I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

The heavy iron doors of the castle creaked shut behind them, leaving Stick and PP standing at the threshold of a world that felt both familiar and alien. They had just been freed from the clutches of Carnifex, the trial's outcome offering them an uncertain release. What now?

The weight of the shackles on PP's wrists, however, was still there, even though Stick held the key in his hand. PP's fingers grazed the chains as if they were part of him, his eyes cast on Stick. Stick watched, waiting for the Big Man to make the first move. The key in his palm felt foreign, as though it belonged to someone else entirely.

"Why don't you want them off?" His voice was quiet but tinged with genuine confusion.

PP didn't respond immediately. Instead, his eyes fixed on the chains.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost distant. "Freedom's never granted where I come from. It's not real. It's always a trick. You're just the newest of my masters."

Stick flinched at the word "master." He could feel the sting of it, and he realized it was something he could never be. Not after everything he'd seen, everything he'd learned. For a moment, he could only stare at the man beside him—tall, broad, unshakable in appearance but still broken in ways Stick was only beginning to understand.

"I'm not anyone's master," Stick replied quietly, shaking his head. "Not now, not ever. That's what a Carnifex member would do. I don't own anyone, PP. That's not who I am. That's not who I'll ever be."

PP's confusion was palpable. His brow furrowed as he looked down to Stick, still understanding.

"But… you're free now. You're… you're in charge of me." He let out a short, almost laughless chuckle, as if he didn't even believe his own words. "That's how it works, isn't it?"

Stick's hand tightened around the key, trembling slightly as he extended it toward PP.

"No," he said, his voice soft but steady. "You're free now, too. You decide your path. Not me."

He pressed the key into PP's massive hand. "Take it."

PP stared at the key in his hand, small and almost insignificant against his broad, calloused fingers, unsure of what to do with it. He looked as though the world had shifted beneath his feet. Freedom. A concept so alien to him. A guard, dressed in silver armor, appeared at that moment, his footsteps loud against the silence.

"You're to be taken to your accommodations for the night," the guard said flatly, his eyes scanning them both as if evaluating them, measuring their worth for some unknown purpose.

Stick hesitated, glancing over at PP, whose face was still clouded in confusion. The giant's expression was still clouded, his fingers clutching the key tightly. He didn't move, didn't speak, as though waiting for some unseen signal. Stick tried to read him, but PP's face was a mask of uncertainty.

"What do you think?" Stick asked, his voice quiet.

The giant didn't know an answer or at least didn't want to decide for them.

"PP?" Stick encouraged him, but the giant didn't want to respond. "Well… I guess we're coming with you."

The guard nodded, leading them away from the castle. They passed through the grand marble pillars of the main entrance, a stark contrast to the hallways they had come from. The sky above was a deep navy, speckled with the faint light of stars. As they moved into the open air, the bustle of the city greeted them—vendors closing their stalls, families packing up their goods, the soft hum of life continuing despite everything that had just unfolded within the walls of the castle. They walked through the market, the sounds of merchants calling out their final offers mixing with the soft clink of crates being packed away, a reminder that for everyone else, the world had kept moving while Stick and PP's lives had been upended. The guard led them down a narrow street to a small house on the edge of the market. The building was modest but sturdy, its wooden beams dark with age, its single window cracked but clean.

"These are your accommodations," the guard said, unlocking the door. "You're not an Officer yet, so this is just temporary."

Stick said nothing. The guard's words clung to him like a second skin. He didn't want this. Not Carnifex. Not their hierarchy, their rules, their chains—visible or invisible. But he couldn't share that with the guard. Not now. Not yet. The guard handed him the key to the house, then stepped back.

"I'll see you in the morning. Seven o'clock sharp." Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared down the street, his armor clinking softly with each step.

Stick stood in the doorway, staring into the small house. The fire pit in the corner invited him to be ignited. A narrow cot sat against one side, the only piece of furniture in the room. It was simple, unadorned. Perfect.

Behind him, PP lowered himself onto the ground outside the house, leaning back against the wall. He didn't step inside.

"Don't wait for me."

His posture was rigid, his eyes fixed on the key in his hand as he turned it over again and again, the faint metallic clink the only sound he made. Stick glanced at him, considering saying something, but decided against it. He understood. There were too many questions, too many ghosts, and some battles had to be fought alone. With a sigh, he stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. It closed with a soft click behind him, and Stick was left standing in the stillness of the small room. His heart thudded in his chest. A roof over his head. Ever since I arrived, that hasn't happened.

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Stick walked over to the cot and sank down into the thin mattress, the weight of exhaustion hitting him like a tide. He expected the familiar jolt of discomfort—a wooden plank beneath his shoulder blades or the hard, uneven ground pressing into his ribs. But the moment his body sank into the mattress, he froze, startled by the softness beneath him. It wasn't luxurious by any means—just a simple layer of padding stretched over a rickety wooden frame—but compared to the cold, unyielding floors of the dungeon or the rough, dirt-laden ground he'd grown accustomed to, it felt almost decadent. For the first time in ages, he didn't have to curl his body awkwardly to avoid splinters or rocks. He stretched out fully, letting his muscles ease and unknot themselves, the sensation unfamiliar and oddly indulgent. He didn't realize how sore his back had been until the pain started to fade. The cot creaked softly beneath his weight, but it held, a sturdy and dependable thing in a way that made him feel, if only for a moment, secure. He closed his eyes and for the first time in what felt like forever, he allowed himself the luxury of rest. But even as his body finally unwound, his mind refused to settle. The weight of the iron key in PP's hand lingered in his thoughts, heavy with questions he didn't know how to answer. What have we won? What have we lost? And what will we become now, in this strange, uncertain freedom?

Stick let out a long, slow breath. His mind rebelled against the comfort of the cot, reminding him of the uncertainties that awaited tomorrow. He opened his eyes again and rose from the cot. He moved to the small window to look outside. The market was slowly emptying out. The once-vibrant stalls were closing one by one, and people—merchants, shoppers, workers—were packing up their wares. The streets were a mix of hurried movements and tired faces, each person seeming to carry some invisible burden. Stick watched them—he couldn't help it. They wore clothes that marked their social class, some richly embroidered, others frayed with use. There were smiles and nods exchanged, but mostly, there was a quiet exhaustion in the air. The merchants packed away their goods: gems, weapons, spices, food. So many items, so much life, vanishing into inventories, becoming nothing more than transactions. He stood there for a long time, watching it all disappear, and the questions echoed in his mind: Is that what I'm supposed to do now? Is that the life of a Player?

It gnawed at him. He felt so disconnected, like the time he watched his fellow slaves during the twins' birthday drinking and dancing, their lives untouched for that evening by the chaos and injustice that the Adventurers caused. He couldn't relate to them, whatever they were called: the slaves, the NPCs, the Adventurers or Players. He couldn't relate to them. Not fully. Here he was, standing on the outside looking in again, but it was worse this time. He wasn't just watching anymore. He was part of it all, yet still so separate from it. The people around him had no idea what had happened at the estate, no idea about the bloodshed, the power games or the trials. They went on with their lives, as if everything was normal, unaware that the kingdom that granted them their comfortable lives inside the capital was rotten. Or worse: they were indifferent. Stick clenched his fists, his reflection in the glass staring back at him. Should I just join them? Pretend none of this matters, pretend everything's fine?

No. That wasn't an option. Not for him. He couldn't ignore what had happened—what was still happening. The kingdom needed to change, but how? And where did he fit into all of this now that his freedom had been handed to him like a scrap tossed to a stray dog? As the evening wore on, the market began to empty. People shuffled out, their faces tired but resigned, as though the world kept turning no matter how much they longed to stop. Stick stepped outside, lingering in the doorway. He watched as the final carts were packed up, the goods slipping away into darkness. And then, amid the sea of faces, something—someone—caught his eye. Beckett.

He was hastily bargaining with a vegetable vendor, trying to convince him to stay just a little longer. Stick's feet moved before he could stop them, rushing out of the house past PP and pushing through the thinning crowd to reach Beckett. When he finally caught up, Beckett had already packed the last of his goods into his Inventory.

"Beckett!" Stick called out, his voice sharper than he intended.

Beckett turned, his face darkening at the sight of Stick. "What do you want?"

Stick hesitated, unsure of what had moved him to come over there.

"I… I don't want anything," he muttered, and then, in a rush, added, "Can I ask you something?"

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "What now?"

"Why did you lie at the trial?" Stick blurted out, suddenly unable to hold the question in. "Why did you lie about me?"

Beckett's face soured, his lips curling into a bitter smile.

"Isn't it obvious? The Baron told me to. If I didn't, I would've lost my job. And now, well…" He shrugged, a hollow look in his eyes. "Doesn't matter anymore."

Stick pressed on, despite the sinking feeling in his chest. "But when they asked you about the insurrection—why did you pin the blame on Shadis? Did you even know what he was doing? Or was it just because you hate NPCs that much?"

Beckett's jaw tightened, but he didn't answer right away. The silence hung between them like a thick fog.

"I'm just doing my job," Beckett muttered after a moment. "All I wanted was a quiet life in the capital. If you had just taken the Baron's offer, I'd be a city guard by now. But you had to screw it up."

He gave Stick a look that mixed frustration and resignation. "You fucked up my retirement. But I guess you've paid for it. You've been dogged and beaten long enough."

The words hit harder than Stick expected. He opened his mouth but found no response. Instead, he just nodded, the heavy silence closing in again.

"What now?" Stick asked quietly, the question lingering in the air between them.

"I don't know," Beckett replied, looking down at his feet. "You've got 100 gold now, compensation for your troubles. Half a year's salary. Do whatever you want with it."

Stick blinked. "Half a year's salary?"

Beckett made a vague motion to leave. "Yeah. So, I guess… good luck."

Stick stared at Beckett as he turned to go, something tightening in his chest. Without thinking, he reached into his Inventory and pulled out a pouch of [100 Gold], holding it out towards Beckett.

"I'm giving it back," Stick said softly.

Beckett paused, looking back at him with a mix of disbelief and something else. "You sure about that?"

"I'm sure," Stick answered. "It's from Cadmun. I hope you can forgive him."

For a moment, Beckett's eyes softened, as though the weight of Stick's words had reached him. But just as quickly, the bitterness returned, and he snorted, shaking his head.

"If you're so infatuated with NPCs, why don't you just buy them off the Baron?"

Stick didn't respond. He didn't have the answer. And with that, Beckett walked away, disappearing into the crowd and leaving Stick alone with his Gold. Stick stood there for a long time, the weight of his own freedom pressing harder than any chain.