Night at the Royal Hotel – The Western Arabian Royalty.
In the vast room, sheer silk curtains sway lightly as magical lights from the streets outside shine through the transparent glass, casting golden and bronze patterns across the ceiling. The night breeze carries the scent of incense and sandalwood from the streets below, slipping through the wide-open windows.
Zihao sits by the window ledge, alone.
Below, the night market remains bustling. Soft blue and golden lights from hanging magical lamps shimmer along the stalls, reflecting off the silver-domed Islamic buildings. The murmurs of the crowd, the bargaining voices of merchants, and the laughter of travelers blend together—an endless symphony of the city.
Everything is busy, vibrant, alive—except for him.
He rests his chin on his hand, gazing at the stream of people below, sharp eyes, yet a restless mind.
Do they know?
The ones laughing so freely down there… do they know that just a street away, other beings are locked in iron cages, beaten, forced to labor like beasts, raised only to be slaughtered like cattle?
His eyes glide over the illuminated roads.
Beneath that shimmering light lies the invisible darkness of slavery.
Is all this grandeur meant to conceal the truth, or to make people forget it?
The night wind brushes against his short black hair.
A slight tremor stirs within him.
Zihao clenches his fists.
Why do I feel… like something is wrong?
Machines will replace slaves.
This system, this cruel mechanism that has endured for centuries, will gradually be eroded.
But then what?
Zihao looks up at the sky, where dark clouds drift lazily, partially obscuring the silver moonlight.
Machines replacing slaves… but what does that truly mean?
Liberation?
Or extinction?
He recalls the slave market from earlier. The Minotaurs in chains, their empty eyes, the people haggling over the price of a life as if it were just another commodity.
Maximus says they will gain freedom without bloodshed.
But is that really true?
Zihao looks down at the crowd once more.
He cannot help but picture a different scene—a day when, on this very street where Minotaurs were once bought and sold, there will be no trace of them left.
Not because they were set free.
But because they no longer exist.
Is this… liberation?
A faint, bitter smile crosses his lips.
"Or just another form of extermination?"
He asks himself, but no answer comes.
The wind grows stronger, stirring the white silk curtains, making them sway like ghostly figures dancing in the dark.
Zihao lowers his gaze.
He never thought he would waver over something like this.
He always believed himself to be rational, someone who could view things objectively.
But tonight, as he looks upon this magnificent city, at the flickering lights reflecting off the cobblestone streets, he feels only an unexplainable contradiction.
"This world…"
He murmurs, then stops.
These thoughts are too tangled.
Too complicated.
Zihao leans against the window frame, closing his eyes, syncing his breaths with the rhythm of the night.
"In the end, I'm just another pawn in history's current."
A pawn, swept along by the tides of time—just like his faint reflection on the window glass, both clear and blurred amidst the city's glittering lights.
Zihao opens his eyes.
The magical lights from the streets below reflect in his pupils, twinkling like stars in the dark. But he no longer looks at the crowd.
He looks at himself.
At the conflict tightening its grip on his mind.
Why am I thinking about this so much?
He comes from another world. He does not belong here.
He is not a revolutionary.
Not a seeker of justice.
Not a fighter for the freedom of foreign creatures.
His goal—and The Strays' goal—has never been to change this world.
He and his comrades have only one mission.
To return to Earth.
That thought strikes like a hammer blow, making his mind shudder violently.
He did not come here to care about slaves, to ponder social systems, to stand in noble halls debating reform and industrialization.
He came for one reason alone.
To go home.
Then why am I letting myself get caught up in this?
His fingers dig into the soft silk sleeves of his robe.
Have I forgotten the most important thing?
The night remains cold, but he feels a heat rising inside.
Not anger.
Not fear.
But an inexplicable contradiction.
He knows he does not belong to this world—yet when he looks at that slave market, he cannot deny the injustice before him.
He knows he should keep his distance, but why do Maximus' words about "breaking the chains without shedding blood" keep echoing in his mind?
He knows he shouldn't care, but why, when he sees the empty eyes of the imprisoned Minotaurs, does he feel something akin to guilt?
"Damn it…"
He murmurs, his voice as soft as a passing breeze, yet in the silence of this space, it resonates clearer than ever.
Zihao closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
He needs to stay sharp.He cannot let himself waver.
But the more he tells himself that, the deeper he feels himself sinking into a mire with no escape.
He comes from Earth.He must return to Earth.
But… is it really that simple?
Outside, the city remains ablaze in the night, brilliant magical lights illuminating every corner. Yet, Zihao suddenly realizes—that light doesn't erase the darkness; it only deepens it.
Zihao closes his eyes, leans back in his chair, and forces himself to calm down. But inside his head, a chaotic debate erupts.
A part of him screams:"I don't belong here. I have no responsibility for this world!"
But another voice retorts immediately:"Then what about the other children? If you do nothing, they will keep getting taken, keep getting crushed under this slave machine."
He frowns, pushes the thought aside."I can't do anything. This is a powerful empire, and I am just a stray. Fighting this system is suicide."
But the voice refuses to fall silent:"Do you think you can just walk away so easily? Do you think if you only care about yourself, this world will leave you alone? Do you think they will stop once you return? If they can summon once, they can summon a second time, a third… And one day, maybe even your own descendants will be dragged here, enslaved, imprisoned, beaten, exploited… Do you really think running away is a solution?"
Zihao opens his eyes. Tonight, the sky holds no moon, only the dim glow of magical lights casting a pale yellow hue over the streets, like embers smoldering in the dark. Tiny figures move between the stalls, haggling,buying,laughing—and cloaked figures lead shackled slaves through the alleys.
He can leave. But this will never end.
He can return to Earth. But will he truly escape this cycle?
Will the people he loves one day be dragged into this as well?
Will this vicious cycle repeat, stretching on for another century, another millennium?
Zihao feels something inside him crumbling.
Until now, his goal has always been clear—return home.
But now, a terrifying question gnaws at his mind:"If I leave without doing anything… does it even matter?"
Even if he escapes Mikhland, Mikhland will continue summoning.Even if he breaks free from this fate, tens of thousands of other children will still be thrown into this hell.
So in the end… does his return really change anything?
Can he even make it back?
Can he sleep at night, knowing that more children will be dragged here, forced into slavery, dying in the mines, burned alive in magical experiments, worked to death?
Is just leaving really enough?
No, it's not.
But… if he steps into this fight…
It's a huge risk.
He won't just be fighting a group of people, won't just be opposing a single force. He will be challenging an empire, an entire system that has existed for centuries, a system built by those who will crush anyone who dares to shake its foundation.
Is he sure he wants to take this path?Does he dare?
Zihao raises a hand to his forehead. In the dim glow of the room's lamp, his fingers tremble slightly.
For the first time in a long while, he isn't sure what step to take next.
Down in the streets, the flames within the magical lanterns flicker, tiny torches burning in the vast darkness.
Zihao whispers:"Damn it…"
Zihao closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but the scent of agarwood in the room is not enough to soothe his chaotic mind. He leans his head against the chair, his gaze following the magical streetlights outside.
An Guihui…
He recalls those first days after escaping the hell of slavery. He remembers the name An Guihui, the resolute leader of a group of former Chinese slaves like him—a man who rose from the grave of despair to unite those like him under a common banner.
He once had the chance to join them. He refused.
Not because he did not believe in their ideals, but because he saw too clearly their limits. A group of former slaves, no matter how well-organized, could never stand against an empire like Mikhland. They were shackled by anger, by the desire for revenge, by a past etched into their flesh.
Zihao does not want to be part of a group that only lives for hatred.
And then, fate leads him to Aldo…
A Vietnamese kid, just fourteen like me, but somehow… there is something about him that makes others want to follow him. A chilling calmness, a calculating mind that even the most seasoned political foxes must be wary of, a person who knows how to play chess but is no mere pawn.
They meet. Then they create The Strays.
A group of misfits.Of the abandoned.Of fourteen-year-old children.
And somehow… it has survived for over a month now.
He chuckles softly. A month. For an empire like Mikhland, a month is nothing more than a fleeting moment, an insignificant number. But for people like him—those who once lived under the shadow of chains—a month of freedom is a miracle.
He looks down at his hands.
A month ago, these hands held a shovel, digging earth in the mines of Mikhland.
Now, they hold a pen, signing documents as a Landless Noble in The Committee.
A bitter smile forms on his lips.
A former Earth slave… now part of Mikhland's government.
To observe, to gather information. But no matter what, this is still a paradox.
He was once the oppressed.Now, he sits in the same hall as the oppressors.He was once a slave… but he is also part of the system.
A feeling of disgust crawls into his heart.
It's not like I haven't thought about this before. What am I doing?
He can tell himself he is looking for a chance to overthrow it. But deep down, there is a lingering fear… Am I being consumed by this system?
Am I still the Zihao I was back then?
Or am I merely playing by the enemy's rules, slowly being assimilated into the very thing I despise?
His gaze drifts back to the streets below.
Mikhland. An Guihui. The other groups of former slaves.
Not everyone knows about the existence of The Strays.
Some do, but they fear The Strays.
And he understands why.
The Strays are not like them. They are not just a group of former slaves rising in rage.
The Strays do not only consist of ex-slaves, but also those who never suffered that fate.
The Strays are not just a resistance movement—they are something deeper, something growing silently, with strategies, with plans, with a vision beyond mere fury.
And that is exactly what makes others wary.
They do not understand what The Strays truly want.
They do not know if The Strays are allies—or just another force seeking power for themselves.
Zihao lets out a dry chuckle.
Even I am not sure anymore.
An unsettling loneliness stirs inside him.
He does not belong to Mikhland.He does not belong to the former slave groups.He is not even sure he fully belongs to The Strays.
So in the end… where do I stand?
Zihao closes his eyes and exhales a long sigh.
He thinks about life. About the cycles of history. About how humanity keeps repeating old mistakes, only dressing them in new disguises.
What is justice? What is righteousness?
Once, he believed in those simple ideas. That there were villains and heroes. That fighting against oppressors was righteous.
But then… he realizes nothing is ever that simple.
The Strays—a group that fate has thrown into his hands.
He never wanted to lead. None of them did.
Aldo has the mind, but he does not like to be the face of authority.Veritas has the words, but he would rather help people than rule them.Joon-soo is a great warrior, but he lacks the patience for long-term plans.
In the end… only Zihao remains.
Fate is truly ironic.
He remembers their conflict with the Sapphic Cult.
A feminist cultrises nearly 500 years ago in a world where patriarchy dominates. They once suffer oppression, but then they become the oppressors.
They hate men.They want to eradicate all men.They seek to erase every form of family, constructing an all-female society, an absolute matriarchy.
The Strays never seek war with the Sapphic Cult, but the cult is different.
He remembers that time…
A small village rests deep in the swamplands, where men, women, and children live in peace. But the Sapphic Cultdoes not believe in "peace" while men still exist.
They attack.They slaughter every man.They drag the women with them—or kill those who resist.
The Strays try to stop them. It is a brutal battle. Blood drenches the swamp, merging with the thick fog, while leeches writhe in the dense, crimson water.
He remembers each face…The ones he fails to save.The ones he kills.
And that… is why The Strays exist.
Not for revenge.Not for power.But because if no one stands up, the innocent die.
But then what?
What if one day, the Sapphic Cult is no longer a threat…?What if The Strays have no reason to keep fighting…?
Will The Strays be crushed, or will they dissolve on their own?
An organization like The Strays cannot last forever. He knows that.
But until when? And then what?
Zihao closes his eyes, listening to the wind whispering through the streets outside. The magic lanterns cast streaks of blue and violet light into the sky, rippling like waves. On the roads below, groups of people pass one another in silence, merchants murmur in hushed voices, a child runs after his mother, his bright laughter drowned almost instantly in the city's restless hum.
He leans against the railing, his gaze following those small movements, but his mind swirls with the weight of his thoughts.
If the situation cannot change…Then The Strays must change.
He repeats that sentence in his mind, as if unearthing a truth in the storm of his thoughts.
If The Strays are not strong enough to change this world… then The Strays must change first.
But how?
He does not know.
He wants to ask the other three. But then what?
Aldo is probably buried in his lab, immersed in chemicals and bacteria.Veritas is likely buried in a massive tome on alchemy or ancient physics.And Joon-soo? He guesses that guy is wandering somewhere, chatting with mercenaries or sketching battle plans for a future campaign.
Each goes their own way. Each pursues their own path.
He hates this lack of centralization.
And then… he realizes.
This is the first thing The Strays must change.
Not a loose alliance between his group, his allies, and Aldo's faction.Not a network of individuals bound only by shared circumstances but without a true connection.
But a real organization.
A systematic, disciplined, structured entity.
An entity that can endure, even when its individuals change or disappear.
It cannot remain just a small group of people, bound by a shared goal but lacking a clear direction. It cannot keep functioning where everyone does as they please, goes wherever they want.
The Strays need to become something more.
But then, he lets out a dry laugh.
So, am I getting myself even deeper into this world?
He hates Mikhland. He loathes this world.
But he cannot abandon it.
And he cannot simply chase after the dream of returning home while knowing that, if he turns his back and walks away, this world will keep crushing the innocent beneath its wheels.
Then… how far must I go?
How deep must I step into this path?
He can go back. But as long as Mikhland continues to summon children from Earth, his relatives, his future children… and tens of thousands of others will be dragged into this place.
Then what difference does it make?
In the end, nothing gets solved.
If he only looks for an escape, he saves himself.
If he tries to change everything, he risks losing everything.
Joining this fight is an immense gamble.
But walking away… is that any different from surrender?
He falls silent, letting his thoughts coil around him like vines tightening around an old statue, layer by layer, endlessly.
He thinks of other groups of former slaves.
An Guihui.
The group of Chinese ex-slaves like him. He once had a chance to join them, but he refused.
Then, through some strange twist of fate, he met Aldo, and The Strays were born…
A group of 14-year-olds.
And somehow, it has survived an entire month.
One month.
Not long, but not short either, in a world this cruel.
Then… how much farther can I go?
He was once a slave.
Now, he is a Landless Noble in The Committee—part of Mikhland's government.
A former slave… now inside the empire's system.
He does it to observe, to learn. But even he cannot ignore the contradiction.
And he knows one thing—others are watching The Strays.
Mikhland knows about The Strays.
An Guihui and the other former slave groups know about The Strays.
But only a few truly know the whole truth.
And whether they know or not, they all remain wary.
No one truly trusts The Strays.
And why would they? A newly formed group, with no history, no roots—there is no reason to trust it.
Then, his mind drifts.
Drifts to life.
To philosophy.
To the cycles of power.
To the oppressed becoming the oppressors.
To revolutions, fallen empires, rulers who take turns planting themselves on the throne, only to be torn down into the mud.
Then, he thinks of The Strays.
Of the mission that fate has thrown into his hands.
He did not choose this path.
But no one did.
And he remembers Sapphic Cult.
A feminist sect that has existed for nearly 500 years.
The oppressed, who became the oppressors.
Who hate men.
Who seek to eradicate all men.
Who want to destroy families and build an absolute matriarchal society.
He remembers the attack on the swamp village.
Blood rising to his knees.
Men slaughtered.
Women forced to follow or die.
Children torn from their families.
That is why The Strays exist.
Not for power.
Not for profit.
But because if no one stands up, more innocents will die.
But… what if one day, Sapphic Cult is no longer a threat?
If this conflict ends?
Will The Strays be crushed… or dissolve on their own?
He doesn't know.
But he knows one thing.
If The Strays remain just a group, then sooner or later, they will vanish.
It must become an organization.
Only then can it survive.
With or without him.
...
Veritas drags his feet into the room, his eyes weary after an entire day buried in research. His armor clinks with every movement, silver dust clings to his sleeves, and his platinum hair is even messier than usual.
Zihao still sits there, on the chair by the window, shrouded in darkness, with only the moonlight filtering through the panes to reveal his sharp eyes, still wide open in the night.
Veritas watches him for a moment before letting himself collapse onto the small bed.
"Still not sleeping?" he mutters.
Zihao chuckles softly. "Neither are you."
Veritas doesn't reply. He simply reaches for the glass of water on the table, takes a sip, then lies back down, one arm draped over his forehead, his eyes half-open.
Zihao watches him and asks in a quiet voice, "How was today?"
"Like always." Veritas yawns. "Research, reports, experiments. Just another repetitive day."
Zihao nods, not pressing further. Silence settles between them.
Then, Veritas groggily sits up, rummages through his bag, and pulls out a toothbrush and a cup of water. He starts brushing his teeth right there in the room, looking utterly drained.
Zihao, watching this, can't help but stifle a laugh. "At least go outside to do that."
Veritas glares at him through the mirror. "Who has time for that?"
Zihao doesn't argue, simply staring into the darkness ahead.
When Veritas finally collapses back onto the bed, pulling the blanket over himself, Zihao's low voice suddenly breaks the silence.
"Hey… if someone were to build an organization, what would it need?"
Veritas pauses for a moment, then sighs, sounding annoyed.
"What kind of obvious question is that? An organization needs a name. A symbol. Maybe a flag, maybe not. A motto. A clear doctrine." He grumbles, voice blending into his exhausted breath.
Zihao stays silent, as if committing every word to memory.
Veritas shifts under the blanket, pulling it up a little higher, his voice drowsy, slipping into sleep.
"And, by the way… The Strays isn't even our name."
Zihao squints at him in the darkness. "What?"
Veritas yawns, speaking slowly, as if drifting off. "An Guihui called us that. Then everyone else followed. But we never actually chose a name for ourselves."
Zihao freezes for a moment.
The Strays.
They had heard that name so many times, accepted it as a given, so much so that none of them had ever stopped to question where it came from.
So it was just a nickname. A label someone else had placed upon them.
Zihao stares up at the dark ceiling, his thoughts spiraling.
A name, a symbol, a motto, a doctrine…
Has The Strays ever truly existed as an organization?
Or have they only ever been just a group of people walking the same path?
He ponders, letting the unanswered questions drift into the void.
Then, in the quiet of the night, he too slowly drifts into sleep.