They never took him back to the barracks.
After that first night, he was kept in a different place. Smaller, cleaner — but still a cage. A cell tucked behind the woman's private quarters, with stone walls and a single cot. The door locked from the outside.
No chains. No guards posted directly outside. Just the door.
He noticed that.
The first day, he lay on the cot without moving. Muscles sore, skin stinging, thoughts scattered.
The second day, he started counting.
There was no sunlight, no way to track time properly. But the guards brought food. Once in the morning, once at night. That told him something.
Two shifts. Same faces. Same rhythm.
It didn't add up.
He'd grown up in a pit where hundreds of slaves were watched day and night — always two guards per corridor, rotating every few hours, lashes ready. Yet here, in the woman's wing, where the most 'valuable' slaves were kept…
Two guards. Tired. Sloppy.
He heard them talking through the wall once. Laughing about something. One mentioned her name — not clearly, just a whisper — and then added:
"She's stronger than half the outer elders. Let her deal with it."
That stuck.
Stronger than outer elders. That meant she was a cultivator.
A real one.
No.441 didn't know much about the upper tiers, but he'd seen what cultivators could do. One strike could knock boulders loose. A wave of the hand could silence ten slaves in a heartbeat.
He'd been picked by a monster — and not just because she was cruel. She was powerful. The way she moved, the confidence, the complete lack of fear… it all made sense now.
But then came the strange part.
If she was so strong… why so little security?
No.441 began to pay attention. Every night she was done with him, they let him wash up and walk himself back. One of the guards followed, but barely. The other stayed behind.
Most doors weren't even locked. Only hers. Only his.
They weren't worried. Not even a little.
That's when it started.
The watching.
The counting.
The idea.
He didn't believe it at first. But now, lying on the cot, hands folded across his stomach, eyes fixed on the stone ceiling, he whispered the thought silently to himself.
" They don't think I can escape. "
" They don't even think I'd try "
On the fourth night, it rained.
No.441 heard it faintly through the cracks in the stone — not enough to wet the floor, but enough to mask small sounds. Enough to make him brave.
He shifted slowly off the cot and crouched beside the wall, listening.
Nothing.
He reached beneath the frame, where he'd hidden a shard of broken wood from the food tray two nights ago. He'd wedged it there after noticing the splintered edge — not sharp, but pointed enough to scrape.
He pressed it against the corner stone near the door. Just once. Soft. Testing.
No one came.
He scraped again, this time at the metal hinge. Rust. Weak.
Then he stopped and returned to the cot, hiding the shard again.
Every little thing mattered. Every move had to be small. Quiet. Controlled.
He knew now — this wasn't just punishment. The woman wanted him afraid. Weak. She fed on it. And the guards? They didn't care. As long as he didn't scream too loud, they had no reason to lift a finger.
But in that silence… he could move.
He kept listening.
Each night, the same guard brought food. The man barely looked at him anymore. Dropped the tray, gave a grunt, turned away. Sometimes left the cell door open a moment too long.
On the sixth night, No.441 followed with his eyes and noticed something.
Keys.
They hung from the guard's waist, but loosely. The man always set them down to eat once outside. Clipped to a belt loop by habit, not necessity.
He memorized the shape. The size. Which key fit which door.
The next night, the woman didn't summon him.
He didn't know why. He didn't ask.
But that silence gave him time to think.
He replayed every route he'd seen. The narrow hallway outside her quarters. The back corridor that led to the kitchens. The side tunnel near the washing room where crates came in and out — sometimes unsupervised, sometimes left open.
Three possible exits.
Two blind spots.
One moment of distraction… and he might be gone.
He didn't feel hope.
Hope was dangerous.
But he felt something colder. Something sharper.
I'm going to leave.
The food came late.
No.441 sat on the edge of the cot, hands pressed to his knees, heartbeat slow but heavy. He hadn't been summoned for three nights. The guards seemed more bored than ever. And tonight… the key ring jangled louder.
Same guard. Same belt loop. Same carelessness.
As the tray was placed down, the man grunted and turned, distracted by a muttered conversation down the hall.
There.
No.441 moved.
Not a lunge. Not a dash. Just a lean — smooth, low — enough to grab the ring. His fingers brushed cold metal.
Don't fumble. Don't drop it.
He slipped the ring free in one movement and tucked it under his ragged shirt. No noise.
The guard never noticed.
When the door closed, the lock clicked — a habit, not a check. They trusted the fear too much.
No.441 waited until the sound of footsteps faded. Thirty seconds. Then sixty.
Then he moved.
He crouched by the door, every muscle tense, and unhooked the key ring. His fingers trembled.
You're not dreaming. You're doing this. Keep moving.
He tried the first key. No click. Second. Third— click.
The door eased open.
No alarms. No shouts. Just the stale air of the hallway and the buzz in his ears.
He crept through the corridor, bare feet silent against the stone. He didn't run. Not yet.
Down the hall, past the first guard station. Empty.
Why aren't they watching this place more? Because they never had to. Because no one ever tried.
He reached the washing room. The stone basin, the stack of cloths — and a small, iron grate on the wall. He'd seen the crates come through it before. Large enough to crawl through. Maybe.
He dropped low and tested the grate.
Loose.
One corner had already been bent — maybe by another slave, maybe just wear over time. He pried it open inch by inch, sweat sticking to his back.
A noise.
Footsteps.
He froze.
A voice drifted down the hall. Not toward him. Away.
He slipped through.
The tunnel was narrow, his shoulders scraping the sides. Darkness swallowed him fast.
Don't stop. Don't think.
But of course he did.
What if they catch you? What if she finds you?
His chest tightened, but his hands kept pulling him forward.
Every shuffle echoed in his ears. Every breath sounded too loud.
But no one came.
Not yet.
After minutes — or maybe hours — the tunnel widened. He found himself in a storage chamber, half-lit by a single torch on the wall. Crates. Tools. A half-open door ahead.
Almost.
He didn't smile. He didn't feel joy.
Just fear.
Fear that it was too easy.
Fear that they were waiting just outside.
But still, he stepped forward. Just once.
Then again.
One step closer to freedom.