Lying on the cold, hard ground, Royen felt the chill seep into his bones. As consciousness slowly returned, a sharp, throbbing pain shot through his head, jolting his nerves. In that hazy moment, fragments of the life he had lived—no, the life *this body* had lived—flashed before his eyes.
Memories, like shards of glass, pieced together a fleeting existence. A child, barely able to speak, taking his first steps in the snow, guided by the steady hand of an old man. The warmth of the old man's back as he carried him, a comfort that lingered even now. The golden hues of dusk stretching their shadows as they walked through narrow alleys, a scene so vivid it felt like yesterday.
Then, chaos. Pushing, shoving—protection. The glint of a mercenary's blade, reflecting the face of a cowardly, pitiful boy. The old man's desperate cries for him to run, cut short by the swing of a sword. Anger and hatred surged, overwhelming fear, but it was useless. The boy was knocked to the ground, the last thing he heard being the mocking laughter of the bandits before darkness claimed him.
...
Royen's eyes snapped open, bloodshot and fierce. The memories grew clearer, and he shook his head, trying to shake off the lingering resentment that wasn't entirely his own. He gasped for air, his body tense, and attempted to push himself up, only to find his wrists bound by crude, heavy shackles.
With effort, he shifted onto his side, leaning against the rough wooden wall of the enclosure. Slowly, he propped himself up, taking in his surroundings.
He was in a cramped, dimly lit cage, packed with others. Men, women, but no elderly—only the young. Teenagers, children as young as seven or eight, dressed in tattered rags stained with dirt and blood. Some had no clothes at all, their bodies marked with bruises and wounds. The air was thick with despair, fear, and simmering hatred.
From outside the cage, the occasional sound of weeping reached his ears, accompanied by the crude taunts of mercenaries. The faces of the captives were hollow, their expressions a mix of numbness, terror, and silent rage.
Royen realized the grim truth: he was a captive now—a slave.
He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, forcing himself to stay calm despite the overwhelming reality. He needed to think, to sort through the jumble of thoughts in his mind.
*Who am I? Royen?*
No.
*I am Royen, from Earth.*
The memories of this body's former owner couldn't fully overwrite his own consciousness. His mind easily sifted through the fragments of the twelve-year-old boy's soul, finding his own identity intact.
Royen, twenty-eight years old, single, with parents still alive. A regular office worker on Earth, healthy, with no vices—utterly ordinary.
The headache returned, sharp and insistent, likely due to his weakened state. He decided to set aside the mental strain for now.
As he reached up to rub his temples, his fingers brushed against his ears. They felt... different. Pointed, slightly upturned, like delicate leaves or elegant arrowheads. These weren't human ears.
He glanced around, half-expecting to find a mirror, but quickly dismissed the thought.
*Of course not. Why would slave traders bother with mirrors?*
The brutal, bloody scenes from the boy's memories replayed in his mind, a stark reminder that this wasn't some movie set.
So, had he crossed over? Transmigrated? Was this some kind of alternate world?
Questions flooded his mind, each more surreal than the last. He didn't remember being hit by a truck or anything that might explain this.
Looking down at the shackles binding his wrists, Royen felt a wave of helplessness.
Whatever had happened, he refused to accept a fate where others controlled his freedom and life.
Focusing, he delved into the boy's memories, searching for anything that might help him understand his situation.
The Katar Empire... abandonment... the old man... scavenging... slave trade... raids... massacres...
The pieces began to fit together. The boy, Royen, had been an orphan, abandoned and later taken in by an old scavenger. They had lived in a small town in the Katar Empire, barely scraping by. The old man had always made sure Royen was covered head to toe, as if hiding him from prying eyes.
And then, someone had betrayed them, telling mercenaries about the "white-haired elf" living among the scavengers.
"You're alive... I thought you were dead yesterday."
A calm voice broke through his thoughts. Royen turned to see a boy, around thirteen, with light brown hair and a face that, despite the grime, was noticeably fairer than most in the cage.
Royen guessed the boy came from a wealthier family—common folk didn't have the luxury of staying pale under the sun.
"Cough... Who are you?" Royen asked, his voice hoarse.
"Who I am doesn't matter. But you should thank that woman over there. If she hadn't insisted on giving you water these past two days, you wouldn't have made it through last night." The boy gestured toward a woman in her twenties.
Royen followed his gaze. The woman, though disheveled and worn, had a gentle, kind face.
"Thank you," Royen said, his voice rough but sincere.
In such dire circumstances, her willingness to care for a stranger spoke volumes about her character.
The woman managed a faint smile and nodded slightly in acknowledgment.
Royen noticed a sturdy, well-built boy standing beside the kind woman. His eyes were sharp and wary, like those of a wounded beast, and his gaze toward Royen carried an unspoken warning.
The boy bore a striking resemblance to the woman, sharing similar features that suggested they were related—likely siblings, given their age difference. Unlike the other slaves in the cage, this boy had a strong, athletic build, his skin tanned from long hours under the sun. However, the bruises and swelling from the mercenaries' beatings were stark against his darker complexion.
Royen averted his eyes, not wanting to provoke him. He understood the boy's hostility wasn't born of malice but of a desperate need to protect the only family he had left in this brutal, chaotic environment.
Scanning the rest of the cage, Royen saw the same despair etched on every face. Most of the captives looked hollow, like walking corpses, their bodies marked with injuries. Even the woman who had helped him bore bruises and marks of abuse. Royen didn't want to imagine what she had endured.
Shifting his gaze from his fellow captives, Royen examined the cage itself. It was solidly built, nearly impossible to break from the inside. Even if they managed to escape, the weakened, unarmed prisoners would stand no chance against the armored mercenaries outside.
After a moment of thought, Royen sighed in resignation. For now, it seemed there was nothing to do but wait.
Time crawled by, each hour feeling like an eternity. The oppressive atmosphere made every second unbearable.
Finally, the jolting of the wagon came to a halt.
"Get up, you pigs! Time to eat!"
The crude shouts of the mercenaries snapped Royen out of his thoughts. He looked up to see the cage door being opened. A few mercenaries dragged sacks over, hurling insults as they tossed dry, hard chunks of bread into the cage, treating the captives like livestock.
A few pieces of bread landed in Royen's cage, followed by two large leather water bags.
Royen stared at the food on the ground. The grayish-black bread, now coated in dust, was far from enough for everyone in the cage—there wasn't even one piece per person.
Before Royen could react, the tanned boy lunged forward, grabbing two pieces of bread and one of the water bags before retreating to his sister's side. The others followed suit, picking up whatever food was closest to them.
There was no fighting over the scraps. Most were too weak and exhausted to bother, and no one was starving—yet.
Royen, still weak from his injuries, didn't move fast enough to grab any food. He resigned himself to sitting back in the corner. Though his stomach growled with hunger, he could still bear it.
At least there was enough water to go around. The two water bags were passed from person to person, and everyone managed to drink their fill, with some left over.
When the water bag finally reached Royen, he hesitated for a moment, staring at the shared spout. Swallowing his discomfort, he tilted it slightly, letting the water trickle into his mouth, finally soothing his parched throat.
After drinking, he passed the bag to the person next to him. His gaze drifted back to the siblings, and he noticed the woman looking at him with a faint, apologetic smile. She held her piece of bread but hadn't taken a bite, as if aware that Royen, who had just woken up, hadn't gotten any food.
She seemed to struggle with herself for a moment, then made as if to stand and share her bread with Royen. But her brother quickly grabbed her arm, stopping her.
"Sis, you didn't eat enough yesterday either!" the boy said, his voice firm but tinged with concern. He clearly disapproved of his sister's selflessness, which was likely why he had grabbed two pieces of bread in the first place.
Royen overheard the boy's raised voice, clearly meant for him to hear. He waved his hand dismissively.
"Thank you, but I'm not hungry," Royen said politely. Even without the boy's intervention, he wouldn't have felt right accepting more help from the woman.
"Here, take half of mine. I'm not that hungry anyway," a voice interjected.
Royen turned to see the fair-skinned boy who had spoken to him earlier. His unexpected kindness caught Royen off guard.
The boy sat down beside him and handed over half of his bread.
"Uh... thanks," Royen said, accepting the offer without hesitation.
"By the way, my name's Julian Mendes. Julian of House Mendes. And you?" The boy took a bite of the dry bread, waiting for Royen's response.
"I'm Royen. No family name," Royen replied. He had a surname once, but that belonged to his past life. For now, he decided to stick with the name of the boy whose body he now inhabited.
Julian raised an eyebrow slightly. He had noticed Royen's obvious discomfort when drinking from the shared water bag and had assumed he, too, was a noble's son struggling to adapt to their new reality.
But it didn't matter now. Julian smirked inwardly. Whether noble or commoner, they were all just slaves at the mercy of the mercenaries.
After exchanging names, the two fell into silence, the weight of their situation hanging heavy in the air.