"Out," one said the moment the cell door opened.

The guards walked them out of the cell block, their armor pristine, but Stick's gaze drifted down the hall, toward the far end of the dungeon. Twenty cells down, separated by two sets of iron bars, was a cell block that held only one prisoner. A massive iron door, layered and reinforced, loomed over the hall, with a small barred opening to allow air inside. Two guards stood in front of that door, wearing eerily familiar armor—armor that resembled Stamos'. The helmets were particularly menacing, their sharp, angular designs giving them a cruel and imposing appearance. Their shoulder plates jutted out like jagged spikes, and their presence filled the corridor with an ominous energy. Stick shivered at the sight. He had seen them the night before, and after a night of speculation, he had a solid guess on what that door concealed. It was where Carnifex locked up the most dangerous criminals—or rather, criminal. What did that guy do wrong?

Stick's thoughts were interrupted as his eyes caught another oddity: PP. He had been placed in the cell next to them, and now the guards were taking him too. Stick raised an eyebrow, confused. PP isn't a suspect, is he?

The three prisoners were led up the stone stairs, their shackles clinking in a slow, methodical rhythm. Stick's heart leapt a little as they reached the surface, a breath of fresh, crisp morning air filling his lungs. But his brief moment of freedom was snatched away as they were quickly funneled into a side entrance of a fortress-like building, its looming walls casting long shadows over the courtyard. Inside, they passed rows and rows of Carnifex soldiers, all in identical silver armor. They marched in perfect unison, their boots thudding against the stone floor in a militaristic cadence. Stick's pulse quickened as he watched them. Their synchronicity was unnerving, as if they were part of some vast, well-oiled machine. And then, turning a corner, Stick's heart sank as he entered a vast hall. You can't be serious!

He saw a sea of soldiers, nearly a hundred of them, all draped in the colors and symbols of Carnifex. The golden bull with the crimson helmet was everywhere—on banners, on shields, on armor. It was impossible to miss. There were letters and documents spread out over desks, maps of an island hung on the wall, and chalkboards with lists, graphs, and numbers that only made sense to those who wrote them scattered throughout the hall. Stick took in the sight with growing dread. He recognized the silver armor of some soldiers, but many others wore crimson gear, similar to the soldiers he had seen at the Estate. However, it was the ones in darker, more intricate armor that made his skin crawl. They moved with confidence and power, their gear far superior. A quick inspection confirmed Stick's worst fear. Most of them are LVL 50.

The organized chaos of the hall buzzed around him as officers in Stamos-like gear barked orders, directing the soldiers to different quadrants of the city. Stick's stomach churned. Shadis nudged him.

"Take a good look," he whispered. "This isn't even their main army."

Stick could barely process what he was seeing. This is what we're up against? We struggled to just defeat Reacher, but this… this is something else entirely.

The group was led out of the main hall, down another corridor, and Stick's heart lifted slightly when they encountered a familiar face. Becket greeted their guard with a brisk "Good morning," but the guard, stone-faced, didn't respond. Becket's smile faded slightly, but Stick, on impulse, greeted him back.

"Good morning."

A fleeting smile crossed Becket's lips at that. The tension in Stick's chest loosened for a moment as Becket took over from the guard and they continued through a huge iron door that opened into an enormous hall with a high, vaulted ceiling. Stick recognized the massive glass entrance to his left because of the huge marble pillars he saw outside gleaming in the morning sun. To his right, a pair of circular marble staircases spiraled upward, wrapping around two golden statues. One statue depicted a knight, sword held high in a victorious pose. The other, a king, stood with arms crossed, his posture regal and commanding. But the king's smile unnerved Stick. It was meant to be triumphant, no doubt, but the light reflecting off the marble floor twisted it into something… sinister.

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Shadis' face fell upon seeing the statues. "Where have you been?"

As they passed by, Stick's eyes caught the inscription at the base of the knight's statue:

Ιν μεμορυ οφ τηε Γρεατ Ηερο Αρσλαν, Βικτορ οφ Δεατη, Λιβερατορ οφ Μανκινδ, Λεαδερ οφ Β4.

Stick frowned. What were those letters? B4?

The plaque at the base of the king read:

King Ahlgren of Carnifex, Victor of Life, Leader to Free-

He didn't have time to finish reading. A nearby guard barked an order, and they were forced to continue up the staircase. Stick's eyes lingered on the king's sharp features as they ascended. From the side, the smile looked even more devilish than before. Is this really the king of Carnifex? Is he really the highest authority to everyone else I've seen so far? What kind of monster is he to allow this mistreatment of NPCs?

Stick swallowed hard as his imagination ran wild with ideas of what the superior to Baron Bonatelli or that inhumane High Council member could be like.

The staircase twisted up into a vast, marbled hall, its walls lined with tall, arched windows spilling in slants of golden sunlight. The hallway stretched out like the spine of the castle, leading to a pair of immense wooden doors carved with intricate detail. The symbol of Carnifex, as big as the Prized Possession behind Stick, was etched into their surfaces, its lines clean and imposing, hinting at power and authority beyond the doorway. Two guards with Stamos-like equipment stood sentry before the door, their visors angled to watch any approaching figure. The chill of anticipation prickled Stick's skin, but something else snagged his attention: a familiar figure seated along a row of polished benches that lined one side of the hall. Not him.

Dressed in his resplendent burgundy tunic, the Lord appeared almost regal in his bearing—if not for the impatient tapping of his boot. The rich fabric caught the light from the window, making the gold embroidery shimmer with every movement. A large, circular brooch of finely worked gold clasped a dark green mantle at his shoulders, the cloak draping over him. His belt, wide and adorned with metalwork, cinched his waist and hinted at the sword that had once hung there. Every inch of his attire, from the ornate designs at his sleeves to the crest embroidered over his heart, marked him as a man of status. If only Baron Lucio Bonatelli was a man. His arms were crossed, brows furrowed in a scowl, as he engaged in a hushed conversation with a blue-haired boy standing next to him.

"I'm a High Council member now! Why can't I have my sword inside the hall?" Bonatelli demanded, his voice a low rumble.

The boy's outfit was something that Stick hadn't seen before. It was an eccentric mix of style and function. His coat flared dramatically at the shoulders, the sharp red edges and layered fabric giving him a commanding presence. Beneath the coat, a deep-blue tunic and brown trousers hinted at upper-class origins, though the well-worn fabric suggested a life that had seen battle. His right shoulder was protected by a single piece of angular armor, adding a practical layer to his otherwise stylish garb. Strapped boots and padded leg guards completed the look, giving him the mobility of a fighter while maintaining a relaxed fit. A red scarf, draped over his neck and shoulder, added a splash of bold color and movement, making him stand out among the guards. Stick's eyes fell from the boy's missing helmet to the lance in his hands. If it weren't for that weapon, Stick wouldn't have taken him for a fighter at all.

"I don't know, Lucio. Ask father about the rules, not me," the boy responded, sounding exasperated.

Did he just say father?

The boy's words had landed with the sting of familiarity, yet it seemed only to frustrate the Baron more. "They can't do that only to me! What makes you so special?"

"Everyone has to follow that rule." The boy sighed, barely concealing his impatience. "It's just that I'm a Praetorian. That's basically it."

"Don't test me, Nakamura!" Bonatelli snapped.

"He was right. You take things too personally."

Stick glanced at his fellow prisoners, but they were just as transfixed by the scene. As they approached, the blue-haired boy, Nakamura, turned his sharp gaze on them.

"Halt!" His voice was firm, his posture less so, though his expression was one of weary duty. "You're about to enter the High Council's Hall. Leave any Main-Hand weapons you carry with you here."

The blue bag he held open looked barely large enough to hold even a dagger, let alone a full-length weapon. But Becket, moving with habitual precision, activated his Inventory. In rapid succession, he withdrew two swords, each dematerializing above the bag's opening as they entered, as if consumed by the small container. Fascinating.

Finally, Becket's hand hovered over the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip, hesitating. Nakamura shook the bag to signal him to hurry up. When Stick raised his head, he met Becket's eyes. He didn't say anything, but the message in his gaze was clear, and Stick felt an odd pang of understanding. He just stared at Stick for a moment before the sword and the scabbard on his hip dematerialized. He grabbed a new item that appeared in the Inventory window and placed one last sword in the blue bag.

"Thank you," Nakamura said curtly.

He closed the bag and hung it from his belt, his sharp blue gaze drifting over each of them, lingering on Stick a moment longer than the others. His eyes narrowed as they settled on Stick, surprise sparking in their depths.

"He really is LVL 1," Nakamura murmured, more to himself than anyone else.