Despite the fact that the pursuers seemed to have abandoned the chase, 1765 did not allow the convoy to reduce its speed. In fact, he increased it. The best thing they could do at that moment was to get as far away from the area as possible.
Only after two days of continuous marching did he allow the group to relax and reorganize their formation. The scaled horses resumed pulling the carts, and 1765, along with his companions, used the carts to rest. In total, seven had suffered injuries. They weren't serious and could be considered mere scratches, though on several occasions, they came within mere centimeters of becoming much more severe wounds.
This realization led 1765 to rethink what they could have done better to avoid similar situations in the future. The answer was evident: they lacked magic. They had no access to the power this world offered its inhabitants. The only option left was to rely on knowledge and technologies from another world to level the playing field.
1765 cursed to himself and, without much thought, asked Silas:
—Can you remind me again why we still don't have cars?
The word "automobile" was something he had recently learned, one of those fascinating ideas he had seen in his dreams. Metal carriages capable of moving on their own, faster than horses and without needing rest. It seemed impossible in this world, but to 1765, it was something achievable, real. Or at least, that's what he had believed.
However, as was customary, Silas had an explanation. And it wasn't one that 1765 enjoyed hearing.
—According to my calculations, —Silas began, in his methodical and precise tone—, the variations in this planet's electromagnetic fields significantly hinder the effective flow of electrons through suitable conductors. This makes the use of electric energy highly inefficient. While there are designs for engines that don't require electricity, such as steam engines or internal combustion engines, the highest efficiency-to-work ratio is achieved through the use of electric energy.
—And why don't we have steam engines? —asked 1765, more frustrated than curious.
—Currently, we lack the technology necessary to produce even a primitive steam engine. The metallic parts required for its construction need extremely precise refinement. For example, the cylinders must be perfectly round to maintain steam pressure. The valves must be manufactured with exact tolerances, using materials resistant to heat and corrosion, such as tempered steel. Additionally, seals made of materials like rubber or modern composites, which we cannot currently synthesize, are necessary. These materials are neither available in sufficient quantity nor quality.
—And that's not counting, —Silas continued—, the resources required to build the tools necessary to manufacture these parts. Large-scale mining to obtain iron, coal, and other metals is entirely unfeasible with our current technology. Furthermore, furnaces capable of reaching temperatures above 1,500 degrees Celsius to melt and work the materials are beyond our current capabilities. In summary, the production of steam engines is out of our immediate reach.
1765 massaged his temples in exasperation. Listening to Silas was like trying to solve a complex riddle without any clues. Although, little by little, he was starting to understand more thanks to countless hours of study.
But Silas hadn't finished. He continued his analysis mercilessly.
—As for the recently discovered runic energy system, I can affirm that it is an extremely primitive system. The power we can obtain is limited, insufficient compared to internal combustion engines or more advanced reactors. Currently, we can only move a wooden golem weighing less than 60 kilograms. Each of its limbs requires independent matrices to move, increasing the system's complexity.
—So, what's the main issue? —insisted 1765.
—The materials. We need materials with better energy conductivity to efficiently transmit runic energy. Moreover, obtaining an energetically efficient and sustainable fuel is crucial. Currently, the fuel we use for the matrices depletes too quickly and doesn't provide enough power. In conclusion, using primitive beasts as a means of transport remains the most feasible method.
1765 huffed in frustration, but before he could respond, Silas continued:
—Regarding the weapons system, it is possible to improve it. However, this also requires greater exploitation of natural resources, particularly in mining. According to my analysis, the mountain located south of our current position contains sufficient minerals to meet our long-term needs. But exploiting these resources would require a large workforce, either through the use of golems or human labor.
—So, what would the next step be? —asked 1765, trying to keep calm while analyzing Silas's responses.
Silas, without losing his methodical tone, replied:
—The most sensible approach would be to prioritize exploration and resource extraction in the southern mountain. This area has the potential to provide the minerals needed to advance in several fields. However, it is a project that will require planning, manpower, and considerable time. Meanwhile, optimizing current systems, though limited, will allow us to maintain a functional balance until we can implement more substantial improvements.
1765 gave a frustrated huff.
—Fine. I guess we'll have to increase the number of bots, which means we'll need to get more silent fruits. That can be done.
—As always, I leave the rest to you, —he added, while Silas accepted the task without any objection.
While 1765 was talking to Silas, one of his hooded companions approached with a determined step.
—Sir, we're almost there, —he announced firmly.
For a while now, the 45 ex-prisoners who had decided to follow 1765 had begun calling him "sir." This was partly due to the military training 1765 had copied from Silas's world, where the main phrase was: "Sir, yes, sir!" Over time, this expression had become a custom among them when addressing their leader.
Moreover, during 1765's brief internal exchange, no one interrupted him. For the recently rescued slaves, this behavior might have seemed strange, but for the original group of 45 men, it was entirely normal. They had noticed that every time 1765 stepped aside and reflected silently, new ideas or strategies would later emerge. Some even began to believe it was part of a personal ritual for the young leader to find inspiration.
1765 nodded as he listened to his companion. Without a word, he removed the hood and cloak that covered him and donned the clothing of a merchant. Though his face was that of a young man, his well-built physique and the recently acquired maturity in his gaze gave him the appearance of a young adult, perfect for blending in within this world.
He approached the newly rescued ex-prisoners and, in a low voice, gave them clear instructions:
—Stay silent and keep your eyes on the floor of the cart. Don't move too much, and we'll get through this easily.
The same instructions were repeated in all the carts. Meanwhile, the carts containing the automatic crossbows were quickly disassembled. The devices were hidden under supplies like food and blankets, ensuring they wouldn't draw attention.
The reason for this strange behavior was simple: they were approaching a checkpoint.
Essentially, it was a small fortress in the middle of the road, equipped with several watchmen. It was located in a region surrounded by lush forests, making it very difficult to bypass. The route they had taken so far had been planned to avoid such checkpoints, but unfortunately, this particular one couldn't be evaded.
1765 had prepared for this situation. He positioned himself at the front of the convoy, guiding the horses from the lead cart. The wooden robots were covered with cloaks that made them look like simple drivers.
The place had advanced magical detectors capable of identifying the species of those approaching and whether or not they could use magic. This system could have been a problem, considering that 1765's group consisted of 226 people unable to use magic and wooden robots. However, when they arrived at the checkpoint, no alarms were triggered, and the guards didn't seem suspicious at all.
There was a reason for this. Through prior investigation, they had discovered that the detection devices could be deceived. It was enough to emit certain electromagnetic frequencies to skew their readings. At that moment, both the wooden golems and 1765 were emitting these frequencies, thanks to Silas. The rest of the group passed off as simple slaves.
A man in armor, clearly an officer, approached the lead cart and shouted:
—Papers!
1765 stepped down from the cart with a calm smile. His expression had completely changed. With a friendly look and relaxed gestures, he addressed the officer.
—Hello, officer. I hope you've had a pleasant day. The papers, of course, I have them right here.
A hooded golem handed several scrolls to 1765, who passed them to the officer.
The man began reviewing the documents carefully. While he did, 1765 remained relaxed, unlike many of the ex-slaves inside the carts who couldn't avoid showing nervousness.
The officer frowned as he read one of the scrolls.
—Two hundred forty-five slaves for House Velkarius… I don't recall receiving any notice about such a transaction. —His eyes rose, observing 1765 suspiciously before slowly scanning the convoy.
In a low tone, as if sharing a confidential matter, 1765 responded:
—Sir, I understand your concern, but I also understand the current situation of the Empire. House Velkarius prefers to keep these kinds of movements under the radar.
With a slow gesture, he pulled a cloth bag from his pouch and handed it to the officer.
—House Velkarius knows how to remember favors. You can visit them anytime; good friends are always welcome. —As he spoke, he also handed over a badge bearing the Velkarius family crest.
The officer opened the bag curiously. Inside were numerous gold coins, shiny and heavy. His suspicious expression disappeared, replaced by a satisfied smile.
—I understand perfectly, —the man said, pocketing the bag and observing the badge with respect—. It would be beneath me to question the actions of such a prestigious house as Velkarius.
Turning to the guards at the fortress, he shouted:
—Open the gates!
The bars slowly rose, and the convoy began to pass. 1765 climbed back into his cart, maintaining the same calm smile as he watched his group cross the checkpoint without any issues.
The place had two massive stone towers on either side of the road, with several guards stationed on the structures. At the entrance and exit were tall rock walls with gates made of metal bars, and warriors and mages patrolled everywhere.
1765 trusted that he could assault the place, but only at night and under the cover of darkness. Attempting it during the day was practically impossible, especially given the number of mages present. For this reason, he had opted for this method of subterfuge.
Luckily, money remained the best key to opening most doors. While the bribe he offered could be considered immoral, 1765 wasn't overly concerned. Even Silas, who occasionally reacted to illegal activities, had accepted that there was no other choice. After all, they were outlaws in the Empire and would be chained the moment they were discovered.
Thus, the group managed to cross the fortress without further issues and resumed their journey. There were still several days left to reach their destination, but at least they had overcome one of the greatest dangers of the journey.
Days later, the group arrived at an expansive plain stretching as far as the eye could see. The open landscape contrasted with the dense forests they had left behind.
Here, 1765 ordered the carts to stop and had all the rescued people disembark. Although the group didn't smell particularly good, they no longer looked as emaciated. During the journey, they had consumed meat, grains, and other nutritious foods that had significantly improved their condition.
1765 cleared his throat and began speaking in a firm but calm tone:
—Alright. We're currently near Ravenhold, a major city in this region. We're still within the human empire, and as you already know, we're not treated very well here. However, I've heard rumors that in this city, things are a bit more tolerable for people like us.
He pointed north.
—The city is half a day's journey in this direction. If you want to leave, you're free to do so. We'll provide enough food to reach the city and a bit of money to start with.
There was a brief silence. 1765 continued:
—That's your first option. The second is to follow us to our camp. Don't expect a city; it's barely a small settlement in a godforsaken place. You'll have to work for your food and survival. But there's one thing I can promise you: no one will force you into hard labor, no one will beat you, no one will discriminate against you. The only thing I can promise you is freedom. True freedom to decide what you want to do with your lives.
1765 observed them carefully before adding:
—You have ten minutes to decide.
Barely ten minutes had passed before the group returned. 1765 had separated the ex-slaves to give them space and time to reflect, while he and his hooded companions finalized preparations to continue their journey to the camp.
A man, the largest and most muscular among the ex-slaves, stepped forward. Though his appearance was imposing, his tone betrayed disbelief, fear, and caution. When he spoke, his rural accent and rough mannerisms made him stand out.
—Alright, if... if we follow you, will we be as strong as you? —he asked, almost challenging, though unable to hide the tremor in his voice.
1765 sighed deeply before responding. His words were imbued with Silas's philosophy but were also his own.
—Look... we didn't free you to make you join our cause. We freed you so you could make your own decisions. You don't need to think about fighting. There are far more important things than battle.
The man frowned, clearly disappointed. The word "freedom" was good, but it wasn't enough to extinguish the flames ignited in his heart. During the pursuit, seeing how a group of humans, without magic, without extraordinary powers, had faced and overcome their oppressors, something within him—and many others—had changed. That confrontation wasn't just a victory; it was a statement. A tangible proof that it was possible to fight against those who had enslaved them all their lives.
The desire for revenge was an uncontrollable fire, a primal and overwhelming force. It wasn't a simple or fleeting emotion; it was an internal cry resonating through every fiber of his being, an echo of the injustices, abuses, and suffering they had endured. Revenge wasn't just about retribution; it was about reclaiming dignity, about proving to the world and to themselves that they weren't just victims—they could be more. They could be warriors, they could be free, but above all, they could be feared.
One of the hooded figures slowly stepped forward toward the group. He removed his hood, revealing a young face with sharp and determined eyes. His head was shaved, and though his muscular body showed he had overcome the ravages of slavery, his face still bore the marks of a life of suffering.
A murmur ran through the group of ex-slaves. They recognized him immediately. He was like them, someone who had endured the same hell, someone who had borne the same weight of chains. Unlike 1765, whose fairer, smoother skin, lighter, deeper eyes, silkier hair, and muscular, well-formed body made him seem untouched by slavery—almost like a Dominus, and of the worst kind, from the nobility—this young man's appearance resonated with them. 1765 hadn't realized it, but this was thanks to the continuous consumption of supplements and Silas's meticulous control over his metabolism. This made the slaves distrust him. However, seeing the young man eased their fears somewhat.
The young man spoke with a firm voice, projecting authority and camaraderie:
—My name is 037, and a year ago, I was where you are now. I was a slave. Like you, I dreamed of freedom. I dreamed of eating delicious food, having a good job, traveling, and seeing the world.
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the faces of those present.
—But this world took those dreams away from me too soon. I won't tell you my story because I don't need to. We all know what it means to suffer. We've all lived through that hell in different ways, but just as horrible.
He pointed to 1765.
—A year ago, the boss rescued me. And that day, I saw something I thought I had lost: hope. Hope to reclaim what this world had taken from me.
037 raised his voice, with a passion that ignited something in the hearts of the ex-slaves:
—Don't be fooled by the boss's pacifist words and calm demeanor. Did you see those things we used to repel the pursuers? Those are weapons! Weapons he designed. Did you see those golems that work and make everything easier? He created those too! And no, it's not magic. It's something called science.
The group listened in silence, struck by his words. 037 continued:
—Science is something I don't even fully understand, but I know this: thanks to it, we're here today. Thanks to science, we were freed. And thanks to science, we can change our lives.
He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in, then spoke again, slower but with the same intensity:
—Follow the boss, and you won't just gain the power to defend yourselves. You'll gain the power to take back what was taken from you. But let me be clear: this won't be easy. No one will force you to fight; no one will force you to work. But everything comes at a price. If you want that power, you'll have to face a hell similar to what you've already lived. But this time, it'll be your choice.
037 looked around, and the hooded figures who had remained silent until now removed their masks. They were a young group with fierce and determined gazes, full of life and an unyielding will.
The ex-slaves observed them, noting the difference. They too had suffered, but now they were different. They had changed. They had found something that had transformed them.