I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

The dim dungeon corridors stretched ahead, eerily quiet. The air was cold, and each torch sputtered weakly, casting fleeting shadows. Stick shivered, though he wasn't sure if it was from the chill or the crawling sense of dread that coiled tighter around his chest with every step. He crept behind Hadvar and PP, his heart pounding in his ears. The lack of guards felt wrong—an absence so conspicuous it gnawed at his thoughts. Relief would have been welcome. This wasn't relief. Hadvar halted abruptly, his hand rising in a silent command to stop. Stick froze, his breath catching as his eyes adjusted to the new scene ahead. A heavy iron door loomed at the end of the corridor, flanked by two flickering torches. Their light sputtered and danced, as if hesitant to illuminate what lay beyond.

"That's the Farm," Hadvar whispered, his voice clipped. "That's where they keep the NPC of the week."

Stick's stomach twisted. He hated the term—cold, dehumanizing, and clinical. The Farm.

The word conjured flashes of the Slaughterhouse. A place where people were broken by Carnifex members for their own twisted pleasure or worse. His jaw tightened, but he shoved the thoughts aside. Focus. I have to focus.

A lone guard in silver armor stood outside the door, his back straight but his posture bored. Stick's pulse quickened. Hadvar didn't hesitate. He slipped forward, moving with the practiced silence of a predator. Before Stick could fully process what was happening, Hadvar's arm swung up in a quick, precise arc. The guard crumpled to the ground without a sound. Stick stared, stunned.

"How… how did you do that?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the crackling torches.

Hadvar straightened, dragging the limp guard behind a crate.

"Stunning Blow," he said simply, his tone betraying a hint of pride.

Stick blinked. "Is that… a skill?"

"Yes," Hadvar said curtly, tucking the guard out of sight. "Don't you know what that is?"

Stick shook his head. "No."

"It is," Hadvar confirmed, his tone laced with condescension. "When you hit unsuspecting targets with a Stunning Blow, they fall unconscious."

He remembered the chaos of capturing Becket during their escape from the slave camp. That would have been useful to know.

He turned to PP. "Can you do that?"

PP shrugged helplessly.

"No, it's a Knight skill. Not that it matters. What matters is—" Hadvar gestured toward the iron door. "What's our move here?"

Stick scanned the scene. His mind whirred, working through the options.

"The guard must have had the key, right?"

Hadvar straightened, crossing his arms.

"You can't steal from another Player's inventory," he said, his voice flat. Then, after a pause, he added, "Unless…"

Stick grinned, opening his interface. His fingers danced across the holographic display. The cool glow of the menus cast faint shadows across his face. There. His fingers hovered over the [Cell Door Keys]. With a click, they materialized in his hands. When he turned back, Hadvar's gaze was no longer impatient. It was calculating. His eyes narrowed as they locked onto Stick.

"You're… [Unbound]," Hadvar muttered, the word landing heavily in the quiet corridor.

Stick's smile faltered. "Yeah… I guess."

For a moment, Hadvar's expression was unreadable. Then, abruptly, his lips curved into a smirk.

"Stick Arslan," he said, almost to himself, rolling the name across his tongue like he was savoring it. His voice held a weight that sent a chill crawling up Stick's spine.

"What?" Stick asked, his voice defensive.

Hadvar waved him off. "You're full of surprises. Come on, let's go."

Stick turned back to the door, unease prickling at the back of his neck. He slipped the key into the lock and turned it with a faint click. The door creaked open, and the trio stepped inside. The first thing that hit Stick was the stench—thick and metallic, the unmistakable scent of blood. It clung to the air, heavy and suffocating. The room itself was vast, the walls lined with iron racks meant for weapons, where cells should have held prisoners. They were all conspicuously empty, the absence of the weapon more ominous than their presence, but they all glistened with fresh blood. Chains dangled from the ceiling, their ends rusted and stained. Faucets were embedded in the walls, each one dripping into shallow pools of reddish water. The Farm wasn't a prison—it was a workshop. At the center of the room, a single figure hung by a chain, their body limp. Stick's chest tightened. Shadis.

The NPC was beaten and bloodied, his clothes torn, his head slumped forward. Whoever did this hit him way past the Arslan Threshold.

"Damn it!" Stick rushed forward, his voice breaking.

He reached for Shadis, his fingers trembling as he tried to find a pulse. The NPC was alive, but barely. His breaths were shallow, rattling in his chest.

"How do we get him out of here?" Stick demanded, looking over his shoulder at Hadvar.

Hadvar was already scanning the chains. "You need a Shackle Key."

Stick blinked. Shackle Key?

It hit him like lightning. "We do! But it's for PP's restraints."

His gaze darted to PP, who was standing just behind him. PP hesitated, then raised the [Shackle Key (Prized Possession)] into view. The key caught the light, its polished surface gleaming faintly.

"Any Shackle Key will do," Hadvar explained. "It's only listed that specifically because the game creates a failsafe whenever someone is restrained. However, it's a one-time use."

Stick frowned. The words made sense, but they felt hollow. He turned back to PP.

"Are you sure about this? This is yours."

PP hesitated, his chains clinking softly as his hands trembled. For a moment, Stick saw something new in his expression—a yearning so deep it almost hurt to look at, a fleeting glimpse of his desire for freedom. Stick's chest tightened further.

"No," Stick said, stepping back.

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"What are you doing?" Hadvar hissed. "We don't have time!"

Stick ignored him. He spun back towards the unconscious guard and opened the man's Inventory. His eyes darted over the icons—bandages, weapons, supplies—but no key. Frustration bubbled up as he yanked out a [Battle-Proven Selachii Sword] instead. At least he'll be unarmed if he wakes up.

An interface popped up:

You do not meet the appropriate LVL Requirements for—

A dull thud made him whirl around. Shadis was on the ground, his body cradled gently in PP's arms. PP's shoulders slumped, his chains clinking softly as he hung his head.

Stick's throat tightened. "What… what did you do?"

Hadvar's voice was cold. "I told you we didn't have time."

Stick's anger flared. "Did you even ask him?"

"No time for asking," Hadvar snapped. "We needed action."

Stick's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms. He shot a glare at Hadvar, but the Knight was already moving toward the door. It's best to not tell him about that sword for now.

"We got him alive. Be glad," Hadvar said, his tone devoid of emotion.

Stick turned to PP, his voice softening. "Are you okay?"

PP nodded, though his eyes remained downcast. He gently adjusted Shadis in his arms, his expression unreadable. Stick's heart twisted again. He wanted to say something—to apologize, to promise they'd find another way. If we use the shackles on the guard, then maybe—

"We're leaving," Hadvar called from the door.

Stick followed reluctantly, his doubts growing with every step. He cast one last glance at PP and Shadis, the faint clinking of chains echoing in his ears. Hadvar might have been their ticket out of here, but Stick couldn't shake the question gnawing at his thoughts: Is he worth the cost?

As the door creaked shut behind them, the stench of blood still clinging to his senses, Stick realized something else. Hadvar wasn't just dangerous. He was watching him, calculating. And Stick had no idea what the Knight's endgame really was.

The corridors of the Carnifex Base felt like a labyrinth, but Hadvar moved with eerie precision, guiding Stick and PP through hidden passages and bypassing traps as though he had built the place himself. Stick followed, but unease clawed at his thoughts.

"There's a briefing during the shift change," Hadvar whispered, his voice calm but clipped. "The barracks should be empty right about now."

Stick glanced at PP, who shifted the unconscious Shadis in his arms, careful not to jingle his shackles too loudly. Despite the urgency in Hadvar's tone, that same nagging question surfaced again, louder this time: How does he know all this?

Hadvar led them into the barracks—a long room filled with rows of iron-framed beds and military-standard chests at their feet. The smell of damp wool and unwashed bodies lingered in the air. Stick froze just inside the doorway, eyes darting around. Empty. For now. Hadvar, however, didn't hesitate. He darted to the chests, flipping them open one by one with practiced efficiency. His expression darkened with each search, the controlled soldier's calm giving way to frustration.

"No," he muttered after rifling through yet another chest. "No… no…"

Finally, he froze over one particular chest, his gaze locking on the insignia etched into the lid. "Scarlet Steel," he murmured.

A flick of his fingers, similar to General Solo, and an invisible interface shimmered briefly in the air before disappearing. In an instant, crimson armor materialized around him in pieces—shoulder plates, breastplate, gauntlets, helmet.

"Better than nothing," he muttered, flexing his hands. The suit fit like a second skin, but even now, something about him looked incomplete. "I don't have a weapon…"

Stick's stomach churned. He knew what Hadvar was. A survivor. A killer. That was clear now, wasn't it? Stick pulled up his own interface and stared at the [Battle-Proven Selachii Sword] sitting in his Inventory. Could I give it to him? Should I?

Before he could decide, the door to a side room opened. A soldier stepped into the barracks, towel slung lazily over one shoulder. He froze mid-step.

"Hide!" Stick hissed.

They dove under the beds, the metal frame pressing painfully into Stick's back. But PP's chains rattled as he adjusted Shadis in his arms. The sound was deafening in the silence. The soldier's footsteps paused.

"Who's there?" His voice wavered—young, uncertain.

Stick's pulse thundered in his ears. He was just a kid. Younger than Stick, maybe. Still in training, by the look of him. If we are lucky, maybe—

Hadvar slipped out from under the bed without a sound, moving like a shadow. Before the soldier could turn, Hadvar's fist struck the base of his neck in a precise Stunning Blow. The soldier crumpled to the floor, his towel fluttering to one side. Stick exhaled in relief, though his hands still shook. The soldier's chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths. Unconscious. Not dead.

Hadvar crouched by the fallen man, his helmet obscuring his expression.

"I can't afford to be seen," he said, almost to himself. "We need to move."

Stick forced his thoughts back to Shadis, lying crumpled in PP's arms. His ragged breaths were barely audible. Stick's fingers trembled as he opened his interface. Life Points: 0.

Stick's heart clenched.

"He's breathing," PP whispered, as if sensing Stick's fear.

The rattle of chains dragged Stick back to the present.

"We should really do something about these shackles," he muttered, trying to bury the knot of dread in his gut.

"You could always just abandon the NPCs," Hadvar said flatly, dragging the unconscious soldier toward an empty chest.

Stick's head snapped toward him. The cold indifference in Hadvar's voice sent a chill down his spine.

"We're not leaving anyone behind!" he said.

Hadvar shrugged, hoisting the soldier into the chest as though it were routine.

"Suit yourself," he replied. "But I can't afford to drag them all with me."

They slipped out a side door, the chill of winter biting into Stick's cheeks. The city stretched out before them, pale and quiet beneath a heavy gray sky. It was the kind of silence that made every sound louder—PP's chains, Hadvar's armor, the muffled thud of their cautious footsteps.

"Snow?" Hadvar mumbled. "This far north?"

He didn't dwell on it too much and led them through narrow alleys, his movements smooth and practiced.

"They haven't noticed us missing yet," Stick said, noticing the lack of any sort of alarm.

"Let's keep it that way," PP replied.

"Our best bet is the port," Hadvar explained. "We'll need a ship to leave the kingdom."

Stick didn't know enough about the kingdom to argue and reluctantly agreed.

The group wove through the streets, narrowly avoiding patrols by hiding behind crates and in shadows. Guards with bows stood on the walls, silhouetted against the gray sky.

"There's so many of them," Stick whispered.

Hadvar grunted. "We'll be forced to fight eventually. And all we have is bad armor, low LVLs, and a dying geriatric. If I had a sword, I could at least activate my skills."

Stick hesitated, pulling up his Inventory to inspect the [Battle-Proven Selachii Sword]. An interface with bold red text popped up:

You do not meet the appropriate LVL Requirements for this weapon. (Required LVL: 50)

A second, white lettering spelled underneath it:

[Unbound Skill, Passive: Unshackled Hands]

Can be equipped. Stats will be adjusted to your LVL.

Then it happened.

"Hey! What are you doing here, soldier?"

Stick's head jerked up to see a low-level guard in red armor standing at the end of the alley. His visor was up, his expression puzzled but not yet alarmed. Without hesitation, he handed the sword to Hadvar. The blade barely touched Hadvar's hand before he moved—swift and lethal. The guard's confusion froze him in place.

"What? You're—"

Hadvar cut him off, striking with a silent, practiced efficiency. In one clean motion, Hadvar disarmed the guard and struck him across the temple with the hilt. The man crumpled. Stick exhaled in relief—until Hadvar raised the sword again.

"What are you doing?" Stick yelled.

Hadvar plunged the blade down, silencing the unconscious man's shallow breaths.

Stick rushed to stop him, but Hadvar shoved him back with ease.

"He saw me," he said coldly, plunging the blade again.

Blood pooled beneath the body, dark and spreading across the cobblestones.

"You'll kill him!"

"I can't allow myself to be seen. Not yet," Hadvar replied, his tone emotionless.

"Stop it!" Stick shouted.

Hadvar finally straightened, turning to Stick. "We need to go to the port."

Stick stumbled backward, bile rising in his throat. "You killed him! He was unconscious!"

Hadvar turned, his expression hidden behind his helmet. "He saw me."

"We could've tied him up or—" Stick clenched his fists. "He was just a kid!"

"Kids can talk," Hadvar replied, his voice flat. He turned away, wiping the blade on the fallen guard's tunic. "We're wasting time."

Stick stared at the body, his chest heaving. Blood. So much blood. He dropped to his knees and touched the soldier's shoulder, his fingers trembling.

"Come on." Hadvar says, but PP blocked his path, Shadis still in his arms.

"Back off," PP growled.

Hadvar's helmeted gaze lingered on PP, but Stick stepped between them, his voice breaking. "Go away!"

Hadvar took a step back, his expression unreadable. "I suppose I've repaid you enough for my escape."

Stick's anger boiled over. "You murderer!"

"You think I don't know?" Hadvar's shoulders stiffened. "You don't have the luxury of mercy, kid. Not for long."

Stick had no answer and Hadvar turned to leave.

"I'll go to the port." He stopped for a moment. "The guards will be too distracted by this to notice someone on the bridge. You should go. Now."

Then he ran, leaving Stick and PP behind. Stick knelt by the lifeless guard, who couldn't have been older than twenty. Before he could say anything, hurried footsteps echoed down the alley. It was Nakamura.