Before I was thrown into this world, the last thing I heard was shouts being hurled back and forth.
"You're a good-for-nothing son!"
"I wish you had never given birth to me!"
My mother stood in front of me, eyes filled with pain and disappointment, her cheeks wet with endless tears. My younger sister sat on the couch, her back turned to us, silent.
These fights usually ended with me holing up in my room for hours. I'd just sit there and watch anime or read light novels as if nothing had happened. Eventually, I'd get hungry and only leave my room once I was sure everyone had already fallen asleep. And sure enough, I'd still find food prepared for me—a hot, comforting meal that, once eaten, made me feel like I was still loved.
I don't remember when these fights first began, but I do remember the first time I heard those words. They cut deep, not just because of what was said, but because they came from the one person who was supposed to love me no matter what. They say words cut deeper than actions, leaving wounds that linger long after they're spoken. But like any wound, they heal. And over time, you stop feeling the pain. As if they never really mattered at all.
The canopy opening of the tent was pulled back, letting light shine into my eyes. I woke up to the sound of our handlers pounding our metal cages.
Every morning, these men would wake us up and give us food—the only meal we'd have for the entire day. After that, they would take down the massive tent they had set up, chain us together, and transfer us to the wagons before moving to a different part of the city.
Once there, they would clean us up just enough to look presentable, then put us on display before a massive crowd. The order was always the same: the girls were sold first, followed by the strong men, then the ones who weren't particularly strong but still healthy.
By nightfall, whatever remained of us would be locked back in our cages. If they bought new slaves to resell, they would be locked up too, and I would have to listen to their cries and pleas all night until exhaustion silenced them—or punishment did. The routine never changed. Day after day, the cycle repeated.
It had been five days since I was captured by these men, and no one had bought me yet, presumably because of my leg injury and my inability to speak their language. Even if I did, I don't particularly look strong anyway.
I scanned the cages and sure enough, on the other side of the tent was the newest arrival—probably the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And yes, that included the women from Earth.
Her long brown hair was a tangled mess, her bangs nearly covering her round amber eyes. She was thin, her frame almost disappearing under the ragged clothes draped over her. She sat curled up in the farthest corner of her cage, staring into the distance, trembling. I could feel the fear radiating off her, like a silent scream you could audibly hear.
She had arrived last night. I remembered hearing her cries, her desperate pleas as the men dragged her into the cage. They didn't listen. They had done this before countless times after all. One of them even took advantage of the struggle, letting his hand linger on her chest as she fought to break free. It was quick, almost practiced, so much so that she did not even seem to notice.
I did not realize I had been staring at her for a good minute until she looked back at me. Our eyes met for a brief moment before I quickly turned away, heat creeping up my face.
She definitely thinks I am a creep now.
Hesitant, I slowly glanced back to see her reaction.
She was still staring at me. Her wide amber eyes were imploring me, as if silently begging for help. Looking at her like that made me think of a lost puppy waiting for its owner to take it home.
I lowered my head, my gaze falling to the dirt floor.
There was nothing I could do for her. We were in the same boat.
One of the handlers began distributing our food. Normally, they would place the wooden bowls inside the cages, but when it was my turn, they dropped mine just barely outside my cage.
"Datoì ti makahàn mo, po tàan ienamne naga gaigo!"
The guy yelled at me.
Those words still didn't make any sense, but I assumed he was cursing at me. I had given them hell when I first woke up after my capture. Not that my rebellious phase lasted long—a strong punch to the gut and a threat to slit my throat put an end to that.
I reached for the bowl and tried not to gag at the stench of the slop inside. A faint growl rumbled in my stomach.
I stared at the food. It tasted terrible and I would rather starve than eat it, but those men would beat me if I didn't. To make eating it less unbearable, I started imagining it was something else. I concentrated really hard. The slop slowly morphed in my mind into chicken curry with rice—the last decent meal I had.
The last meal my mom prepared for me.
My vision blurred. Before I knew it, tears spilled down my cheeks.
"I'm really sorry, Mom…"
At that moment, all I wanted was to be home and to be with them.
* * * * *
We were all herded into our wagon, our hands were chained down.
With a jolt, the caravan lurched forward, rolling toward today's destination.
I caught glimpses of the outside world through a small gap in the curtain covering the wagon's entrance—people going about their day. Every now and then, I spotted figures clad in armor and draped in elaborate robes.
Adventurers.
I still could not wrap my head around the fact that I was in a completely different world. Maybe it was an alternate version of mine, something vaguely familiar yet different. But no—this was a full-blown fantasy world with beastmen, elves, dwarves, and regular humans.
It should have been a dream come true. Like winning the lottery.
Except I got caught and was now being sold as a slave.
Still, I wanted to become an adventurer one day. Earn enough money, settle down, and build the harem I would form along my journey. But none of that would happen unless I got out of here first. My leg had healed, so if an opportunity presented itself, I could escape and run.
Absentmindedly, I opened my status box. I had figured out that I could do it just by thinking about it. I glanced at the other slaves and they did not seem to notice the bright floating screen at all.
I took a quick look at my status, and there it was. The same message.
If only I had some skills to work with.
The ride took an hour before we arrived at a new location. They escorted us into a building that, at first glance, looked like a theater. Ornate decorations gleamed under the soft glow of chandeliers, and rows of plush seats upholstered in rich red fabric were arranged neatly, all facing a raised platform at the center. Velvet-colored curtains hung across the back of the stage and a podium stood at the center, a wooden gavel resting on top. The entire setup was bathed in warm light from elegant lamps, the kind you would expect to see in a Victorian-era drama. It was grand, almost romantic—if not for the reality of what was about to happen here.
We were led backstage, where they removed our cuffs and divided us into two groups. Lined up and facing one another, we were ordered to strip for inspection. Just another routine quality check.
I remembered how embarrassed I had been the first time. Back then, there had been a couple of pretty girls among us, and for me, that had been the first time I had ever seen a naked woman in real life.
As I stripped, I could not help but steal a glance at the new girl. She fumbled with her tattered clothes, her movements slow and hesitant—deliberately stalling for time.
One of the handlers, visibly irritated, started toward her. She looked at me then, her eyes locking onto mine, begging for help.
I gritted my teeth. I'm sorry. I can't help you.
The man grabbed the hem of her clothes and yanked them up in one swift motion, stripping her naked. She gasped and immediately threw her arms around herself, covering her chest with one and shielding her crotch with the other.
She was shaking like a drenched kitten, her face burned red with humiliation.
The short man from before, the real slave trader, entered the room not long after. He moved down the line, inspecting each of us one by one. His gaze lingered for a long moment on every body before he silently moved on to the next.
When he reached me, he turned to one of his men, who only shrugged in response. The trader then shifted his attention back to me.
"Nàsah-yaar kaedì ti kaesasahadna?"
He spoke, but as expected, I had no clue what he was saying. I just stared back at him, my expression making it obvious.
Without warning, he grabbed my arm and yanked me forward, forcing me to take a few steps. When I did not flinch or react to the pain, a grin crept across his face. He muttered something in his language then patted me firmly on the shoulder.
I tried to piece together what he meant. From what I could tell, my healed leg was good news for him—it made me more valuable, more appealing to buyers.
Which meant…
I was really going to be sold.
A cold weight settled in my chest.
The slave trader moved on, continuing his inspections until he reached the girl. She was still covering herself, arms wrapped tightly around her body. He told her to lower them. That was what I assumed he was saying.
She shook her head, even taking a step back. Even from a distance, I could see the shift in the trader's expression, his patience wearing thin.
In the end, she gave in. She had no choice.
Slowly, reluctantly, she lowered her arms.
And like a creepy horndog, I watched intently.
Small breasts, indeed.
I knew I shouldn't had been staring, but I couldn't help myself. There was no way I was going to let this moment pass. She was gorgeous, and that meant she would be sold in no time. Once that happened, whatever awaited her would be far worse than this.
At least, that was how I justified it to myself.
Deep down, I knew the truth.
I was nothing more than a pervert taking advantage of a woman at her lowest point.
Before long, they ordered us to get dressed and reattached our cuffs. I could hear the muffled voices of people gathering in the main room.
This is it.
To my surprise, I was the first one put up for bidding. As I stood behind the curtain, I glanced back one last time. The girl met my gaze and offered a weak, pained smile.
She would be sold quickly—I had no doubt about that. This was probably the last time I would ever see her. I could only hope that, by some miracle, her master would not be a monster. That she would be treated well.
If only we had met under different circumstances. Maybe we could have been friends. If only I had cheat skills right now..
I stepped out onto the stage.
The crowd was a strange mix—wealthy aristocrats dressed in finery, hardened adventurers clad in armor, and others I could not quite place. I had almost numbed myself to this process, but now the fear was creeping back in. The slave trader's reaction still lingered in my mind, making me uneasy. I was healthy now, which only meant I was far more likely to be sold.
Right now, more than anything, I wished my leg was still broken.
The slave trader stood beside me, addressing the crowd with a confidence I had not seen before. Last time, even with the massive language barrier, he had sounded like a shady salesman pushing a beat-up carriage onto a clueless buyer.
This time, he was sure I would sell.
The bidding began. And, to my disbelief, people actually raised their hands.
A pit formed in my stomach. From where I stood, I could barely make out their faces through the blinding lights—which only made it more ridiculous that the trader could see them just fine.
My eyes darted between bidders, tracking each hand that went up.
A sharp crack echoed through the hall. The auctioneer's gavel had come down.
It was over.
I barely had time to process what happened before they dragged me into another room to wait for the rest of the event to finish.
I sat in the corner on a stiff wooden bench, elbows on my knees, hands clasped under my chin.
Someone actually bought me.
I am going to be a real slave.
This is it.
What the hell were they going to make me do? How long would they force me to work? Would they at least feed me?
Would they pay me? Even a little? I mean, fuck, I have never been a slave before! How the hell would I know?!
But forget all that—how am I even going to communicate?
Did that bastard of a slave trader even tell them I can't speak their language?
Would they punish me for it?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Fuck.
My mind raced with all these thoughts, so caught up in my own worries that I hadn't even noticed the event had ended.
One of the handlers entered the room. It was time to face my master.
I met the two inside a new room filled with wooden crates. The bastard trader was rummaging through a pile of papers on top of a table. Upon closer inspection, I noticed they had magic circles drawn on them. He noticed me glaring at him, stopped what he was doing, and nonchalantly introduced me to the other guy.
He was older, but not ancient—probably ten to fifteen years older than my father, and that bastard was forty-six. His graying hair was slightly unkempt, his beard neatly trimmed but still rugged. Thick, dark eyebrows arched high, giving him a perpetually amused expression, and his deep-set eyes gleamed with something I could not quite place.
I could not tell what he did for a living. He carried himself with a certain extravagance, yet there was also something soft about him, something gentle and familiar.
He reminded me a little of my grandfather. Though, the fact that he was still a slave owner did not escape me.
He extended a hand toward me. Instinct told me that playing hard to get would not do me any favors.
I took it without hesitation. He started talking to me and I had no idea what the bastard trader had told him so I pretended to understand.
The man saw through me instantly. He then burst into hearty laughter before giving me a firm pat on the shoulder. Unlike the last time I had been "patted," this one did not come with bad intentions.
I thought I knew what was coming next. In every isekai story, this was the part where the slave got branded—a magic crest, an enchanted collar, some kind of mark to keep them in line, preventing them from harming their master or disobeying orders.
But no one moved. The slave trader and my master remained in their position, as if they were waiting for someone.
Then, I heard footsteps approaching from behind.
I turned around. My eyes widened.
It was her.
The old man stepped forward, extending his hand for a handshake. She accepted with hesitation.