"What the...?" Alaric's eyes widened in disbelief.
His breathing hitched. He looked around, frantic, heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.
"Where am I? What happened to me?"
His hand flew to his chest, expecting torn flesh, blood, the sharp agony of a blade lodged in his heart.
But there was nothing.
Smooth skin. Whole.
No sign of the murder that had ended his life.
And then—he saw his arm.
Slimmer. Pale. Malnourished. Younger.
Not his.
Not the broad, battle-tested body of a king who'd spent his life in court and war.
"Didn't I... die?"
The realization hit like a hammer to the skull.
He had.
He had died.
Murdered by his very own men.
But now, now... his hands were smaller. His frame was leaner.
His voice sounded different, younger.
"Did I... just reincarnate?"
The thought was madness.
Yet the chains around his neck, the stone beneath him, the foreign body he was in—none of it could be denied.
Then, a dry, raspy chuckle broke the silence.
Alaric's head turned.
Across the dim, stone cell, an elderly man, skin sagging and face hollowed with years of hardship, gave a weak smile to the chained souls around him.
"Haha... it's not all bad," the old man rasped, forcing a grin.
"Work hard. Do what the master says. Keep your head down... If you're lucky, maybe they'll even reward you someday. Hah... maybe even set you free."
It was meant to be a joke. A hopeless attempt at comfort.
But no one laughed.
Not today. Not here.
Not in this stone room that stank of despair. Not with collars digging into their throats. Not while shackled like cattle, waiting to be sold to gods knew what kind of monster.
Alaric's hands clenched.
Not from fear. Not from grief.
But from rage.
But the old man didn't stop.
He kept talking—rambling, smiling, trying to lift the mood with shaky words and fake hope.
"Maybe it won't be so bad... maybe you'll get a kind master. Maybe you'll work indoors. Maybe you'll even—"
But no one answered.
No one smiled.
They weren't fools. They knew lies when they heard them. The old man wasn't trying to give comfort—he was trying to survive his own terror by pretending it was all fine.
The others had already accepted the truth.
Their fate was sealed.
They were livestock waiting to be weighed and sold.
And then—c
Creeeeeak.
The heavy iron door groaned open, cold air spilling into the chamber.
Boots clicked on stone.
A man in a sharp uniform, navy coat and pant stepped inside, flanked by two armored guards.
The metal of their breastplates gleamed faintly in the dim torchlight.
The man sneered, looking down his nose at the chained men like they were dog shit smeared across his boots.
Without warning, he slammed his foot into the ribs of the nearest slave, sending the poor man gasping to the floor.
"Move it, filth!" the man barked, spitting on the ground. "Auction's in an hour. I'm not dragging corpses to market."
He stalked forward, eyes sweeping across the line of chained men—measuring, inspecting, judging.
Then his gaze fell on Alaric.
Alaric met his eyes.
No fear. No plea.
Just a cold, narrow stare that cut deeper than any sword.
The man froze, the arrogance in his posture flickering for half a second—then he averted his eyes, like a coward who'd felt something dangerous staring back at him.
Instead, he turned and kicked a scrawny youth nearby, grabbing the slave's chains and yanking hard.
"You—get up! All of you, move!"
One by one, all of them rose—some stumbling, some limping, all silent—as the chains clinked and dragged along the stone floor.
Alaric stood last.
Eyes still burning.
Not a king anymore?
But even kings had to crawl before they rose again.
And when he rose, this world would burn.
But that was for later to worry about.
Now.
Clink! Clink!
The man marched them down a narrow hallway, the chains rattling with every reluctant step.
The air here was thick—hot, stale, and tainted with the stink of sweat, piss, and despair.
They stopped behind a large wooden door.
And from beyond it—a voice boomed.
"Next up! A fine artifact, rare even among collectors—starting at five hundred crowns!"
The crowd erupted in a mix of gasps and excited whispers.
Alaric's jaw clenched, teeth grinding.
He was about to be sold. Auctioned off like cattle.
His fists trembled. Rage stirred in his chest—but there was no sword in his hand, no crown on his head.
Just iron on his throat and wrists.
The door creaked open.
A pair of staffers pushed a trolley past them, barely glancing at the chained souls standing silently in line.
On the cart, food and items—likely for buyers, not slaves—rattled and clinked as they passed.
Then the man holding their chains yanked, hard.
Alaric stumbled forward with the rest, almost falling.
A few around him did.
"Stand straight, filth. Make it easy for them to want you," the man hissed.
They were led onto a raised platform.
Dozens of eyes turned toward them, seated across rows of lavish seats and marble columns.
Nobles. Merchants. Opportunists. Some grinned. Some sneered. A few seemed bored, sipping wine as if they were at a theater.
The auctioneer stepped forward with a wide smile and a polished cane.
"Now presenting our next batch!" he announced.
"Fit laborers, obedient, healthy, and ready for service. A few might need training—but that's half the fun, isn't it?" he chuckled, igniting a ripple of cruel laughter.
As the bidding began, Alaric scanned the hall.
His heart burned—not from fear, but from disgust.
Then it hit him—
Nothing looked familiar.
The clothes the bidders wore were foreign, robes of mixed silks with unfamiliar cuts and symbols.
The auctioneer shouted amounts he couldn't recognize—foreign words, foreign values.
Even the architecture was nothing like his kingdom—sharp angles, crystal chandeliers, and floating orbs of light in place of torches.
This isn't just another land. This is another world.
And yet, the cruelty...
That remained painfully familiar.
Then—
The hammer struck.
And.
"Sold!"