I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

The night was cold, and the weight of their loss hung heavy in the air. The search for a burial site had been grueling. Most of the ground was too frozen to break, even with Stick's [Bronze Sword], but PP had suggested looking where the snow had piled thick. Beneath its heavy blanket, the earth remained soft enough to dig. They cleared an area of roughly two square meters, their hands raw from the effort. Stick never asked how PP knew where to dig, but he suspected the answer anyway.

"I had to dig the Pit," PP muttered as if reading Stick's thoughts. "Among other things."

Stick didn't respond. He didn't want to acknowledge what he already knew about PP's past. Instead, he cast his gaze to the pale, lifeless body of Shadis near the fire. The guilt gnawed at his insides. It should have been me. I'm sorry I got you into this mess.

They dug in silence, the surrounding darkness mirroring the heaviness in their hearts.

PP finally spoke again, explaining, "The snow insulates the ground. Sometimes you find live worms in the dirt."

Stick ignored him, his mind replaying the escape, searching for a different outcome. If he had planned better, if he had been stronger, maybe they all could have made it. His frozen fingers, guarded by his Protection, cleared a path through the dirt, just as they had pushed aside the river's icy waters. I could have done more.

"The ground is soft. It's usually way more difficult to dig. Look!" PP demonstrated a technique, using both hands as a shovel. "It makes it easier."

Stick frowned. Since when is he so talkative?

"Just say it already," he snapped.

PP looked up. "What?"

"Just say what you want to say. What's the point of all this small talk? First Titor, then Smith and Michael, and now Shadis. You were right."

PP halted, considering the words. He hadn't meant to imply anything, but now that Stick had confronted him, the weight of truth settled between them.

"You were too weak to attempt an escape, Stick."

Stick clenched his jaw. "Thank you for your honesty, I guess."

A rustling sound interrupted them as Nakamura, who had been sleeping, sat up groggily. "What's with all the noise? You're too loud."

Stick turned on him in a flash, fury burning in his chest. "Why didn't you give him your clothes? He was freezing to death! It's your fault!"

Nakamura scoffed.

"No, it's not." His voice was indifferent, but a tremor betrayed him. "He was dead the moment his Life Points stopped regenerating."

"That's it?" Stick stepped closer, jabbing a finger into Nakamura's chest. "That's why you wouldn't help a dying man? Because of some fucking Life Points?"

"Get a hold of yourself! It was just a bot." Nakamura tried to keep his voice steady, but he wasn't as unaffected as he wanted to seem.

Stick scoffed, returning to the hole, his body shaking with rage. Just a bot.

His stomach churned. The phrase looped in his mind, growing louder, more twisted, until it consumed him. A growl rose in his throat. Dirt flew as he tore into the earth, his movements frantic, furious. He pounded the ground with his fists, his body shaking with rage and grief.

"A bot!" He hurled another handful of dirt. "Just a bot! Nothing we could do about it! Not that it matters when you weren't even able to help them anyway! When you're just a child. Just a stupid, naive child! A fucking fool who thinks he can play hero!"

His breath hitched. The world blurred.

"I'm too weak." His voice cracked. "Too weak to protect my friends. Too weak to change anything! What kind of hero am I? How could I ever think I could take on Carnifex?"

"Stick…" PP's voice was quiet.

Stick's hands were bleeding, his fingers blue from the cold. His Protection had run out. Not that it mattered. Nothing fucking mattered at this point.

"I failed, PP," he sobbed. "I'm a complete and utter failure. And they still believed in me. That's why people died. Nakamura was right. I'm worse than Carnifex."

Nakamura looked away, arms crossed.

PP's voice remained steady. "They died. There's nothing you can do about that now. But you're alive. You're free. That means it's your responsibility to find Alastair Blitz. You took that responsibility when you called yourself a hero. Now you have to see it through."

"I don't think I can," Stick whispered, defeated.

"You have to."

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"I—I can't…" His sobs overtook him, leaving him breathless.

PP stood, walking over to Stick. "If not you, then who else will do it?"

Stick tried to answer, but he was caught short of breath, hyperventilating.

Cold chains brushed against Stick's chest as PP placed firm hands on his shoulders. "If you don't trust yourself, then trust in what Shadis said: You might be too weak now, but you'll grow into a formidable opponent for Carnifex."

"How?" Stick shivered from both the cold and the weight of everything crushing him. "How will I do that?"

PP's lips curled into a small smile. "We'll find a way."

Stick wiped his eyes. "We?"

PP exhaled, his chains clinking as he raised his hands. "I don't remember a day without shackles. I thought captivity was normal. Rebellion only ever brought pain. My masters were terrifying, but freedom had always felt scarier. But you… you always had the drive to be free."

Stick listened, intrigued.

"For the first time in my life, I have no master. No one to command me. No one to tell me what to feel. I finally have time to think about what I want. That's because of you."

Stick nodded. "And what do you want?"

PP smirked. "For starters, I want these chains off. They're way too cold."

Stick chuckled weakly. "Then we'll have to find a way to remove them."

"I'm sure we will."

Stick let out a slow breath. "And after?"

"I want a big feast with everyone. I want them to be free."

Stick nodded solemnly. "Then we think alike."

"I don't want anyone to be a slave again." PP met Stick's gaze. "That's why I'm coming with you."

Stick finally calmed down and gave himself time to think. He rubbed his chin.

"I don't think I've ever heard you talk this much."

"Don't get used to it."

They resumed digging. The hours passed in silence, their exhaustion setting in. Finally, the grave was ready. When they turned to retrieve Shadis' body, they found it wrapped in Nakamura's warm clothes. Stick looked at Nakamura, who sat by the fire, silent.

Stick paused, the words caught in his throat. He didn't say thank you. He just nodded. That was enough.

An hour before dawn, they laid Shadis to rest.

In the morning, Stick still sat by the makeshift grave, his arms wrapped around his knees. The [Wanderer's Tunic] he got from Priscilla barely managed to keep the cold at an acceptable level. They had buried Shadis at the foot of a hill's slope, near the lone tree that stood watch over the barren land. Beyond the tree, the horizon was severed by the dense wall of the Whispering Woods. We came from the northeast into the Goblin Steppes. Half a day's hike.

That's how he'd remember. When all of this was over, when he had the power to make things right, he would return. He would give his friend a proper burial. The sun hid behind an impenetrable sheet of gray, a thick, heavy sky pressing down on the world like a lid on a coffin. He was exhausted, but sleep refused him. Yet another sleepless night.

They seemed to be piling up recently. It had been like this for days now—his body pleading for rest, his mind clawing through memories, replaying the same horrors over and over. He tried to count: One night of preparing the escape, two nights on the road, one night in the dungeon, one night in the officer's house, and then… yesterday. Six nights. Seven days. Yes, this truly is the worst week of my life. Or at least the life I remember since arriving.

A red glint caught his eye. Stick shifted stiffly, his joints aching, his limbs sluggish from the cold. A drop of blood darkened the ground beside him. Slowly, he turned his hand over, staring at his palm. His skin was cracked from the frigid air, thin lines of crimson pooling in the fissures before spilling over his fingers. He curled them, watching the blood smear across his skin. Oh, my Protection must be down.

A slow breath escaped his lips, turning to mist in the cold air. He opened his Status. His [Life Points] had hit zero. But another number made his stomach twist. [LVL] 1. Still.

After everything—the fighting, the blood, the loss—nothing had changed. This is what it amounted to?

He glanced over to his [Class]. [Unbound]. What a joke.

His gaze drifted back to Shadis' grave. A thin layer of snow had already gathered on the stones they had placed. So many strong fighters had been left behind, people who could have escaped instead of him. People who could have actually fought back against Carnifex. And yet, it was him who had survived. A [LVL] 1 fool.

Footsteps crunched through the snow.

"We're ready to go." Nakamura's voice was softer than usual.

Stick didn't respond.

"Hey. Didn't you hear me?"

Still, he didn't move.

A sigh. Then the sound of shifting fabric as Nakamura stepped closer.

"I know you're grieving," he said carefully. "But we really have to go."

Stick's fingers dug into his knees. His voice came out flat. "Don't worry. He was just a bot."

Nakamura hesitated. Then he exhaled sharply and kicked at the snow. His next words were quieter. "Listen… I'm sorry for what I said yesterday. I understand that he meant a lot to you."

For a long moment, Stick didn't speak. He just breathed, watching the mist form and disappear in the cold air. Then, finally, he turned to Nakamura, looking him in the eyes. His next words tasted bitter. He struggled to fully accept them himself.

"I can't blame you for growing up inside Carnifex."

Nakamura took a minute to scan Stick. He was processing. Then, his shoulders loosened slightly. After a moment's hesitation, he extended a hand. Stick hesitated himself before taking it, but let Nakamura pull him to his feet. As soon as he was up, Nakamura's gaze snapped to Stick's bloody hand.

His brows pulled together in irritation. "What the hell are you doing?"

A half-filled flask of red liquid appeared in Nakamura's grip. He held it out. "You can't sit around with zero LP. That's way too dangerous. What if a goblin attacked you? Are you stupid?"

Stick ignored the jab and took the flask, tilting it to his lips. The potion was sharp, metallic, and bitter. When he lowered it, he glanced at his hand again. The cracks in his skin remained, blood still seeping slowly. His stomach clenched. This is different from Reacher's magic.

A thought bloomed in his mind. He turned the flask over in his hand, his grip tightening.

He looked at Nakamura. "Did you try giving this to Shadis?"

"I did," Nakamura said. "But I'm a Duelist. I can't cast Heal Wounds."

Stick looked at him, puzzled.

Nakamura's expression darkened. "Potions aren't magic. Only a Paladin or a Healer could have saved him."

Stick stared at him, then at the potion. His fingers clenched around the flask, his nails pressing into the glass. He exhaled sharply and looked back at the grave. So that was it. Another game rule he didn't understand. Not yet.

A gust of wind swept across the hill, sending a flurry of snow swirling between them. In the distance, the Whispering Woods loomed, their branches shifting like shadows. A realization settled in his chest like a stone dropping into water. A shift, deep inside him. Slowly, he turned back to Nakamura. His breath was steady despite the cold.

"Nakamura," he said. "I'm not going west."