Sunlight, filtering through the barred window of the narrow cell, touched the boy's damp body, painting a faint golden halo around his head. He stood there, warming himself in its rays, trying to ward off the cold that had seeped in from the cracked walls and stone floor of the cell.
The cell's insulation was poor, its stone walls absorbed the day's heat and retained it for the night, making the cell suffocating in the dark, only to suddenly cool with the break of dawn, spreading icy breezes that intensified the cold
As Victoria's name echoed in his mind, a fragile thread of hope tied him to this strange world.
His gaze was lost in a sea of questions. Though his features were always calm and unreadable, those questions had begun to surface on his face.
"But what if...", that stubborn question took hold of his mind, urging him to think without pause.
Then, the circle of his doubts began to widen.
"What if this isn't the same time Victoria existed in?"
He posed the question as droplets slid down his wet hair.
"What if I'm in a different region, a different city? Another kingdom?"
The questions kept flowing through his mind, without end.
"Will I find her?... Will I even be able to reach her?..."
His expression remained calm, but anticipation filled his eyes—eyes lost in another world.
Yet his mind refused to grant him even a moment's peace.
Again, a question plagued his thoughts
"What if... Victoria isn't in this world?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to fight off the thought that had begun to take root in his mind.
But his thoughts showed no mercy—
Out of nowhere, a question crossed his mind. like a hidden stab to his heart.
"What if Victoria had already died?"
His eyes widened slightly, and his heart clenched as the thought surfaced, strange feeling swept through his chest, as if he had lost something he never even had.
It wasn't just fear, but a sudden emptiness, as though something essential inside him had vanished.
For a moment, his breath grew heavy, and the air itself felt heavier than it should be.
But he quickly clenched his fist, regaining his composure. He paused for a moment, closed his eyes, and then exhaled sharply, as if expelling all the questions and doubts that had gathered in his mind.
"No use in this," he muttered in a steady tone.
"Can't waste time dwelling on possibilities."
He opened his eyes, and they looked more steady and determined. "Victoria," he whispered her name, then said in a firm tone, "That's my goal. That's all that matters." He decided to ignore everything else —all the doubts, all the fears, all the questions.
He was no longer just a lost soul in a strange world, but someone with a purpose, a mission, a reason to fight, and for Victoria, he was ready to do anything…
He finally snapped out of that wave of questions to find that his body had dried and his clothes were almost dry.
He lifted his head, the sunlight caressing his face and seeping into his body. A wave of mixed emotions washed over him, a strange blend of relief and a vague sense of longing. "Nothing beats this feeling," he whispered softly, running a hand over his arm, feeling his clean skin where grime had been before.
He picked up the washed clothes; they were still slightly damp, but clean now. He ran his hand over the fabric. He began to dress in slow movements, as if reclaiming a lost sensation. He felt warmth envelop his body —not just from the clothes, but the warmth of cleanliness, the warmth of being human.
"Even in this strange world," he mused, "some things remain the same." He was standing, looking at himself. Now, he thought, "this body truly feels alive again."
Then he set the bucket and his clothes aside, his obsession with order still present even in the cell.
The used bathwater had gathered near a drainpipe, flowing towards a pit far from the cell that served as a rudimentary sewage system. He watched the water slowly trickle away, as if it were carrying with it a part of the grime he had shed.
Afterward, he moved towards the straw bed and sat down, staring at the stone wall opposite him. The questions of the past no longer held him captive, but rather other thoughts, more practical ones. "What do I do now?"
He wondered silently. "How do I find Victoria? I can't trust anyone here"
"... and that guard, Lyra, mentioned I don't possess any magic..."
He knew from the novel that everyone was born with some measure of magic, even if it was weak. Even common slaves and farmers possessed a small amount. To be completely without magic… that was not mentioned.
Then he muttered, his eyes distant, as if looking inward at the enormity of his predicament. "Just being a slave was bad enough, and now this body doesn't even have the ability to use magic... this just makes things more complicated..."
He was so lost in thought about it that he didn't even notice the footsteps echoing in the corridor.
It was Borin, returning to check on the boy's bathing. He opened the cell door. looked at the boy again, but this time with different eyes. He no longer saw just a filthy slave as he had before, but someone else, as if he had completely changed.
This change wasn't natural… the difference was unbelievable.
He approached slowly, his eyes moving between the boy's face and his clean clothes, then muttered in a voice barely audible:
"Can it really be that just a bucket of water could make all this difference...?"
He stood before him for a few moments, scrutinizing him, unable to hide his astonishment. The boy no longer looked like a mere slave who evoked disgust, but like someone else entirely, different… clean…
He snapped out of his amazement, turning towards the bucket to check it. His brow furrowed immediately when he saw the old clothes neatly folded, in a way unlike anything a slave in such a wretched cell would do. He picked them up, turned them over slightly in his hand, then muttered in a lower voice, as if talking to himself.
"Damn... what's with this slave? He's always got surprises no one expects..."
He raised his head again to look at the boy, then asked sharply, as if trying to confirm he hadn't lost his mind:
"Those clothes... did you wash them?"
The boy didn't hesitate, showing no confusion or surprise at the question. He simply looked at him coldly and replied plainly
"Yes, Master Borin," then he returned to his previous state, unreadable.
But after a moment, Borin thoughts shifted in another direction. He looked at the boy again, this time with the eyes of a merchant.
"With his appearance now... perhaps we'll fetch a better price than Elara thought..."
"She'll be shocked when she sees him again," Borin murmured, his eyes widening slightly with a hint of greed and a subtle anticipation.
He ran a hand over his chin, then added to himself, "Even without any magic... he'll be worth a fair bit." a smug tone underlying his words
The boy sensed what was going through Borin's mind, so he tried to capitalize on the guard's shifting mood. He ventured to ask, "Master Borin, might you tell m—"
But Brogan cut him off sharply, as if the question itself was an offense.
"Slaves don't ask questions." His words were delivered in a decisive tone, leaving no room for argument.
The boy thought to himself, a quiet sigh escaping his lips, "Just as I expected, that approach won't work... even if he answered, I can't expect his answer to be sufficient... it would most likely be a name I don't recognize. Asking Elara would also be pointless..."
The boy's thoughts were tangled around the name of this place —was it a city or a village? Had the novel ever mentioned a place around this?...
While he was lost in these questions, Borin paused for a moment, looking at the boy who seemed completely unconcerned by the harshness of his refusal.
He shrugged lightly and slammed the cell door shut, then walked away, leaving behind the echo of his footsteps.
The boy stared silently at the cell door, then whispered, "Alright, now it's time to stop asking questions and start testing this body," he thought with a newfound resolve in his tone.
"It's true this body was injured and covered in wounds, but now I feel much better," he mused, a hint of surprised satisfaction in his voice.
He attempted a few movements, raising his arm, bending his knee, and twisting his torso. His motions were slow at first, but they quickly became smoother after a number of repetitions.
His body was finally starting to respond the way he wanted. Now, he began to think about testing his endurance.
He took a deep breath, then tensed his muscles slightly, trying to gauge his body's stamina. He stretched out on the ground and began pressing his palms into the earth, pushing himself upwards in an attempt at a simple push-up.
A burning pain flared in his shoulders and arm muscles, but he resolved to continue, ignoring it...
He started counting under his breath.
"One..."
A slight tremor ran through his arms.
"Two..."
He sighed. "Three..."
The pain intensified, but he pushed through. "Four..."
"Five... Six..." His breathing quickened, each word a struggle.
"Seven…" His teeth clenched.
He squeezed them shut, willing himself to focus. "Eight…" The heat within him began to rise, pulsing through his veins.
"Nine…" His vision blurred. He just wanted it to end.
"Ten…" The final push felt like an eternity.
Each push-up felt like hell, his body threatening to collapse, but still, he pressed on.
Breaths came in ragged gasps as he continued... unwilling to stop.
He pressed on...
"Ele...ven... tw...elve... thir—teen..."
Then his hands slipped, and he collapsed, his arms trembling violently, his breath ragged.
He began to speak between gasps, trying to catch his breath.
"Damn it... is this body's... endurance really this... bad..."
He panted, continuing his train of thought.
"Damn it, the wounds are making it difficult, and the body is weak and exhausted, lacking food..."
His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, but it was futile. The agony in his body clouded his mind, and a horrible realization gnawed at him—he wasn't going to make it like this.
Just when he thought he couldn't sink any lower, a voice crept into his mind, cold and mocking. It was familiar, but distorted, like a memory he couldn't quite place.
"...Trying to find excuses, aren't you?..."
The voice sneered, cruel and relentless.
"...Why even bother? You should have just faded away,"
"...Wasn't that life you lived enough for you..."
"...Even if time and place change, you're still the same, always... still a burden... a useless nobody..."
"... end your pathetic existence..."
The voices start screaming
"We lost our only hope on that hell world because of you..."
"... You don't deserve a second chance..."
"...You should've vanished back then. Quietly. No one would've cried..."
"...Stop pretending. Stop trying. Just… disapp—"
"SILENCE!" He cried out, his voice raw, as if the scream could silence the torment.
His awareness and senses ground to a halt… A bitter feeling washed over him…
It was as if an old wound, buried deep within his heart, had suddenly ripped open… His gaze turned vacant, and he became fearful, suddenly terrified…
The tormenting thoughts receded, silence descending as he gasped for breath...
He quickly returned to his previous position and resumed his push-ups, extending his arms and beginning to count again.
"One... two... three... four... five... six... seven..."
But this time, he wasn't thinking about the pain; his mind was consumed by that nightmare...
"What am I raving about?" he muttered, addressing himself while his mouth continued to count.
"... eight... nine..."
The tone of his inner voice shifted, becoming steady and resolute."That nightmare... that boy was fighting with this body," his inner voice declared.
He continued pressing down, "...eleven... twelve..."
"Despite his hunger... despite his wounds..." the words growing sharper with each push-up.
His mouth echoed, " thirteen... fourteen... fifteen..."
While his mind repeated, "... despite his weakness..."
"Sixteen... seventeen... eighteen... nineteen..."
"Despite the horror..." His inner voice grew louder, more furious.
" Twenty... twenty-one... twenty-two..."
"despite having no magic to rely on…" his inner voice start raising up
"Twenty-three... twenty-four... twenty-five..."
Now, his anger was palpable. "Despite his young age... despite the hell he went through, he was..."
He screamed inside, "... Clinging to his survival… that nightmare was his reality…"
"Twenty-eight... twenty-nine... thirty…"
His thoughts roared louder. "And still, he never once thought about giving up…"
Thirty-one... thirty-two... thirty-three.
He spoke aloud, his voice unwavering, "He was a warrior. He was a fighter. He was a survival…"
Thirty-four... thirty-five... thirty-six...
Something inside him ignited. It wasn't just anger, it wasn't just determination… but it was like a proof to prove his will…
he muttered, "This body isn't weak... This body isn't useless."
"thirty-nine... forty… forty-one... forty-two "
"Im lacking what that boy possessed…", he admitted
"forty-five... forty-six…"
He continued doing the exercises, his breaths quickening. Each time he lifted his body, he felt as if his weight was increasing slightly. But he didn't stop. Stopping isn't an option. Like that nightmare...
"… fifty-six… fifty-seven… fifty-eight… fifty-nine…."
His hands began to tremble. Each time he pressed against the ground, the pain increased, but it wasn't just physical pain, he was afraid of that voice returning…
"Sixty… sixty-one... sixty-two…"
The air in the room became heavier, or perhaps that was just an illusion. His eyes became blurry, but he didn't care.
"Seventy-one… seventy-two… seventy-three…"
His hand was aching, as if his skin had begun to crack from the pressure. But he didn't look down. It doesn't matter.
"Eighty-two... eighty-three... eighty-four…"
hand slipped slightly, he almost fell on his face, but he caught himself at the last moment. He couldn't fall now. Not yet.
"...eighty-five... eighty-six... eighty-seven... eighty-eight…"
His body was screaming, demanding that he stop, but his mind refused to even acknowledge the possibility of stopping.
"… ninety-six… ninety-seven… ninety-eight… ninety-nine… "
"One hundred."
Immediately, he collapsed onto the ground, then rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling while his heart continued to pound wildly, as if his body was screaming in protest at what he had just done.
His body no longer moved. His eyes were open, but he no longer saw anything clearly. The air entered his lungs as if it were tearing him from the inside.
But… those were his first steps he had drawn…
He had done it. A small step... But it was a start...
He lay on the ground for a while until his breathing finally settled… then he crawled to his straw bed.
Silence surrounded him except for the sound of his heartbeat, which was still rapidly increasing in speed. Pain was burning in his hands, in his shoulders.
He tried to smile, but his smile was pale, almost lifeless, he felt a strange sensation invading him, as if sleep itself was trying to take everything from him.
Slowly, he surrendered to that feeling.
He closed his eyes, feeling drowsiness overwhelmed him to the point where he could no longer distinguish whether it was a nap or approaching death. The body, after all this, had begun to refuse any attempt to stay awake.
Then, he drifted off slowly, as if the world had also begun to withdraw from him bit by bit.
°°°
A stretch of silent hours passed before the grating screech of the cell door announced Borin's return, the day nearing its end, finding the boy sitting in the corner of his strew bed, his eyes half-closed as if lost in a light doze.
The boy was already awake.
Borin came carrying a small wooden board with a small loaf of bread and mashed potatoes on it, and a separate cup of water in his hand. He set everything down on the ground in front of the boy without a word.
The boy looked at the food coldly, without any expression, but inside a fierce struggle raged. Hunger gnawed at his insides, yet he had no intention of showing any eagerness.
He was planning something...
A heavy silence fell, and Borin, who was accustomed to sounds of begging or gratitude, began to feel uneasy under the boy's unwavering gaze.
Borin finally frowned and said sharply, "What? Why aren't you eating?"
The boy slowly raised his eyes to him, his voice cold and devoid of any emotion. "I don't know."
Borin's gaze sharpened. "You don't know? Aren't you hungry?"
The boy's eyes drifted over the food for a moment before returning to Borin, his tone neutral but his words deliberately chosen. "Why would you care? So I can live as a slave?"
The words provoked Borin, and his mood shifted quickly. He pursed his lips tightly and said, "You're strange. Usually, your kind beg or ask about their fate, but you're silent in an unsettling way."
The boy tilted his head slightly, his tone growing heavier as he replied with a grim calmness, "Are you afraid my condition will worsen? What if I decide to stop eating?"
Borin's features froze for a moment before he narrowed his eyes sharply. "What are you trying to get at, you little rascal?"
The boy answered with the same calmness, as if stating an obvious fact, "Mistress Elara… as you know, she wouldn't be pleased if she lost a valuable commodity, especially since she has high hopes for me."
He didn't stop there. His eyes narrowed slightly "I know I'm the only slave left in this place. The silence from the other cells confirms it."
Borin took a step forward, his voice lowering to a warning tone. "You're playing with fire, slave. Don't think I'll let you threaten me."
The boy didn't move, his gaze remained steady. "'Threaten'? No, I'm merely stating facts. You both want me in good health, but nothing is stopping me from ending my life…"
Borin narrowed his eyes, but his tone remained sarcastic, as if trying to regain control. "Really? And where will you hold your imaginary knife, genius?"
With steady eyes that watched Borin without blinking, "You know... there are many ways to end my life here, even in an empty cell like this."
He tilted his head slightly, and his voice didn't change, still carrying the same terrifying steadiness
"I don't need a knife."
He slowly raised his hand, and his fingers moved around his neck as if testing something unseen.
"I can bite my tongue hard enough to drown in my own blood... it would only take a few seconds."
He looked at the wall beside him, his eyes assessing the distance, the possibilities
"Or perhaps I'll try something more effective... with one blow, I can smash my skull against this wall, and if the first doesn't kill me, the second certainly will."
He paused, and his silence was as heavy as the words that followed. When he spoke again,
"Or perhaps, simply, I will refuse the food. It won't be long before my condition deteriorates... and then, you will be the one responsible to Mistress Elara."
Borin felt a chill creeping down his spine, but he masked it with a tense smile. "You speak with suspicious confidence, boy. But I don't buy into your empty threats."
A heavy silence settled over the cell, and anxiety began to creep into his heart, though he tried not to show it. After a long pause, he flashed a cunning smile. "Oh, you won't be able to. You're under the influence of a slavery contract. Any attempt to harm yourself will paralyze your body completely, and if you keep thinking about it… well, you might never wake up."
The boy's expression didn't change, his voice calm yet laced with hidden defiance. "Contract? What contract are you talking about? Lady Elara didn't mention anything like that. She didn't even address me by name. How can a contract be made without a name?", That was the only thing mentioned about slavery in the novel.
Borin froze for a moment, his brow lifting in surprise. "How does he know? Just a worthless slave, he shouldn't know anything about this!".
His surprise faded quickly, and he tried to cover his embarrassment with new sarcasm. "Damn… you won't get any answers."
A barely visible smile flickered on the boy's lips as he replied in a measured tone, "Maybe. But my body is my only bargaining chip now, isn't it?
The boy's unyielding gaze unnerved Borin. There was something different about him—his demeanor, his tone, everything.
Borin's thoughts raced. "This slave... he's more terrifying than I expected. I'm not getting paid enough for this..." He let out an exasperated sigh, muttering under his breath, "This isn't worth it."
Borin stared at him in silence, tension thick between them, before muttering begrudgingly, "What do you want to know?"
After a brief pause, the boy finally spoke, "Where is this place? Are we in a city?"
Borin exhaled in irritation, his expression harsh. "You're in a place that resembles a prison, but not quite. This is a slave depot, where people like you are kept and sold."
He turned away, his voice colder. "And you're in the city of Feron, if that matters to you."
The boy's eyes widened just slightly, a flicker of disappointment passing through his otherwise impassive features. He whispered, "Feron..."
Then he mumbled to himself, "This city was never mentioned in the novel, at least not in the part I read."
After another brief silence, the boy asked softly, "And which kingdom does Feron belong to?"
Borin answered without hesitation, "The Kingdom of Elyndor..."
No reaction showed on the boy's face after hearing the kingdom's name, but his eyes remained fixed on Borin, observant. Borin continued, "It's part of the great Valarion Empire..."
The boy's eyes widened, a clear sign of surprise. He murmured, "Finally... a familiar name..." then turned to Borin and asked, "What about the Kingdom of Irondale?"
Borin, taken aback by the question, responded in astonishment, "Irondale? It's far from here... west of this kingdom, about fifty days by carriage. But it's also part of the great Valarion Empire".
Borin noticed the brief distraction in the boy's expression but said nothing. Instead, he leaned against the cell door and added with mockery, "Not that this information will help you. You're a slave, and you will never get a chance to reach that place..."
The boy slowly lifted his gaze to meet Borin's, his stare unwavering, but this time there was something more. Something that made Borin feel uneasy for a moment. Borin laughed, but a prickle of discomfort lingered from the boy's calm confidence. "Oh? You have a plan, little one? How do you intend to escape? Will you beg Lady Elara for mercy? Or are you relying on someone's goodwill?"
The boy didn't respond. He simply picked up a piece of bread from the tray and took a slow bite, savoring it with exaggerated slowness. Borin, despite his irritation, noticed the boy no longer pretending indifference toward the food.
Borin waited for a response, but the boy continued eating in silence, as if the conversation had ended.
He sighed in frustration, turning to leave. "I'll see you later, annoying brat. Don't think too hard, your little brain might burn out."
Before Borin could take another step, the boy's voice rang out, soft yet sincere. "Thank you, Master Borin."
Borin paused for a moment, his back still turned.
There was a slight flicker of something in his expression, surprise, or perhaps uncertainty, but he quickly masked it, "Okay, this boy... unpredictable. He is crazy..."
He said "Tch. Whatever."
He closed the door with a soft creak, the sound lingering in the quiet as he cast a final glance at the boy, leaving him alone once again in the cell.
The boy remained seated, his gaze fixed on the dark wall in front of him. In total silence, he murmured to himself, "…Now, how do we get to Irondale?"