"Diego, that lucky bastard got a break from his patrol duties, right?"
"Yes, apparently a new slave he escorted tried to flee, and he caught it. The slave got whipped as punishment and almost died to the whipping. They gave it three days of rest. Diego can relax on guard duty during that time. They said it is his reward for catching it."
"Think he released the slave on purpose? Honestly sounds like a good plan. I could use some rest myself. Maybe I should release a slave and then catch it as well?"
"Sure, but then you can explain to the Overseer why you are trying to fu*k him. He explicitly told us punishment is to keep slaves in line. If he finds out you just wanted a break, you may be the one getting whipped instead."
"How are they going to find out? A slave is as believable as a drunk man trying to prove he is not drunk."
Sturm woke up to a conversation between slavers that were approaching his tent. They were the patrol in charge of checking the slaves. Sending a patrol to check the tents was faster than escorting every single slave. Slaves that did not leave fast enough get punished.
<
The two slavers entered Sturm's tent only to see him seemingly asleep.
"Look at that. Got hurt a little bit and thought he could sleep all day. If I were the Overseer, I would definitely work him to death."
"Just take one of the strips off, and let's get going. There are still a few more we have to take care of, and the boss is not in a good mood."
A hand approached Sturm, and he felt how they ripped something off his armband. He heard them turn around and walk away when the steps closest to him suddenly stopped.
"What are you waiting for?"
*Ach-ptooey*
"That."
Something wet dripped down Sturm's face, and he tried his best to hold in his anger. The second the guards left his tent, he wiped the spit off his face and turned onto his belly.
Once on his belly, he held a plank to distract himself and warm up a little. If Sturm did not waste some energy right now, he would probably do something he would regret. When he began sweating, Sturm stood up and started stretching and practicing yoga. Most yoga positions required some adjustment due to the restraints, but soon his body and mind felt refreshed. The soreness all over his body was still noticeable, but it was comparable to how he usually felt after a fight. Battered and bruised but ready for the next one.
Next on the list would be a round of technical shadow boxing, but the restraints made that impossible. Capoeira was said to have been developed due to slaves being handcuffed, prioritizing kicks while camouflaging it as a dance, but the leg cuffs prevented that as well.
Worst of all, he was suddenly shorter, his body less developed, and extremely malnourished. Sturm had to get used to this new body. Every single moment he was capable of recovering some of his progress on the first three chapters was an opportunity he had to take hold of.
Sturm could not execute different techniques in the air, but he could fight against imaginary shadows of all the best fighters in his previous life. If someone entered his tent and watched him right now, they would think he is crazy as Sturm stood there with a concentrated expression, throwing his head back and moving it left and right.
Jab, Cross, Lean Back, Cross, Step in with a left uppercut, Clinch, Upper Elbow, Thai Clinch, Hip Turn, Knee, Knee, Dead.
Almost after every punch or kick, he threw in the imaginary realm, his leg gave in, his guard got smashed open, or he crumbled like a knife had slit open his stomach. The shadows in his mind were the peak of five thousand years of evolution of hand-to-hand combat combined with the power of modern science. He set the same standard for himself as he did in his previous life.
Frustration filled up Sturm as all the work he put in during his previous life had to be reinvested, but he would not give up. He had to be able to reach his previous prowess as soon as possible. Who knew what awaited him the next day, week, or month. Lowering his standards and adjusting the shadows to his current condition would decrement his progress.
Training had always been a means to fight better and to reach new heights. He was used to it and did not find it particularly annoying, but this was comparable to losing all progress you made in a game after weeks of playing. Yes, of course, you already know how to reach the point you were previously at. You even know you will get there much quicker than before, but who wants that? You want to see new levels, get stronger than before and finish the game.
Sturm kept training and feeling out his new body until he was literally soaked with sweat.
<>
If he could not drink anything, then he certainly could not shower. Sturm did not feel like going around the camp again either. After securing a source of information, going out only meant exposing himself to guards and risking getting into trouble. So Sturm simply decided to go back to bed and sleep for a few more hours.
When the sun was already high up in the sky, Sturm woke up with a growling stomach. He had to get food.
<>
He arrived at the well and saw the guards were still lazing around and gambling. The one they called Ale that kept losing his gambles was not there, but Sturm had learned his lesson and approached a guard who seemed like he just won a few rounds of dice.
"Excuse me, handsome Sir, where can I get food?"
The combination of being flattered and having won at his gambles had the exact result Sturm had intended. It was even enough to cover the disgust and hate most guards had for slaves.
"Just walk southwest towards the pit inside the quarry. Food is handed out next to it."
He did not pay any further attention to Sturm. The guard was smiling and dreaming about what he would do with his earnings. Maybe buy some liquor? Or spend it at the brothel in the town? There were so many options that torturing a slave was the last thing on his mind.
Sturm followed his directions and passed through the gate towards the quarry. The guards glanced at his armband and did not stop him, but one stretched out his leg the moment Sturm passed by him. Even if his senses were not enhanced like in his previous life, his awareness and instincts were still sharp.
He could easily step over the leg, but that would only bring even more trouble, so he forced himself to high-five the ground... with his face. The guards got a laugh out of it and promptly ignored him afterward.
After getting up, Sturm soon arrived at a 15-meter tall colosseum made out of wood. It lacked the Romans' architectural craftsmanship. There were also no pillars of marble but instead only simple wooden walls. Next to the coliseum were a few fire pits with giant iron pots hanging over them.
<
Slaves were lining up behind a wooden table to receive their food. It reminded Sturm of movies where prisoners stood in line in the cafeteria. He decided to join them, waiting for his turn to get some food.
"You, I have not seen you here before. What is your number?"
One of the slavers overseeing the handing out of food noticed a child he had not seen before. He had not been informed of a new slave in this group and thought he was trying to cheat them into giving him an extra meal.
"2047"
"This is the time slaves numbered 1000 to 1500 eat. Did you think I would not notice a new face?"