The sound of boots scraping against the metal floors, quiet laughter, and murmured conversations filled the once-silent space. Omen remained silent, observing them through quick, subtle glances. Some soldiers eyed him, Dahlia, and Virgo with curiosity—new blood was always a subject of interest.
The air thickened with the weight of unspoken tension. Omen couldn't help but compare this moment to his first encounter with Malek and the others. A [—-] smile tugged at his lips, and he immediately frowned, 'Huh? ' Before he could think much of the situation, the thoughts vanished.
[Emotion: Nostalgia]
[Emotions stolen until tranquillity: 6/100]
He sat back on his bed, his gaze drifting toward the reading desk by his side. Each bed was equipped with its desk and wardrobe. On his desk sat a book, its cover plain and unremarkable, yet it drew his attention. He snatched it up and started flipping through each page incoherently.
Just as he was getting into the finer details of the content, the shrill blaring of the lunch bell disrupted his focus. With a quiet sigh, he closed the book but took it along, tucking it under his arm as he followed the excited masses toward the eating hall.
The hall was alive with noise—voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls, and the clattering of trays and cutlery filling the air. The crowd surged toward the counters where bowls of porridge were being handed out. Omen moved with the flow, grabbing a tray and collecting his portion. The porridge was bland but filling, just enough to keep them sustained for the physical demands of the day. 'Haelkrie was right, though; General Arthur oddly cared for the slaves a great deal. How else did he dare leave weapons like cutleries with slaves? How does he fend off any slaves who choose to retaliate? Some of them would be slaves captured to fight against their very own origin. Maybe it was the branded imprints.
He looked around the room. Two long tables stretched the entire length, each lined with twenty-five chairs on either side. Unlike the sleeping quarters, there was no designated division between the genders; anyone could sit wherever they pleased. The clamour of soldiers already seated and eating filled the air, and Omen quickly decided he wanted to be as far from it as possible.
Spotting an empty seat at the far end of the room, Omen headed toward it, weaving between soldiers, his tray in hand. He dropped into the chair with little grace, placing the tray down before him and setting the manual to his side. He allowed himself a brief moment of peace, tuning out the chaos around him.
But fate had other plans. As he opened the page he'd bookmarked, a lean figure slid into the seat across from him. Omen didn't look up at first, his focus on the book, hoping the person would leave him alone. But the stranger didn't seem to get the hint.
"What's up, bro? My name's Kol."
Omen reluctantly looked up, his eyes meeting Kol's vibrant purple gaze. The boy's eyes were striking—brilliant, almost unnaturally beautiful. But Omen wasn't one to be captivated by appearance.
"Leave," he said calmly with a dark expression on his face, which only grew darker when the slim boy blatantly ignored him and sat across from him. Omen's gaze shifted to the handsome boy's black hair.
Omen's hair, once straight and black, had begun to curl and tangle from neglect. He hadn't combed it in days, and it was starting to revert to its natural state—wild, thick, curly, and unruly. A far cry from the neatness of Kol's well-kept long dreads.
"Not much of a talker, huh?" Kol remarked his tone light, almost teasing.
"No, you may leave," Omen tersely replied, his voice flat and uninviting.
Kol didn't seem fazed. He smiled faintly, a lopsided grin that hinted at a deeper confidence. "That's alright. I'm used to it. Most people here aren't big on chit-chat."
Kol remained quiet for a few moments, eating his porridge at a slower pace than Omen, who wasn't eating at all. After a while, Kol spoke again, his voice softer. "You know, I've been in places like this before. Everyone's got a reason for keeping to themselves. But I get the feeling you've got a heavier reason than most."
Omen froze for a second, his eyes briefly gazing at Kol silently before going back to the book. 'Looks like I'm going to have to kill this nuisance.' As if Kol heard his thoughts, his next words were rushed,
"Sorry, didn't mean to pry. Just making an observation."
"Well, make your observations, as without me, I hate scientists," Omen said in annoyance as he recalled Kan's theatrics. "You'll live longer if you keep out of my space."
Kol's grin widened slightly, though his eyes remained thoughtful. "Fair enough." He took another bite of porridge, letting the silence between them settle once again before finally uttering what had been on his mind.
"Give me your porridge; you don't seem to need it."
Omen's hands twitched with the urge to silence Kol bubbling beneath the surface. His eyes narrowed as he considered how easy it would be to simply end the boy right here, right now. His presence was grating. But the manual's rules rang loud in his mind: no killing within the platoon. Omen's stunt with Richard during the spar taught him a much-needed lesson of how much they could tolerate. Every slave here was a special grade, and there's no way the general would let it slide if he knew Omen killed one of them; all of that would put a wrench in his plans and then disrupt his escape route.
Instead, Omen clenched his fists beneath the table, grinding his teeth as Kol continued to talk, oblivious to the thinly veiled danger that loomed across the table.
"You even came with two beauties," Kol said, his grin widening. "Honestly, I'm quite envious of you. Tell me, what got you into special grade?"
Omen's jaw tightened, unwilling to engage, but Kol didn't seem to care about his lack of response. Before Omen could say a word, the boy barreled on, his voice loud and filled with a strange sort of pride.
"Let me tell you mine," Kol continued, leaning in as if sharing some great secret. "My hometown was attacked by the Cheng tribe, and I was the only one of my clansmen to survive. Guess the reason... it's my eyes."
Omen raised an eyebrow, his curiosity momentarily piqued despite himself. "Your eyes?" he asked, though his voice was flat, merely to indulge the boy. He was more interested if he did need to kill him after all and steal whatever potential those eyes of his possessed.
Kol's grin stretched further, and before Omen had even finished his question, he launched into an explanation. "You see these purple eyes? They're sealed in passive mode right now, but even like this, they're incredibly powerful. I have good luck, you see—nothing can seriously harm me. And when activated, I can transfer my misfortune to others. Impressive, right?"
Omen felt his fingers twitching again, the hunger for power surging through him. 'Luck eyes' It was an ability he'd never encountered before, something rare and immensely valuable. His luck was so bad he even began wondering if it was all preordained; he grew up as a royal but was imprisoned at an early age, and then when he finally got his first taste of freedom after a traumatising childhood, he suddenly found himself in an overwhelming war where his home realm was on the losing side. His mother then sent him to a place she considered safe but was actually, in a sense, the most dangerous place of his life. Then, after literally dying in the jaws of supernatural dogs, he wakes up and finds himself becoming a slave; now he is off to fight a war to the death despite having no relation with such a war whatsoever. Fuck, he didn't even know who the enemy was! If there was one thing he needed now more than ever, it was luck.
Kol's nonchalance about such a gift was irritating, but it had to have its limitations; unless being a battleslave was beneficial, which he doubted, he couldn't see any reason why such an ability would put him in this very unlucky situation. Omen understood the magnitude of what the boy was describing, though. If Kol's eyes could manipulate misfortune, they were a weapon unlike any other—subtle, insidious, and potentially devastating in the right hands.
"See," Kol continued, oblivious to the dark thoughts swirling in Omen's mind, "luck eyes have been sought after throughout the kingdom for centuries. It's why we always had invaders. A hundred years passed since the last lucky eyes were born, and then I came along. My village was attacked when I was still a toddler because of it. But, lucky me, I survived. And now... here I am. Lucky me, right?"
Omen didn't reply, 'Should I kill him?' The thought was more than a mere impulse now—it was a strategic consideration. Kol's eyes were impressive, an ability worth absorbing.