I Woke Up In Another World As A Slave

When he finished his stew, he followed Montgomery in his nighttime routine. He stacked his bowl with the others near the cooking pot, which Lydia would later take to a well near the shanty town. While everyone was eating, she had brought two buckets of water and some rags for the miners to clean up. The water was cold, but staying close to the fire helped. He then hung his rags to dry on a rope they had placed above the fireplace where the food was prepared. What he didn't do, however, was get undressed. The other miners had no qualms about cleaning and drying their undergarments on that rope. It was their daily routine after all, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. The thought of exposing himself like they did made him blush. I can't do it. I don't care if it's full of mud! I won't do it!

The miners stoked the fire a little so it wouldn't extinguish for the next couple of hours and retired to their tents. As he stood in front of Cadmun's tent, he took a quick look around. When he was absolutely sure that no one was watching, he quickly jumped out of his undergarments and into the tent. He placed the fabric of the entrance in such a way that no one could see inside and then lay down on the sheet on the ground. His aching muscles finally relaxed. What a day!

Even though he was completely exhausted, he couldn't sleep. His mind was racing with thoughts on the mansion, the Baron, and the Blitz family. What background do they have? What happened on this estate? How come they are nobles but treated like slaves by the Adventurers?

He didn't understand who, or better, what the Adventurers were and why they were so malevolent. What's with that supernatural power? And what's with their reaction after the slap?

He tumbled around the tent a bit in the hopes of finding a comfortable sleeping position, but with just a sheet of cloth between him and the hard ground, there was nothing he could really do. A pillow. That would be nice.

That's right—why do I even know what a pillow is? There's so much I know by instinct, but why can't I remember anything from yesterday?

He turned on his back. He could see a small ray of light dancing on the ceiling that came through a slit in the tent's entrance. He thought back to the big gate in the middle of the darkness. What was this place? Where was I before that? And where am I now?

He started thinking to himself that maybe this was all just a bad dream and he would wake up somewhere else. But where would that be?

The thought of it sounded nice. His body was pulsating from all the hard work and fights he had gotten into. Another day like that without being able to rest beforehand sounded like hell. But if I were to wake up somewhere else, what would happen to the others here? What about PP, Montgomery, and Lydia? They are just caught up in some noble's squabble. And Varyan is a good guy too. If he were the Baron on this manor, things would definitely be different! There's no need for slavery and servitude and hierarchy when the Baron himself gets the firewood in the morning. And if he were to get on a high horse like his brother, then Cadmun and I would knock some sense into him.

He chuckled at his little dream-like fantasy. He made a decision. He couldn't just disappear and leave things as they were. This is unfair! No one should have to live like this. I will find a way to usurp the Adventurers so that everyone can live in harmony. And it all starts with working hard to impress the others and get stronger myself!

Now that he understood his position better, his mind started to relax a bit. As he imagined finding a diamond and gifting his promised new garments to PP as a sign of friendship, his mind wandered off. His tired limbs lost all tension, and not long after that, he fell asleep. It was a light sleep, and he barely dreamed anything. He saw lights rushing by him, and incoherent sounds filled his consciousness. It was a jumble of images and noises warping into one another that so often happened in a semi-lucid state. There was one thing, one sentence, from a familiar voice that he could make out. He had heard that voice thousands of times, but something about it was off. He couldn't quite place it into any memory, and no memory really came to mind when he recognized it. But something about the choice of words made it clear to him that he had heard it before: "All right guys, we have a new mission!"

The words echoed across a starless void—familiar, but distant.

Before his mind was able to explore what he heard in his dream, a loud crashing sound woke him up. He registered loud footsteps first, then realized that the tent had collapsed on him. He was entangled in the fabric, and a pair of hands from the outside hoisted him up.

"I can't breathe!" he shouted but received no answer.

He flailed with his arms trying to get the fabric off his face, but another pair of hands restrained them. Something was tightened around his chest, probably rope, and he was unable to break free. He started flailing with his legs, and when the hands tried to grab him, he kicked them with his feet.

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"You little shit!" he heard someone growl.

He was unable to recognize the voice through the sheets. A sudden pain shot through his leg. He registered another impact. Then another. Someone was hitting him. It hurt. He stopped flailing. A tear streamed down his cheek as he took short panicked breaths throughout the silence. Then the rope got pulled, and he was dragged away.

Wherever they were taking him, it took a while to get there. His body scraped across varied terrains, some harsher than others, and he found himself momentarily grateful that the tent wrapped around him shielded him from the ground. In a dizzying haze of strained breaths and impacts with the earth, he could discern the pounding of hooves. Where are those fucking Adventurers taking me?

They didn't stop for a second the whole way. Not even when a stone on the ground tore through the sheet and cut his arm, causing blood to seep onto the tent. Despite his blurred vision, he vividly saw the dark stain spreading on the fabric around his lower body. A faint light from a torch filtered through the cloth, offering scant assistance in assessing the severity of the cut. They continued for what felt like an endless stretch of time, during which he tried to maintain calm breaths to avoid fainting, before the horse came to a halt.

"That's him," he heard Reacher's voice.

"Then what are you waiting for, you oaf? I want to see his face," a youthful voice replied.

A thud followed by metallic clanks suggested the Mace had dismounted, muttering under his breath as he began untying the ropes. When the bindings loosened and the covers were removed, he could finally, finally breathe freely. His relief was short-lived as he found himself face-to-face with an irate Reacher.

"Get up," the knight ordered, stepping aside.

He hesitated to follow the order, acutely aware of his nakedness.

"Come closer," the youthful voice beckoned once more.

A few meters behind Reacher and his horse sat a young man on a gem-adorned chair enclosed within a glass box. The young man had a smooth, wrinkle-free face and wore a long red mantle neatly tucked inside the box to avoid touching the ground. Moonlight gleamed off a golden ring on his left hand and an ornately crafted sword in his right. It was evident that this was the Baron. Two large poles protruded from either side of the glass box, supported by four tall men, likely tasked with carrying the Baron. Three of them donned garments similar to Lydia's, though theirs fit perfectly, complete with trousers. The fourth man wore only slave rags, his skin a darker hue. The slave gazed blankly at his cut arm. He recognized the chains around the fourth slave's wrists. What is PP doing here?

Abruptly pushed to his knees beside the glass box, he looked back to see Becket had delivered the kick.

"The Baron spoke," Becket stated coldly.

His heart raced unrelentingly. I'm in trouble. Big time.

A knight on an armored horse approached him from the side. His helmet, a fearsome visage of jagged metal, concealed his face entirely behind a ridged visor, transforming him into something less than human, something primal. Each sharp line and cruel angle of the helm hinted at a creature more beast than man, with horn-like protrusions flaring outward in a manner both regal and terrifying. His broad shoulders were weighed down by immense, spiked pauldrons that curved outward like the wings of a predator. The armor across his chest was layered, its design almost organic—ribs of dark metal encased his body, as if the steel had been fused to his very bones. A fur mantle rested around his neck, the rich, wild texture a stark contrast to the cold, hard steel. It was the only hint of something alive in his otherwise metallic form. He held an enormous battle axe, the blade wide and curved like a crescent moon, its edges as jagged and cruel as the armor he wore. There was something relentless about him.

"You are in the presence of Baron Lucio Bonatelli von Carnifex, member of the High Council of King Ahlgren I. As his property, you are to address him as 'My Lord'. Am I understood?" the knight declared with a deep voice.

"Yes, Sir!" he answered.

That guy is even bigger trouble than Reacher and Becket!

"Now, slave," Baron Bonatelli took over, "I have a couple of questions you're going to provide the answers to. If you're a good boy, I might allow you to go back to the other dogs digging for bones. It all depends on whether I like what you'll tell me or not. All you really have to do is be honest. Isn't that nice of me?"

Kneeling naked with his head down in the dirt, surrounded by far larger and fully equipped knights, all he could do in response to the Baron's insulting stream of words was clench his jaw. What a disgusting pig!

"Yes, my Lord," he answered begrudgingly, "that does sound nice."

"Splendid!" The Baron faked his happiness. "It's always refreshing to have your orders understood immediately."

In the corner of his eye, he saw Reacher's hand clenching into a fist.

The Baron gestured to the knights. "You didn't have to be so rough with him, you brutes. Paladin, do something about that arm."

Reacher placed a hand on his shoulder. Instantly, the wound on his arm closed, and the bleeding ceased.

"Knight, do something about the situation—" the Baron indicated him repeatedly, "downstairs."

Becket surveyed the area briefly before using a clean part of the tent to cover him, cutting the rope used for his transport and throwing a short piece of it to him. Understanding, he wrapped the cloth around his waist without standing. Why can this guy boss around the knights like that?

"Perfect," the Baron said with a smile, "you're both capable of thinking along. That will make the next part easier."

Reacher's jaw twitched. He didn't speak.

The Baron rose from his chair, allowing his mantle to spill onto the grimy ground. He advanced towards him with deliberate steps, sword in hand, though the Baron's stride had an exaggerated swagger, far less elegant than what he had seen from Jacoby that morning. Observing the Baron up close, he estimated they were of similar age.

"Slave." The Baron's fabricated smile had vanished. "Let's begin with my questions."

Lucio Bonatelli stood directly in front of him. The Baron's presence exerted an exalted pressure on him. He felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His hands went cold.

"First and foremost, I want to know one thing:" The Baron raised the peculiar sword towards his chin, the tip nearly touching his throat. "Who sent you here?"