I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

Stick's eyes were open long before the first knock came at the door. He stared at the ceiling, his body motionless but his mind churning. Sleep had evaded him all night. Each time he tried to close his eyes, visions clawed at the edges of his mind—Smith's sly, knowing grin, Titor's hands reaching out from the estate to drag him back into servitude, Michael's hollow stare filled with disappointment. He rolled onto his side, then his back, then sat up abruptly, the cot creaking beneath him. There was no use trying anymore. He couldn't escape the memories, and he couldn't escape the decision waiting for him at daybreak. A sharp knock cut through the stillness.

"It's time," came the voice from the other side of the door.

Stick sat motionless for a moment, staring at his hands as if he might find the answer there. But when the door swung open, he forced himself to stand. The guard stepped inside, his silver armor catching the faint firelight. It gleamed so brightly that Stick could see his own reflection in its polished surface. The man carried a folded bundle under one arm, and he placed it wordlessly on the cot.

"New clothes," the guard said in a tone that was neither warm nor cold.

Stick hesitated before unfolding the bundle. His stomach twisted at the sight of crimson fabric, the same shade as the Carnifex emblem. The golden bull was stitched prominently onto the back, its horns gleaming even in the dim light.

"You're expected to wear it," the guard said, his voice flat.

Stick stared at the uniform, bile rising in his throat. The red and gold felt like a brand, a mark of everything he despised. He thought of Shadis, chained and defiant, refusing to bow to the Guild even in the face of a life sentence. And yet, here he was, standing in silence, holding the uniform of the very people he swore he wouldn't become.

"I'm not joining Carnifex," Stick said, his voice firm despite the doubt gnawing at him.

The guard gave him a long look, then shrugged. "That's not for me to decide. Wear it anyway."

The words hit like a slap. Wear it anyway. A quiet surrender. Stick's hands trembled as he pulled the uniform on, the fabric heavy and suffocating. He hated how it felt against his skin. He hated how easily he obeyed. What else can I do?

Outside, PP was already awake. He sat against the wall of the house, his chains rattling softly as he shifted. The key still rested in his hand, his fingers curling around it like it might slip away at any moment.

"Morning," Stick muttered as he stepped outside.

PP's gaze flicked up to him, lingering for a moment on the crimson uniform. His expression was unreadable, but his silence spoke volumes.

"You're still wearing them," Stick said, gesturing to the chains.

PP didn't respond, just tightened his grip on the key. The guard led them through the empty streets of the capital. Stick immediately noticed the absence of life. The market, which had been so vibrant the day before, was eerily still. Stalls stood abandoned, their wares hidden beneath tarps or packed away entirely.

"Where is everyone?" Stick asked, his voice low.

"It's Sunday," the guard replied without looking back.

Stick frowned, the explanation doing little to ease his unease. The silence was oppressive, pressing in from all sides as they approached the massive Carnifex headquarters. Unlike the market, the headquarters wasn't silent—but it was subdued. The structure itself was imposing, its wooden walls smooth and unblemished, a testament to the Guild's wealth and power. Soldiers moved about with purpose, but their voices were low, their movements tense. Stick was led into the side entrance, passing through halls that smelled of polished wood and timber. The newness of the structure made it feel sterile, devoid of the weight of history. It felt like a monument not to tradition, but to the raw power Carnifex had claimed in such a short time. At last, Stick was brought before a soldier that wore armor reminiscent of Stamos, before the man with the silver armor took his leave. The soldier with the Stamos-like armor seemed to command the most authority in the busy hall. It seemed that the more time Stick stayed at the capital, the more dangerous Carnifex members popped up left and right. The soldier's helmet obscured his face entirely, leaving him an imposing, faceless figure.

"Your decision," the authority said, his voice metallic and devoid of emotion. "Do you accept your place in Carnifex, Stick Arslan?"

Stick's chest tightened. He thought of everything Carnifex represented—the chains, the unfair trial, the bloodshed. He thought of Shadis' defiance, and Michael's hopes. He thought of the statues of the hero long gone, staring down at him. Would the Great Hero allow such a broken system to exist?

His voice trembled as he spoke. "I won't join Carnifex."

The Praetorian tilted his head slightly, the only hint of reaction. "And how do you plan to survive? You're LVL one. A civilian, barely useful."

Stick swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep eye contact, as much as he could with the visor of the helmet blocking the authority's facial features. "I've survived worse."

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For a moment, there was silence. Then, without a word, the guard turned and strode away.

"Wait here," he said over his shoulder. "I will seek counsel."

Stick exhaled slowly, his chest still tight. He glanced over to PP, who looked at him wide-eyed, still refusing to speak. Was that the best choice? What will happen to PP if they punish me?

As they waited, Stick's ears caught a fragment of a nearby conversation.

"The Blitz twins," someone said, their tone urgent.

Stick turned his head, spotting a soldier in crimson armor speaking to Nakamura, the blue-haired boy from the trial.

"They've been spotted," the soldier continued. "We have to tell the Baron."

Stick frowned, straining to hear more, but the conversation ended as Nakamura nodded and turned down a side hallway.

"What's wrong?" PP asked, his voice low.

Stick didn't answer. He was already moving, his feet carrying him after Nakamura.

"Stick," PP hissed, following reluctantly.

Stick pressed on, weaving through the winding hallways of the headquarters. The path grew quieter and darker as they went, the scent of wood giving way to something colder. Finally, they emerged into a section of the castle that was unlike anything they had seen before. Gold trim lined the walls, and the floor beneath them was marble, polished to a mirror-like shine. Opulent furniture filled the space—velvet cushions, carved wood, and gilded frames.

PP grabbed Stick's arm. "We need to go back. If we get caught—"

"I need to know about the twins," Stick said, brushing him off.

At the end of the hall stood a set of double doors, their surface adorned with intricate carvings and strange, unreadable letters.

Ρεστριψτεδ αρεα. Νο τρεσπασσινγ βευονδ τηισ ποιντ. Δεαδλυ φορψε ισ αθτηοριζεδ ανδ στιρψτλυ ενφορψεδ.

Stick pushed them open without hesitation. The room beyond was breathtaking. This was no ordinary chamber—it was the royal chambers. Unlike the rest of the headquarters, this space radiated a sense of history and majesty. Gold and crimson dominated the room, and at the far end, a massive window overlooked the distant coast. The highlands framed the view, but beyond them, Stick could see the ocean glittering in the sunlight, dotted with the silhouettes of countless ships. Before Stick could take it all in, a sharp voice rang out behind him.

"What are you doing here?"

Stick spun around to find himself face-to-face with Nakamura.

"This area is strictly forbidden!" Nakamura hissed. "We have to leave now before—"

"Intruders!" another voice boomed.

Stick's blood ran cold as a figure stepped into view. It was the High Council member Claudius dressed in his jester uniform, the bells at the tips of his hat jingling softly as he pointed a finger at Stick. Behind him, another figure emerged—clad in golden armor, red cape billowing behind. The crown atop the head glittered with jewels, and a commanding presence filled the room like a thunderstorm. Stick had to inspect the status of the man who looked eerily similar to—

"Get the king to safety!" Claudius shouted.

King?

Before he could read anything in the gray box, two massive guards appeared, their armor darker and more imposing than anything he had seen before. They moved with terrifying speed, binding Stick, PP, and even Nakamura in chains.

"What—wait!" Nakamura protested, but a gag silenced him as a hood was forced over his head.

Stick tried to struggle, but the guards were too strong. The last thing he saw before the hood descended was the distant fleet, its ships stretching across the horizon like a promise of something far greater—and far more dangerous—than he had ever imagined. Then, darkness descended over him.

Stick stumbled as he was shoved forward, the iron grip of his captors making escape—or even resistance—a distant fantasy. The air soon turned damp and heavy, the faint scent of mildew thickening with each step they descended into the stone passage. His hood left him blind, but the creak of cell doors and the faint echo of their footsteps told him enough: they were heading deep into the dungeon, bypassing the bustling headquarters entirely. This is bad.

When they finally stopped, he felt himself shoved, a sharp ache flaring in his knees as they struck cold stone. His lungs burned as he hit the damp stone floor. The taste of iron and dust lingered in his mouth. The clang of the heavy door shutting behind him echoed through the chamber like the toll of a bell, final and unrelenting. Silence followed, broken only by his own labored breathing. Moments later, the hood was yanked from his head and Stick squinted against the dim light. The world came into focus—or what little of it there was. The cell was small, impossibly cramped, its walls slick with moisture. A thin slit high above let in a sliver of sunlight, illuminating just enough to confirm his worst fears. To his side, PP was bound and gagged, his expression unreadable. A massive iron door, layered and reinforced, loomed over the hall, and Stick recognized it immediately. It was the same door he'd seen on his first day—the one meant to hold the worst of Carnifex's criminals away from the rest. Only this time, he found himself on the other side.

"What's going on?"

The guards didn't answer. Their armor gleamed faintly in the muted light, unlike anything Stick had ever seen. It was darker than the silver armor of the common guards and far more intimidating, the designs etched into the metal twisting and curling like veins. Their helmets completely obscured their faces, giving them an inhuman, almost mechanical quality.

"Answer me!" Stick's voice was hoarse, desperate.

"Shut up," one of the guards snapped.

"Where's Nakamura?" Stick's eyes darted around the room, scanning for the boy with the blue hair.

On the ground, scattered around the dungeon, he noticed gaping holes lined with iron bars. Most were open, their darkness yawning like mouths eager to swallow him whole. But one hole had its gate shut, its padlock and chain gleaming ominously. His stomach turned.

"What is this?" Stick asked, panic rising in his chest.

The guards ignored him, roughly shoving him toward the hole.

"I didn't do anything wrong! I'm a free Carnifex citizen!"

"Get in there," one barked.

"This is ridiculous!" Stick shouted, his frustration boiling over. "I didn't attack the king!"

"Shut up," the guard repeated. "You weren't supposed to be in there!"

He resisted briefly, but the sight of their weapons silenced him. Long blades with glowing etchings, unlike any he'd ever encountered, hummed faintly in the stale air. PP, seeing the weapons, jumped first, landing awkwardly in the hole, his bound hands making it impossible to brace his fall. Stick hesitated for a moment before he was forced to follow, landing beside him. They both struggled to sit upright in the too-small space. The moment he hit the ground, the iron gate above clanged shut, and the guards locked it with another heavy chain. Stick stared up, his chest heaving, as the guards turned and left the cell without a word. The heavy door slammed shut, and the dungeon fell silent.