In the grand hall of the Mikhland Parliament, where magical light reflects off marble pillars engraved with ancient runes, a heavy atmosphere hangs over the rows of nobles and legislators.
At the heart of the chamber, beneath the high-vaulted ceiling carved with the image of a two-headed eagle—the symbol of a divided empire—a deep, commanding voice rises, tearing through the silence of the assembly:
"O wise men of the Empire! You, who bear the blood of noble purity! Look now, our chains tremble! The slaves from that distant world, those weak creatures we once saw as mere tools, now sow the seeds of defiance! Will we allow them to run rampant and spread chaos, or will we tighten the reins before the storm erupts?"
Those words are like fire igniting oil, stirring the rows of seats into whispers and heated debate. A legislator, draped in a red robe lined with gold, narrows his eyes behind his spectacles, his voice calm yet cutting:
"Control? Are you suggesting we tighten their shackles? But have you forgotten—when a beast is cornered, it bites back. If security is what we seek, then is the answer not in chains, but in absolute submission? A slave who fears is a slave who obeys…"
His words slice through the air like invisible daggers. Some nod in agreement, others scowl in defiance, but all present understand one thing: tonight, within this sanctum of power, the fate of those lost souls from a distant world will be decided—by those who have never tasted their suffering.
BANG!
A fist slams against the wooden podium, sending a tremor through the grand hall, like an unexpected quake in a silent sea. The clamor dies instantly. Hundreds of eyes snap toward the highest seat of the Parliament—where a lone figure sits in unyielding authority.
A voice, hoarse yet heavy with absolute command, cuts through the air like a razor-sharp blade:
"Enough!"
Hitler—the Eternal Führer of the Empire—rises slowly. His black cloak cascades over his frail yet commanding frame. His icy blue eyes sweep over the assembly, and a deathly silence descends upon the chamber. No one dares breathe. No one dares whisper.
"You bicker like lowly mortals, while this Empire demands decisiveness! These slaves are not merely tools of labor—they are strategic assets, a double-edged blade that can turn into a calamity if not tightly controlled! Now, I declare that it is time to vote. These are the four proposals drafted and submitted by the Security Committee!"
He raises his hand. A swirling green light rises from the floor of the chamber, coalescing into a massive magical hologram floating in midair. Four pillars of light emerge, each displaying the details of a proposed law, pulsating in rhythm with the magic:
"Iron Shackles Act" – Increases punishments, enforces magical disciplinary measures, and implants curse seals into slaves to ensure they can never rebel."Unified Mind Act" – Uses mental magic to implant absolute loyalty, turning slaves into harmless beings devoid of free will."System Purge Act" – Eliminates slaves who show signs of resistance or excessive intelligence, keeping only those who are obedient or have economic value."Labor Restructuring Act" – Transforms the slave labor system, integrating it into a military-grade surveillance model where escape becomes impossible.
On the holographic display, the four columns of light waver, reflecting the support from different factions within the Parliament. Some rise tall, others flicker uncertainly.
In the heavy air of power and intrigue, everyone in the chamber understands: tonight's vote will not only seal the fate of those enslaved from a faraway world… but will also serve as a battlefield between the ideologies that fracture the Empire itself.
Beneath the gold-gilded ceiling, ripples of reaction begin to stir among the rows of parliamentarians and nobles.
A middle-aged man, dressed in silk embroidered with the emblem of one of the great families, slowly raises his hand. When the Führer nods, he rises to his feet, his voice hoarse but clear:
"Ladies and gentlemen, in my domain, a significant portion of Earth slaves do not toil in the fields or serve in households. Instead, they are employed in hazardous tasks—exploring dungeons, diving for pearls, searching for agarwood in the jungles of Serpentine. They are valuable assets, those who can die in place of my warriors, extracting rare resources without draining the Empire's manpower."
He glances at the floating holographic board, his expression hardening.
"These four laws all impose restrictions on the use of slaves in ways I cannot accept. Iron shackles and mind unification will render them useless in tasks requiring flexibility. System purification may cause us to lose the most exceptional individuals. And as for labor restructuring… are you suggesting I turn the pioneers of this world's mysteries into mere stonebreakers in the mines?"
He lets out a cold chuckle, slowly extends his hand forward, and drops a blank vote onto the table.
"I refuse to choose. Blank vote."
Another voice rises—calm, erudite, unwavering—belonging to a tall, slender nobleman with graying hair and keen scholar's eyes. He slowly stands, tapping his silver staff lightly against the floor, drawing the attention of the entire assembly.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it seems some among us underestimate the impact of mental magic. To support my argument, I will cite the research of Scholar Elberth Valtz from the Institute of Neuromagic Studies in Kneblem, concerning the effects of mental magic on the human brain."
With a flick of his wrist, a magical scroll materializes, unfolding into glowing words suspended in midair:
The Intonation Structure Theorem: Mental magic directly affects the hippocampus and Broca's area of the brain—regions responsible for memory and language. This can cause semantic disorders, impairing the slaves' capacity for complex thought.The Principle of Natural Resistance: No sentient being can be completely controlled by mental magic unless their brain undergoes restructuring, which may lead to a phenomenon called "residual cognition"—a dim form of intelligence still capable of forming rebellious thoughts.The Language Decline Effect: Experiments on 100 Earth slaves indicate that prolonged exposure to mental magic results in up to a 37% reduction in communication ability, diminishing both labor productivity and adaptability.
The nobleman rests his hand on his staff, his voice firm:
"If we pass the Mind Unification Act, then I fear the Empire will be crippling its own most valuable workforce, turning them into mindless puppets. Is that truly what you want?"
At that moment, another voice cuts in—young, bold, laced with arrogance. A young noble, clad in modern attire rather than traditional ceremonial robes, smirks.
"The System Purification Act? Is that supposed to be a joke?"
He stands, arms crossed over his chest, his sharp gaze sweeping across the assembly.
"Do you realize that in the past year alone, at least three new technologies have emerged from Earth slaves? Improved alchemy techniques, advanced mineral extraction methods, and even the steam-powered heating system we now use in the northern castles—all of these came from those you call 'trash'!"
He gestures sharply toward the pillar of light on the magic board.
"If we purge them—eliminate the intelligent ones—then who will drive the Empire's progress? Have you forgotten that the civilizations before us crumbled due to their own rigid ideologies?"
The debates escalate into a storm of voices. The conservative nobles, who see slaves as nothing more than tools, fiercely defend the laws tightening control. Meanwhile, the progressive nobles, eager to preserve the influx of Earth's knowledge, oppose the harsh measures.
Meanwhile, the senators of The Parliament, those who claim to be the keepers of "Imperial ideals," stand between two opposing factions, attempting to find a more pragmatic solution.
A silver-haired senator, representing the pragmatic faction, strikes his scepter firmly against the ground, cutting through the heated arguments:
"You can argue until dawn, but only one thing matters: the Empire needs a decision. That decision cannot be driven by emotions, nor can it be dictated by arrogance. We must calculate the true benefits for the future!"
Amidst the murmurs of debate, the Führer remains standing, silently observing. His cold blue eyes scan the room, like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Then, he slowly speaks:
"If you cannot come to a consensus... then I will decide for you."
A chilling silence sweeps through the chamber. The battle of reason is not over, but everyone present understands—in the end, the one who holds the power to command is still him.
Under the towering dome of the parliament hall, the hum of discussion refuses to die down. Factions continue to clash—some defending the old order, others craving change. In the midst of it all, a figure rises, his composure unwavering yet undeniably authoritative.
Senator Maximus, a middle-aged man with neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair, pale skin, and deep-set eyes that seem to hold an entire treasury of wisdom, steps forward beneath the gaze of hundreds. He does not rush, nor does he show impatience. Instead, his eyes sweep across the chamber, as if weighing every face before he speaks.
His voice is deep and steady—not overly loud, yet carrying the undeniable weight of logic:
— "Gentlemen, we have debated too much on how to control the slaves and forgotten one crucial thing: security cannot revolve around a single group of people. If we truly fear the risks posed by Earthling slaves, the problem does not lie in them—but in our own security system."
A brief silence follows. Some nobles exchange glances, while the senators of The Parliament begin to listen more intently. Maximus continues, his sharp gaze fixed on the floating magical chart hovering in the air.
— "Look at the essence of the issue. We talk about shackles and imprisonment, but these do not solve the root of the problem. The real danger is not just escaped slaves or revolts, but the decay of our own security forces. The Regular Guard—those responsible for overseeing our territories and maintaining order in the cities—how many times have they failed in their duties? How many times have we heard of corruption, of them accepting bribes to turn a blind eye to escapes?"
A murmur spreads through the chamber, and a few nobles nod in agreement. Maximus does not pause. He takes a step forward, placing his hand on the wooden podium, his eyes gleaming under the dim glow of enchanted lanterns.
— "Therefore, I propose a reform. Not tighter chains, not harsher restrictions—but a complete overhaul of our security forces—a Reformation of the Regular Guard."
With a subtle wave of his hand, the floating magical chart shifts, revealing a new organizational structure:
Internal Purge – Eliminating corruption and restructuring the leadership of the Regular Guard. An independent oversight committee will be established to ensure transparency in their operations.Enhanced Training – Guards will not only be trained in conventional combat and magic but also in reconnaissance, investigation, and rapid response tactics for more effective control.Surveillance Technology Deployment – Implementing magical tracking methods, integrating sensory enchantments and advanced monitoring devices to prevent escapes from the very beginning.Increased Budget, but Reduced Long-Term Costs – A more efficient security force means fewer expensive pursuit operations, fewer destructive uprisings, and most importantly, less reliance on oppressive measures—which only escalate social unrest.
Maximus pauses, allowing the chamber to digest his words. A few nobles begin nodding in approval. They cannot deny that the Regular Guard has long been a rotting institution, and if it can be reformed rather than relying on increasingly brutal control measures, perhaps that is the wiser choice.
But, of course, not everyone agrees.
A nobleman shakes his head, his sharp gaze cutting toward Maximus:
— "Senator, your words are eloquent, but remember—the Regular Guard is part of an old system. Reforming an institution cannot be done overnight. What happens if, in the meantime, more slaves escape? What if a full-scale revolt breaks out?"
Another voice, harsher and filled with steel:
— "And if Earthling slaves continue to spread their dangerous ideas? What will we face if they are given the chance to think instead of being controlled?"
Once again, the hall erupts into heated debate, the division clear. The conservative nobles cling to their reliance on suppression, while a growing faction begins to recognize the validity of Maximus' argument.
At the center of it all, the Führer sits in silence, observing. His sharp blue eyes sweep across the chamber, absorbing every glance, every word. His fingers tap lightly against the armrest of his chair—a sound that echoes like a foreboding chime.
Finally, he speaks—his voice low, but carrying an undeniable weight of authority:
— "Maximus' proposal… carries merit."
The chamber falls into immediate silence.
Hitler slowly turns his head toward the section reserved for The Committee of Aristocrats—where the highest-ranking nobles of Mikhland sit. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze scrutinizing each of them.
— "And what about you? The Committee—what do you think?"
Then, his eyes shift toward the senators of The Parliament, his tone turning sharp as steel:
— "And you as well. If we do not tighten our control, is Maximus' plan truly worth considering?"
His question hangs in the air, heavy with political weight.
For a moment, the entire chamber holds its breath, waiting for the voices of the most powerful to break the silence.
The debate drags on, growing increasingly intense as three main factions take shape in the Parliament.
The reformist faction, led by Senator Maximus, quickly gains the attention of pragmatic nobles, particularly industrialists and major merchants. They see the long-term benefits of restructuring the Regular Guard—not only to better control Earthling slaves but also to enhance the empire's overall security and create a more stable economic environment.
A member of Parliament, a tall, gaunt man with a sharp, cold face, speaks up:
— "We cannot rely forever on outdated oppressive measures. If we can turn the Regular Guard into a truly effective force, the empire will grow stronger instead of constantly running around putting out fires."
The anti-reform faction, composed mainly of conservative nobles, remains unconvinced. They still believe that tightening control and applying greater pressure on Earthling slaves is the only solution. An elderly duke, his long white beard quivering, slams his hand on the table, his hoarse voice filled with authority:
— "My people are digging in the mines, diving deep into the sea for pearls, and searching for precious agarwood! Do you think they will obediently work if they do not fear us? Only an iron fist can maintain order!"
Another noble cites a scholar's research on the effects of mind-control magic on the brains of Earthling slaves, analyzing how it affects their language function and ability to think independently.
— "According to the Cognitive Alignment Theorem, when a subject is exposed to mind-control magic for an extended period, they gradually lose the ability to question and resist. Experimental studies on Earthling slaves indicate that if we intensify mind-control magic, they will completely lose their consciousness of resistance within three generations."
This faction emphasizes that any reforms weakening mental control would open the door to instability.
However, the extremist factiontakes an entirely different stance. They not only oppose reforms but demand even more radical measures. A young noble, dressed in pitch-black attire, speaks in a chilling tone:
— "The Systematic Purge Act is the only solution. We do not need smarter slaves—we need slaves who are completely obedient. Eliminate those with dangerous potential and keep only those with low mental capacity to ensure long-term stability."
Some nobles nod in agreement, but wary glances flicker around the room. One of the parliamentarians immediately rebuts:
— "If we carry out a purge, we are destroying our own labor force and cutting off the empire from new technologies that Earthling slaves could bring. Even if we see them as mere assets, we must know how to exploit them properly—not destroy them!"
The atmosphere in the Parliament grows increasingly tense, voices clashing between reason and fanaticism, pragmatism and conservatism.
Time ticks away, and by midday, the Führer still sits in silence, observing without intervening. He allows the factions to argue, evaluating each argument, each reaction. When the magic clock strikes exactly noon, he slowly rises to his feet.
The faint creak of the wooden chair under his weight pierces the chamber, and instantly, the entire room falls into absolute silence.
His gaze sweeps across every person present, as sharp as a blade cutting through the velvet fabric of power. Then, in a low but irrefutable voice, he commands:
— "Enough."
No one dares to utter another word.
The Führer adjusts his collar, his movement slow but carrying absolute authority.
— "We have spoken too much, yet the issue remains unresolved."
He descends from the elevated platform, walking slowly through the chamber like a predator assessing its prey.
— "I order this: We will halt discussions for lunch."
Some look surprised, but none dare protest.
— "You will have three hours to reflect and confer privately with your allies. Consider carefully—what is the best course of action, and what is the way to protect this empire?"
He stops, his voice dropping lower yet still echoing through the chamber:
— "By six o'clock this evening, all will return. And then, we will make our final decision."
No one speaks further. The great doors of the Parliament slowly swing open, sunlight streaming into the tense chamber.
The nobles, parliamentarians, and all those present begin to leave—but none truly relax. They know that the real battle—the battle of power and strategy—has only just begun.
As the sun casts long shadows over the parliamentary square, Zihao walks silently along the marble-paved corridor, the sleeves of his deep red hanfu swaying gently with each step. He does not hurry, yet every step carries a clear purpose.
Ahead of him, Senator Maximus leans against the hallway wall, a glass of light wine in hand, his deep-set eyes suggesting he has anticipated this encounter.
"Zihao." Maximus speaks, his voice gentle but laced with undeniable fatigue.
Zihao bows in greeting, his smile polite, yet his gaze remains as sharp as ever.
"Senator Maximus. A rather stormy debate, wasn't it?"
Maximus chuckles softly, swirling the wine in his glass, watching the liquid ripple as if searching for an answer.
"Stormy? Not quite. It unfolds within my expectations. But the real issue is the vote count, isn't it?"
Zihao nods, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the magical holograms still lingering in the distant chamber.
"I'd like to hear your prediction."
Maximus remains silent for a brief moment, seemingly weighing the numbers in his mind. Then, he speaks slowly:
"Thirty-six percent in favor, forty-two percent against, twenty-two percent undecided."
Zihao frowns.
"So that means… if you can sway just a third of the undecided, you'll win?"
Maximus nods, his expression contemplative.
"But that's the hardest part. The conservatives hold the real power, while the extremists do nothing but scream about purification and discipline. We need a more pragmatic persuasion strategy."
Zihao crosses his arms, his expression turning sharper.
"So what is your faction's real reason behind this reform? Surely, it isn't just about 'enhancing security,' is it?"
Maximus sets his glass down on a nearby stone ledge, a glint of a strategist flashing in his eyes.
"Agriculture."
Zihao raises an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation.
Maximus lifts a finger, as if delivering an undeniable truth.
"Mikhland relies far too heavily on slaves, especially in food production. But what I want is a more efficient farming system—one that uses machines, magic, and technology rather than the dwindling labor force of the enslaved."
He pauses, looking directly at Zihao.
"If the reform passes, I will push for a new production model—one where land no longer needs excessive slave labor, yet still yields two to three times the current output."
Zihao closes his eyes, contemplating.
"In theory, that makes sense. But don't you think the landowning lords will oppose it? If agriculture no longer depends on slaves, their power will diminish."
Maximus chuckles, though his smile lacks any real amusement.
"Exactly. And that's why I say… this proposal will definitely pass."
Zihao opens his eyes, slightly surprised.
"What do you mean?"
Maximus inhales deeply before exhaling, his tone carrying a hint of bitter irony.
"The conservative territories—rather than accepting reform—would rather endure higher federal taxes instead."
Zihao lets out a soft laugh, though there is a trace of disdain in it.
"So, in the end, they'd rather lose money than change the system?"
Maximus nods, folding his arms.
"Precisely. Those decrepit nobles would rather bleed their treasury dry than see a world where slaves aren't kneeling at their feet."
Zihao exhales, a hint of regret in his voice.
"A shame."
Maximus smirks faintly.
"History always comes at a price."
The two exchange respectful nods before stepping out of the parliamentary building. The massive stone doors, inscribed with heavy runic carvings, close behind them, sealing off the tense atmosphere inside from the world beyond.
Before them, a sprawling slave market stretches across the square.
Under the pale midday sun, Earth-born slaves stand shackled to wooden posts, their eyes either empty or burning with quiet resentment. Nearby, Elves, Goblins, and Minotaurs sit caged in iron bars, some fetching high prices due to their race's specialized skills.
The calls of traders mix with the sharp crack of whips against flesh and the muffled groans of the beaten.
Zihao halts, his gaze turning ice-cold, his fingers tightening slightly around the sleeve of his robe.
"What do you see, Maximus?"
Maximus does not answer immediately. He merely watches the scene before him, his deep-set eyes neither pleased nor angered.
"I see… the future of this empire."
Zihao remains silent. Both men stand there, at the threshold between power and suffering, where the decisions of the strong will carve the fate of thousands.
The Parliament session continues, but outside, the reality of the empire unfolds before them.
Zihao remains standing there, his gaze sweeping over the iron cages containing the Minotaurs—half-man, half-bull creatures slumped over, their eyes weary yet still carrying a trace of primal wildness. They are massive, their muscles bulging, and around their necks are magic-restraining collars, completely suppressing their strength.
A voice rises from behind.
"Are you two interested in them as well?"
Zihao and Maximus turn their heads.
A young nobleman approaches—a man of Arab descent, with tanned skin, a neatly trimmed beard, and a long, deep-blue robe lined with gold. In his hand, he holds a string of prayer beads made of bone intertwined with turquoise—a symbol of the merchant aristocracy.
He gestures toward the caged Minotaurs, his eyes devoid of pity, filled only with cold calculation.
"Have you ever wondered about the true value of these Minotaurs?"
Zihao furrows his brows, but Maximus remains calm, as if the question is nothing surprising.
"Are you referring to their labor value?"
The Arab nobleman smiles, then fixes his gaze on the largest Minotaur in the cage—a living boulder, its shoulder blades protruding, muscles rippling, bloodshot red eyes staring blankly ahead.
"Labor value? Of course. But that's not all."
He crouches down, picks up a small stone, and draws a circle in the dusty ground.
"Imagine a meatball—a round, juicy, succulent meatball."
Zihao raises an eyebrow slightly but remains silent, observing.
The Arab nobleman continues, his hand still pressing the stone against the ground.
"Beef is an important source of nutrition, isn't it? And where does that nutrition come from? From the cattle, from the green pastures they graze on, from the hands of the herders, from the butcher's knife."
He pauses, then turns to Zihao, his gaze flashing with a sharp, unspoken intent.
"So, what if I told you that Minotaurs are that very meatball?"
Zihao blinks.
"…You mean… people in this empire eat Minotaurs?"
Maximus chuckles softly, choosing not to answer, leaving the nobleman to continue.
The Arab nobleman claps his hands lightly, as if concluding an amusing story.
"Don't ask me, Zihao. Let the numbers speak."
He pulls a worn parchment from his sleeve, unfolds it, and hands it to Zihao.
Zihao scans the contents, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Minotaurs provide one-fifth of the empire's meat supply and 31% of its total dairy production."
A brief silence follows.
Zihao slowly folds the parchment, his mind swiftly piecing together the implications.
Minotaurs are not only slaves but also livestock.
A sentient race—capable of thought, speech, even possessing their own civilization—yet they are bred like cattle, milked, slaughtered, and forced into the hardest labor.
This isn't the first time he has witnessed such a reality. But today, it stands before him with brutal clarity.
"A fascinating paradox, isn't it?"
The Arab nobleman chuckles, his expression devoid of the slightest sympathy.
"We raise them, work them, then eat them. And if they resist, they are eliminated."
Zihao glances at Maximus.
Maximus crosses his arms, leaning against a stone pillar, his expression as composed as ever.
"What do you think, Zihao?"
Zihao looks back at the Minotaurs, his gaze as if reassessing the entire economic and ethical structure of the empire.
"Can a system like this last forever?"
Maximus and the Arab nobleman exchange a quiet, knowing laugh.
"That is precisely the question I seek to answer, Zihao."
The Arab noble raises his hand, pointing toward a magical plowing machine being tested nearby—a bulky device made of steel and enchanted stone, but still too heavy, too sluggish.
"This is my latest plowing model. It already surpasses the strength of an average Minotaur… but it's not yet efficient enough to replace them entirely."
He turns to Maximus.
"So, what do you think? How much longer until they become obsolete?"
Maximus gazes at the machine, a thoughtful look flashing across his eyes.
"Keep improving it. The moment machines surpass Minotaurs in productivity… this system will have no place left."
Zihao remains silent, staring at the enslaved Minotaurs before him.
These colossal beings are the chained laborers of today—but as the economy shifts, as machinery finally renders them unnecessary…
What will they become?
Freed individuals? Or a species exterminated for their lack of value?
History has never been kind to those who outlive their usefulness.
Zihao exhales softly.
He has just uncovered another layer of the empire's brutal reality.
The scorching sunlight stretches across the slave market square.
The clinking of chains, the faint groans of non-human slaves, and the calls of merchants create a deafening symphony of suffering.
Zihao follows Maximus's gaze.
— "Did you notice, Zihao?"
Zihao turns back, seeing Maximus's slightly raised eyebrows as he waits for an answer.
— "What?"
The Arab noble chuckles softly, crossing his arms.
— "There are far fewer child slaves here compared to other places."
Zihao narrows his eyes, scanning each row of iron cages, carefully counting.
One… two… three…
He is actually counting.
After a minute of silence, he slowly nods.
— "That's true."
Most of the slaves in this market are non-human—Minotaurs, Goblins, Elves, and other races. Human children are almost nowhere to be seen.
— "Why?" Zihao asks.
The Arab noble shrugs, a cryptic smile on his lips.
— "Because there are already Minotaurs, Goblins, and Elves as slaves, human children don't have to be forced into that fate."
Maximus nods.
— "We have a strange system. A system where non-humans are pushed to the very bottom of society. But in return, it shields a portion of humans from falling into hell."
Zihao looks at Maximus, then back at the chained Minotaurs.
— "But it's still a slave system."
— "Of course." Maximus replies. "But the real question is—"
The Arab noble tilts his head, his eyes glinting with intrigue.
— "What must be sacrificed?"
The question hangs in the air, as heavy as the very chains wrapped around the Minotaurs' necks.
Zihao does not answer immediately.
He wants to hear Maximus's perspective first.
And Maximus does not hesitate.
— "Machines."
Zihao and the Arab noble look at him.
Maximus continues, his gaze sharp.
— "Those with money must invest in creating machines. They must improve them. They must pay workers to produce them."
Zihao frowns slightly.
Maximus does not use the word capitalism, because no one here knows that concept. But the idea he just voiced—it sounds a lot like an industrialized economy.
— "You mean that once machines become advanced enough, the slave system will collapse on its own?"
Maximus nods firmly.
— "One day, those who were once slaves will be able to buy bread at a cheap price. No matter how long it takes."
The Arab noble chuckles lightly.
— "We are merely people living in a moment of history."
Maximus turns to him, his gaze unwavering.
— "If so, then seize this moment."
His voice lowers, but it carries an undeniable weight.
— "Break the chains of slavery—without bloodshed."
His words resonate like a declaration.
But…
Zihao does not feel at ease.
He looks toward the Minotaur slaves, those creatures raised like livestock.
If machines truly replace them…
What will happen?
Will this system really free them?
Or, when Minotaurs no longer hold economic value, will the empire simply eradicate them entirely?
Zihao feels conflicted.
He does not oppose ending slavery.
But will this empire really end slavery in the way Maximus envisions?
Or will it simply change the method of oppression?