It's been several months since I found myself reborn into this world, and somehow, I'm still breathing.
I can somewhat walk now. My steps are still wobbly, but I don't fall nearly as much anymore. I can lift things up with my bare hands and frail body, albeit only small objects: bits of rock, a basket, sometimes a chunk of moldy bread if I'm lucky enough to even get any.
And I can speak… a little. Mostly simple words like "bread," "water," "please." Soldiers grunt in response, but at least they understand. Half-formed thoughts spill from my lips; it's enough to let them know I'm no animal.
However, it doesn't change the fact that I'm still a slave. But, I managed to learn a thing or two based on what little I've seen and heard.
First, this little mining village is called Ferrosum. At least, that's what it says in my profile's location.
Second, everyone except for the soldiers, is a slave.
You can tell who's one by the strange looking mark on the back of their shoulders, bearing the resemblance of a grizzly bear with a shield and two swords crossed together. But not all of them are equal.
There are three main types of slaves, based on an unspoken hierarchy.
At the top are the "Skilled." These few cook, tend wounds, and entertain the rich. They're the only ones allowed to scrape together coin from grateful masters, maybe even buy their freedom one day.
I watch them move with relative ease, carrying dishes, cooking over open flames, and speaking with some degree of freedom. They smile sometimes, though their eyes says otherwise.
But the worst part—they seem to find some satisfaction on looking down on the rest of us, knowing they don't have struggle as much. And they make sure to let us know it.
In the middle are what's called "Assets." That's where I'm at.
Fortunately or unfortunately, it's mostly made up of children and young men and women, mainly the most attractive ones with the sole purpose of either being sold at a slave auction to the highest bidders, or given to some noble who owns the land we currently walk on.
I've only seen a few other kids among this group, mostly older—maybe by a few years? And the look on their faces really says it all, they know what's coming to them. But they mostly avoid me. The few who don't, make it their mission to remind me I don't belong.
They call me "cursed," whisper and gossip behind my back—that the blood moon marked me for death, and anyone near me is next. They say it to my face, or just loud enough for the guards to hear and do nothing.
I know they're scared, not just of me but of everything. Of being sold. Of what comes after. So they lash out. They need someone to hate, someone to blame. And I'm easy. I'm smaller, younger, strange.
Sometimes they beat me. Sometimes they spit. Sometimes, they just stare with hollow eyes, like I'm already dead to them.
And then—there's the very bottom, where everyone else is.
From what I saw, it's mostly comprised of criminals of all kinds. From those unable to pay off their debts, to murderers to full blown rebels and so called heretics. In other words, literal bottom feeders.
But at the end of the day, We're all still just slaves, and will get treated as such.
Ever since I could walk, I get constantly kicked around by those shitty soldiers. They'd order me around to carry them their meals and large jugs of booze.
They'd make me clean the floors, polish their weapons, and scrub their armor and disgusting clothes.
But the worse one by far, is being forced to clean that sorry excuse of a room, they call a f**king toilet.
Whenever I fail, I'd either get locked in a dark room for days, or get sent to the mines underground, gathering ores and minerals, scattered on the ground from the constant mining.
But the criminal slaves have it worse. If they get caught slacking even a tiny bit, they'd either get a beating or a whip to their backs.
If one of them passes out, they'd dump ice-cold water on them, along with a few kicks to their bodies.
If they get caught trying to escape, they'd either get shot by archer towers outside, or sent to a dungeon to be tortured and executed.
And if one of them dies, their bodies get taken out to be burnt. Something about them turning into zombies post-mortem, if left to rot for too long.
Luckily, none of those things have happened to me. After all, I'm considered a "valuable asset," according to their superiors. And all this wouldn't have happened, without that elf lady.
Whenever I might get myself into trouble, she'd always intervene and volunteer herself to take on the grueling labor that was originally meant for me.
Sometimes I'd even run away and hide from her—just to see how she'd react. But every time, she somehow manages to find me.
She doesn't scold me. She doesn't hit me. All she gives me, is her look of worry and relief while cradling me.
Almost every night, soldiers would come in, escorting her away to some unknown place, while touching her body all over—only to come back at dawn with her clothes torn apart, bruises everywhere, and her legs limping around. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what they did to her.
Whenever I come crawling to her, all she does is caress me, while giving me a gentle smile, as if trying to reassure me while hiding her pain. Why does she go so far for me?
I still don't trust her completely. But every time she gives me that look, it does nothing but fill me with rage.
She reminds of the same pathetic people from my old world, who willingly let themselves get pushed around and tormented by bullies everyday, in exchange for some semblance of peace.
Yet, despite all my anger, every part of me aches with guilt, unable to do anything about it.
Each time she collapses, her body shaking from some new bruise or worse, I feel my chest get tighter and tighter, as if I've failed her just by existing.
It hurts. It hurts so much. I want to hate her for being weak, for reminding me of them—of myself, but I just can't bring myself to.
Before I could finish my train of thought. I find myself sitting on the ground, doing nothing but watch my surroundings—as slaves go back and forth from the mines, lifting sacks of rock and metal, while guards are stationed all over, watching their every move like a hawk.
"Albus!" She calls out my name out from a distance. "Albus, there you are. I was looking all over for you." Her soft voice reaches my ears, as she gently lifts me into her arms.
Her embrace smells of sweat and something faintly sweet. As she carries me toward our little cage, the sun sinks behind the walls, painting the sky orange.
"What've you been doing all day, hm? Have you been a good boy?" She gives me a warm smile as we walk back to a caged hut, with the sun behind us slowly descending into night. I rest my head on her shoulder, and for a moment, the world narrows to her heartbeat.
The door's lock clicks behind us. She settles me on a rough stone floor, layered with a soft thick blanket. She brushes her long golden hair away from my forehead.
"Look at you," she says with gentle relief. "Growing stronger every day." Her hand lingers over my small hand, fingers knotting around mine with surprising warmth.
For a moment, I allow myself to feel safe—but even as her words wash over me, a cold knot forms in my stomach.
I catch sight of heavy boots approaching the doorway. She notices my gaze shift, following my line of sight. Her gentle smile falters. "Shhh," she whispers, voice low and urgent.
The door unlocks. My gaze lifts to see two soldiers looming in the doorway, faces hard as stone. Her breath catches, and I feel her body tense beneath my hand.
"The Captain orders for you," one growls. His companion nods, eyes flicking to me with cruel amusement.
She doesn't hesitate. She lifts me gently, brushing her hair back so I can't see her fear, and stands. My small arms try to wrap around her waist as she obeys their command.
I want to stop her, but her head tilts toward mine, and her whispered "I'll be back soon" stops me, and lightly brushes me away.
The soldiers escort her out. I press my forehead against the cold, hard wooden floor. Waiting. The night stretches endlessly without her comforting voice.
A few hours later. She returns. but by then, the moon had already climbed high up in the sky.
I wake up to the sound of her coming back all bruised up and battered again, but this time, it's even worse.
She limps in, skeletal in the moonlight, blood—dry and fresh—smeared all over her clothes and spilling everywhere she walked, while her shoulders sag as though she had just ran a marathon.
My chest tightens. "Pain?" I murmur, my words twisting in my throat. She offers me a faint smile, bruised lips barely moving. "Don't worry," she croaks. "I just tripped on the way here." Her voice is soft, but it cracks.
I crawl forward, pressing my cheek to her ankle. The bone protrudes under her torn flesh. I gulp down a scream. She shushes me, stroking my hair.
Then, she settles on the blanketed floor beside me. She closes her eyes and begins to meditate, emitting a dim green glow. The air quivers. A pale light aura surrounds her body, illuminating the bruises, the ragged wounds.
My eyes widen as I watch each cut knit together, the black and blue fade into untouched skin. Her fractured ankle straightens; in seconds, the wounds vanish as if they'd never existed. Is this... magic!?
I've been living in this cramped dark cage for so long, that I completely forgot that this is a completely different world to what I used to know.
I stare, jaw slack. Magic is real.
I've always thought all that stuff was just make believe—something people made up to give answers for things that made no sense.
She glances down at me. The flicker of surprise in her eyes mirrors my own. "You like what you saw?" she whispers, a playful edge in her tone.
Realizing my expression was visibly showing, I blush a little before turning my head in denial. "Maybe when you're older, I can teach you a bit." She says while letting out a slight giggle.
With her body whole again, she draws me close. She begins to hum—a lullaby of soft, wavering notes. The melody drifts around us, wrapping me in warmth.
My eyelids grow heavy. I fight the pull, but my fingers slip from hers. In the darkness behind my eyelids, I drift away.
Sleep pulled me under before I could cling to her warmth. My dreams carry me back. Far from stone walls and bloodied feet. To a sunlit kitchen in my old world.
I stand on a stool beside my mother as she kneaded dough on the counter. Her hair was glossy and dark, and eyes gentle.
Cinnamon and sugar scent the air as she taught me to cook, humming a lullaby almost the same as the one I'd just heard.
My mother laughs when flour puffed onto my nose. I pressed my cheek against hers and felt safe.
No soldiers. No slaves. No cells. Just her warm, loving arms and the promise of a delicious breakfast.
I want to go back. Back to those peaceful, happy days. I know this is just a dream, and I can never go back. But just a little… let me stay here a little while longer.
. . .
CRACK!
All of a sudden—her voice shifts, deeper and brittle, begging and pleading for scraps of food and coins.
Fear creeps into her eyes. The sunlit kitchen starts to close in on me, fast. "Ma—" I choke, but the word fractures in my mouth.
The walls close faster now, crushing the glow of sunlight. I reach out, nails biting into air. Panic flares—sharp, scorching. Just before the world squeezes me into nothing, a gentle voice lifts me.
"Albus…" My eyes snap wide open with a gasp, heart pounding. I find myself in her arms cradling me like I'm the most precious thing in the world.
I'm crying—big, shuddering tears, wet as newborn gasp. The nightmare lingers behind my eyes. It felt so real that it hurts. I watch myself shrink, my arms and legs folding in until I'm nothing but a ball of panic.
Her arms are beneath me in an instant, cradling me. She presses my head to her shoulder and whispers my name, her voice soft and maternal. "It's okay. I'm here."
When was the last time I genuinely cried? My vision blurs with tears I didn't know I could shed.
I hiccup, the tight feeling in my throat clearing and for the first time in this new body, I cry like an infant.
She rocks me gently, Humming that lullaby again, but softer than before. I slowly stop crying.
Pride, suspicion, and anger. It all melted away under her warm embrace. I nestle my fingers into the folds of her dress and let go. I want to trust again.
For the first time in so long, I decide to put my trust in her completely.
[Current Status]
Name: Albus
Age: 0(10 months)
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Class: Slave
Occupation: None
Location: Ferrosum
Strength: 1/ Toughness: 1/ Stamina: 1/ Dexterity: 1/ Perception: 2/ Charisma: 1
Titles: Soul Migrator
Skills/Traits: None