"Urgh…" Alaric groaned, eyes snapping open as a splash of ice-cold water hit his face.
He coughed, sputtering, his body jolting awake on reflex alone. The bucket clattered to the floor as one of the guards stepped back, sneering.
Two weeks.
It had been two weeks since he'd arrived at this cursed mansion. Two weeks of filth, exhaustion, and humiliation.
And this—this crude awakening—barked at like animals—had become the daily routine for all of them.
"Get up, filth!" one of the guards shouted. "You've got work to do!"
Around him, the other slaves stirred, groaning as they dragged themselves upright. Blank stares. Sunken eyes.
No one spoke. No one dared.
Alaric wiped his face, slowly stood up, and clenched his fists.
As the guards herded them out of the prison-like room, Alaric paused for a brief second, glancing up at the balcony.
Empty, again.
That bastard isn't home today either, he thought, gaze hardening as he stepped forward.
In the past two weeks, Alaric had learned much.
The man who had bought him was a baron 'Ferick Glimor'.
A degenerate through and through.
He rarely stayed in his own estate, preferring to waste his days in brothels, drown himself in cheap liquor, and chase after women half his age. A disgrace to nobility, a stain on his title.
The Glimor household should have crumbled under his reckless neglect.
And yet, it hadn't.
Because of two people: Selene Glimor, the baron's wife, and Elina Glimor, their daughter.
Together, they held the house from crumbling. They kept the businesses alive, balanced the books, and carried the burden Ferick abandoned.
They worked. Tirelessly. Relentlessly.
Alaric kept pace with the group, shackles clinking with each step as they were herded through the mansion's outer grounds.
The morning sun had barely risen, yet sweat already clung to his brow.
Eventually, they arrived at the estate's edge, where the baron's latest vanity project was underway.
A new building, half-finished.
Their destination.
The guards barked orders, shoving the eight of them into motion. Tools were tossed at their feet—shovels, ropes, crates of bricks.
They fell into it with grim obedience. Digging trenches. Towing stones. Hauling timber across uneven ground.
Alaric gritted his teeth as he worked. His body still ached from days prior, but at least he had some strength left, all thanks to the training he had doing for past two weeks.
And compared to the others, his frame, though far from what it used to be, still bore the traces of a young man's build—lean muscle beneath the grime and bruises.
But the rest… they were barely shadows of men. Their arms shook under even the lightest weight.
Hollow eyes.
Yet one of them stood out.
The elderly slave—quiet, calm, always with that faint smile—held his own.
His frame was lean but sturdy, hardened by years, not wasted by them. He completed his own tasks without complaint, and more than once, Alaric saw him step in to help another who had collapsed or fumbled.
It surprised him.
In this pit of despair, the old man still chose to lift others.
But.
Alaric didn't have the luxury to sightsee—not with the weight of stone on his back and sweat stinging his eyes.
He pushed through the hours, muscle screaming, skin rubbed raw by rope and splinters.
When the sun dipped low, painting the sky in orange hue, the guards finally rounded them up.
As they passed through one of the inner hallways of the estate, one of the slaves stumbled.
Then it happened.
Crack!
A crash.
Sharp and sudden.
His shoulder clipped a porcelain vase—ornate and obviously expensive—shattering across the hallway tiles.
Time seemed to freeze.
The guard's face twisted into rage.
"You little—!"
Crack!
The whip cracked before the boy could even stammer an apology.
Once. Twice.
Again. And again.
"Aaah!"
The boy screamed, curling in on himself as the leather tore through his rags, his skin.
Five.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Then the old man stepped forward, his voice calm yet firm.
"It wasn't his fault. He's exhausted. We all are. He just tripped, please let it go."
The guard's eyes narrowed further. "Are you defending him, old man?"
Before the whip could rise again, a commanding voice cut through the corridor.
"What's happening here?"
Baron Ferick Glimor stood there, stinking of wine and cheap perfume, his shirt half open, eyes bloodshot.
He looked between the broken vase, the slave on the floor, the old man, and the guard.
The guard straightened. "My lord, one of the slaves damaged your property. And this one"—he pointed at the elderly man—"has the nerve to take his side."
Ferick's gaze shifted, slow and dangerous.
Then, he smirked. "Oh? A hero, are you?"
Alaric's eyes flicked between them, muscles tensed. He didn't like where this was going.
Ferick's smile faded as he stepped forward. Without a word, he snatched the whip from the guard's hand.
"You think that," he growled, motioning to the broken vase, "was worth less than you?"
His eyes, bloodshot and cruel, locked on the elder man.
"No, my lord, I—" the elder man began, but the whip cracked across his chest before he could finish.
The elder slave stumbled back, arms raised in a futile defense.
"You're things," Ferick snarled, voice trembling with drunken rage. "Tools. Property. That vase cost more than every rotting bone in this room!"
He lashed again.
And again.
The sound of leather striking flesh echoed like gunshots in the hallway. The elderly man cried out, began to plead, voice hoarse.
"My lord—please—I only—!"
CRACK!
Blood splattered on the floor.
The courtyard fell deathly quiet, the only sound the sickening rhythm of flesh meeting leather and the wet rasp of the old man's breath.
Ferick didn't stop.
Not until the man slumped forward, coughing, wheezing—then choking.
Spitting blood.
Ferick finally stopped, panting from exertion. He looked down at the man crumpled before him, a smear of blood beneath him.
"Clean this shit up," he growled, and stormed off, the whip dragging behind him.
The guard sneered, stepping forward. He jabbed the old man's ribs with his boot. "Get up."
No response.
Another kick—harder. "I said, get up!"
Still nothing.
A second passed. Then another.
And then other guard checked him and whispered.
"He's not breathing."
The reality settled like frost over the group of slaves.
The old man—who had worked harder than any of them, who had defended one of them—was dead.
Murdered for a vase.