Chapter 20 - "The Rotten Harvest"
...Oliver squinted toward the horizon, at the mighty ship ready to take them all—an incredible display of the wealth of the Somara empire. The salty sea breeze whipped across the battered dock, and the waters of the Great Southern Sea churned like a beast waking from slumber.
He had read enough maps and overheard enough whispers to know where they were going. Across that monstrous expanse lay the Somara Empire—a land of blood-stained gold, dungeon-parasitic nobles, and cruel "games" that had claimed many like him. The voyage would take a week, maybe longer depending on the tides and Aether used.
But they weren't departing just yet.
They were thinning the herd.
The soldier continued to walk among the rows of chained slaves—his eyes like that of a butcher inspecting meat. Those with festering wounds or coughs that rasped too loudly were dragged out, killed and fed to the massive, snorting beasts the soldiers rode—horned mounts with teeth too sharp for herbivores.
It was only natural for them to do this as this kind of long transport of slaves could easily spread diseases and infection.
This was a cruel world, even one's lack of luck could become their undoing.
Just like the man whose wife had just been executed as an example.
Oliver took a look at the man.
The poor fellow had fallen on his knees, frozen in shock as his eyes remained wide and mouth agape. Her blood still stained his neck to his arms—warm, sticky proof of her final breath. Only moments ago, he'd whispered soft, trembling comfort in her ear. She'd smiled regardless of the unfortunate fall of the kingdom.
Now, she had become nothing but fodder for beasts.
Such was the unfortunate fate of one without power. Their lives were no more crushable than a child stepping on an ant.
At first, the man was silent.
Then came the scream.
"I'll kill you!"
He lunged, feet scrabbling against the blood-slick stone, but the soldier was ready. A gauntleted fist cracked against his jaw. The man crumpled beside the corpse of his wife, whose eyes still stared blankly into the clouds above. He rose again.
Another punch.
Another fall.
Yet still, he rose.
Oliver, like the others, could see it. This man had lost himself to his rage.
Laughter rippled from the other soldiers—cruel, sharp, entertained.
But they weren't the only ones watching.
Inside a nearby carriage, half-veiled behind silken drapes, Seraphina sat with a calm expression and a glass of dark wine. Her eyes gleamed with fascination as she watched the man stagger up once more, blood pouring from his nose.
A slow, twisted smile tugged at her lips.
She raised a single finger.
Viscount Cedric Elman moved before the command left her lips. He bowed slightly, his smirk smug. Behind him, Viscount Hadrian Voss cursed under his breath. Once again, he'd been a moment too slow.
Ever since Viscount Cedric outpaced him to begin the slaughter at the fallen Tyrell kingdom, it almost seemed like Cedric had gotten more of her favour.
For this outer wall noble, this was not a good thing. Favour was always equal to benefits.
"Wash that one. Deliver him to my quarters," Seraphina ordered, voice smooth as honey—and just as sticky. "I'm bored."
A chill brushed Cedric's spine.
Even as he bowed, a flicker of pity crossed his eyes as he looked at the bloodied man.
Even though he had slaughtered these people, Cedric still felt sad on his behalf. It was always better to be dead than chosen by Seraphina. This was something everyone knew.
No one envied the ones Seraphina selected. Madness, or something worse awaited them.
Still, orders were orders.
And Cedric relished that Hadrian would have to stew in his failure.
---
Meanwhile, Oliver was losing a battle of his own.
Sleep clawed at him like talons under his skin.
He gritted his teeth as he stood in line for inspection. The countdown timer from his interface throbbed in the corner of his vision: [Time Until Mandatory Sleep: 1 minute 47 seconds]. His Nightmare Sigil flickered blood-red.
> <"Ermm... dude...I advise compliance,"> the interface from his bloodline said sweetly. <"You know how penalties go, right?">
But Oliver couldn't afford to collapse here. He'd seen what happened to that woman earlier—just a moment's weakness and she'd been discarded like trash.
Just so that wounds won't become spreading infections, same with diseases. Even if one was a slave with a royal bloodline, their end would be here.
Of course, this could have been avoided, if Seraphina had taken the pain to leave with a healer. But from what Oliver remembered, she had wanted to get it over it, as quickly as possible.
And did not wait for the new batch of healers to finish adapting to the power taken from the slaves of the dungeons.
That impatience caused a lot of unnecessary deaths. Some of which Oliver was now experiencing.
This meant that regardless of his bloodline, to prevent a disaster from hitting the other slaves, the soldiers were willing to cut their losses.
His bloodline meant nothing to these beasts. Nothing.
He pinched himself.
Hard.
Pain lanced through his skin, but sleep only laughed.
His body trembled. Sweat rolled down his spine. The ground beneath him spun just slightly, like the sea waves teasing his balance. If not for his A-rank mental endurance, he might have already dropped.
Velma, who was chained at his side, noticed.
"Oliver," she whispered, leaning into him. She tried to summon her Aether, but the cursed chains bit into her skin with a sizzle. She might have helped since she could heal with her aether. But all she could offer was her grip—tight, steady, grounding.
Oliver gritted his teeth as he came to a final decision and bit his tongue—deep.
The copper taste flooded his mouth. His knees buckled but didn't fall.
The pain helped.
Finally, the inspecting soldier stopped in front of them.
The man's eyes were sharp, like a predator who wanted to find something wrong. He stepped close. His nose wrinkled. He examined Oliver, then Velma, then Oliver again.
Oliver forced his eyes to remain open, as wide as he could.
"Too skinny," the soldier muttered, tapping Oliver's chin with a gauntlet. "Still breathing?"
Oliver's jaw twitched. He gave the barest nod.
The soldier grunted.
"Move along."
As they were ushered forward, Oliver clung to that final thread of consciousness.
It was not over until it was over.
He still had to ensure that he made it to the cages. A normal man might have given up. That high rank for mental edurance was really showing its usefulness. Oliver was actively going against his bloodline.
Finally, he made it.
His legs were numb. His vision blurred.
And then—darkness.
He collapsed onto the hard floor of the ship's caged hold, iron bars rattling above his head.
Blood dribbled from his mouth where he'd bit through flesh.
And then—
> DING
> <"Warning: Special Condition Violated.">
> <"Heir of Nightmares has failed to enter sleep on time.">
<"Penalty Engaged.">
Oliver barely had time to wonder what that meant before the world flipped inside out.
As he sank into blackness, the bloodline interface whispered smugly:
> <"I did warn you, didn't I?">