Damien sat leaning against the gently swaying wooden wall of the carriage, his eyes staring blankly into the small gaps between the cracked planks. The smell of sweat, dust, and blood mixed in the stale air. The chains binding his hands and feet were cold, piercing his bones like a reminder that this wasn't a dream.
He didn't speak.
Can not.
His head was still heavy, his thoughts not yet fully integrated with this small body—a thin, dirty body that was not his own.
But… his eyes moved. Observing.
Across from her, a girl of about eleven years old held two smaller children in her arms. She fed them a piece of dry bread that nearly broke at the touch. Her face was hard, her eyes sharp—not because of bravery, but because she had been forced to grow up too quickly.
"If you keep crying, we won't be bought," he said in a low but firm voice. "And if we're not bought, we'll be sent to the mines. Do you understand?"
The two children nodded quickly, even though tears were still streaming down their cheeks.
The girl looked at Damien, furrowing her brows.
"You're new, right?"
Damien didn't answer.
He just looked away slightly—not because he was embarrassed, but because he couldn't find the right words. His head was still throbbing.
The girl snorted softly. "If you keep quiet, they'll think you're stupid. Be careful, stupid slaves usually end up as bait for animals."
A dry laugh came from the end of the carriage. An old man with an unkempt white beard sat cross-legged, hugging his knees.
"Kids these days… they can strategize before they even get a whipping," he muttered. "But he's right, kid. In this place, if you don't talk… you don't count."
Damien turned slowly. The man was blind—his eyes were blank and cloudy. But he smiled as if he could see more than a sighted person.
"I worked in the mines once. I lasted three seasons. Then I was dragged here because I was too old," he said lightly. "But compared to the mines... this train car is like heaven."
Heaven?
Damien almost laughed. But he couldn't. The voice in his chest hadn't returned.
He looked down. He stared at his bare, injured feet. The skin was cracked, blackened in places. This body was… fragile. It was so far removed from his old body, accustomed to training, running, and strategy. He didn't know where to begin.
"Don't sit too close to him," whispered a voice from the side.
The little girl from earlier now moved to his side, crouched down, and then pointed to a boy at the end of the train.
The boy sat hugging his knees, no bigger than Damien. His hair was tangled, his face dirty, and his eyes… empty. As if there was no soul left in them.
"He's weird. He never talks. He never eats much. But… everyone's afraid to get close to him."
Damien stared at the boy. He didn't move. He didn't even blink.
"Why?" Damien muttered softly—the first words out of his mouth since waking.
The little girl turned her head quickly, looking surprised that Damien could speak.
"Because he was once a nobleman," she whispered.
Damien looked at him.
"Seriously. His family has a castle. Servants.The carriage was covered in gold. But when the monster attacked, everyone died. His mother, his father, his sister… he was the only one who survived."
Damien looked back at the boy. Still motionless. But now… his eyes looked back. Slowly. Sharply.
But Damien didn't reply. Didn't react. Didn't care.
He looked away, as if that gaze were just another speck of dust among hundreds in the air.
What disturbed his mind was not the look in the boy's eyes.
But one word.
"Nobleman."
The words still echoed in his head, over and over again, like the echo of an iron door that never closed properly.
Nobility. Family. Title. Flying horse. Palace.
The fragments began to form a blurry picture in her mind. A social construct that was familiar... but also not entirely familiar.
"Medieval...?" he muttered to himself.
Medieval Era (Middle Ages) is a time when human life is governed by feodal system: the highest power lies with the king, then it is divided amongnobleman, and belowcommon people and slaves.
Everyday life is fulfilled sharp weapons, stone castles, wooden carriages, and magic or myths that are still believed in. Power is not obtained through ability, but throughblood and lineage.
Technology was limited. There was no electricity, engines, or modern firearms. Everything ran bymuscles, horses, fire, and the command of those who sit on the throne.
He lifted his head, taking a slow look—a wooden carriage, old metal wheels, iron chains locked with a physical key, not an electronic system. No engine, no lights, no technology.
He leaned his head against the wall of the carriage and took a deep breath. The damp air hit his nostrils, a mixture of dirt, sweat, and metal. It wasn't the world he knew.
"But it's not a completely foreign world either."
Feudal. Caste system. Society is divided based on birth. If there are nobles, there are also commoners. And if the children of nobles can become slaves, then... the law here is not based on morality. But on force.
"If you are nobody… then anyone can step on you."
He knew this kind of system. He had once deceived officials of a mini-kingdom trying to establish a puppet state in a conflict zone. It was all wrapped up in ceremony and lineage... but the bottom line was the same: power and obedience.
Damien began to map his new world—not through maps, but through patterns. Structures. Hierarchies.
Nobleman. boy Monsters.
And he... who knows where he is now.
Certainly not up. But definitely not down either. Because he's still alive.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
"If this is a feudal world... then the most powerful are not those who are most right. But those who can survive the longest."
And surviving... was the only thing he could always do.
The train began to slow. The metallic creaking of the old wheels echoed louder, reverberating to the bones.
Inside the carriage, small bodies began to stir. Some awoke from a brief, restless sleep, others awoke to a fear that never truly left. The sounds of rapid breathing, muffled sobs, and panicked whispers began to fill the cramped space.
"Get down! All set! Get up, you rotten meat!"
The sound came from outside, accompanied by a loud bang on the wooden wall.
Damien opened his eyes. Light seeped through the gaps in the boards—sharp, blinding, painful to eyes that had been immersed in darkness for too long. He squinted, slowly lifted his head, and sat up.
No alarms. No machines. No digital prompts or automated voices. Just gruff commands and hands ready to drag.
"Auction?"
That one word stuck like a nail in his mind. He had never seen a slave market before—not in person. But he had read about them. In the dark annals of human history buried by progress. In the annals of an underworld that even modern criminals were reluctant to touch.
And now... it will experience it. As goods.
But it wasn't fear that filled his mind.
But the question.
"How damaged would the world be if human trafficking were carried out openly?"
The car came to a complete stop.
The screams grew closer. Chains slid. Locks opened. The air from outside rushed in, carrying a strange scent—a mix of morning breeze, damp earth, and something deeper: oil, blood... and perfume.
The guard opened the carriage door. Light poured in.
"Get up! You guys come out one by one!"
The boys began to be forced down. Some were dragged. Some fell. A small child refused, clutching the carriage wall while crying. A hard blow knocked him down.
The little girl who had previously seemed so strong—now didn't say a word. Her face was pale, her hands trembling. But she kept walking, pushing two other children in front of her.
Damien stood. His hands were still tied, his legs ached. But he stood without help, and went down without a cry.
He observes.
One large guard carried a whip. Another held a master key. There was a dedicated officer who kept a register—his voice rapid and mechanical, reciting numbers and physical characteristics.
Damien noted it down in his mind, slowly.
"Two rough guards, one systematic overseer. Little hierarchy. They're not soldiers, just salaried butchers."
He looked around.
An old building loomed in front of him.
A stone castle, its walls faded with time, its windows narrow and dark. But the front yard—spacious, clean, and landscaped—was spacious, with a wooden stage erected permanently in the center. Several flags with symbols he didn't recognize fluttered weakly on the tower.
"They sell humans... in the palace courtyard."
Chairs were neatly arranged on either side of the stage. Small tents were set up on the left side—where the guests waited. Some wore long robes, silver masks, or face veils. They wished to remain anonymous, but they appeared as if they were loyal spectators at an exclusive performance.
Damien smelled flowers and incense coming from that direction. A luxurious scent that tried to mask the scent of tortured humans.
He stared at the wooden stage, which he would be stepping on in the next few minutes.
The first stage in his new show.
And as usual… he will perform flawlessly.
Damien stood among the rows of other slaves, his thin, injured body neatly arranged alongside the other children, like cattle waiting their turn.
In front of it, a wooden stage rose a meter off the ground, high enough to give the audience a perfect vantage point. The morning sun shone directly on its surface, dazzling and hot.
From behind the stage curtain, the auctioneer's voice began to sound—loud, shrill, full of dramatic intonation. A large man with white hair and gaudy clothes, his face red from repeated shouting.
"Pay close attention! Today, we only bring the best qualities! Young! Flexible! Obedient! Or... can be trained to obey!"
Laughter erupted from the seats beneath the nobleman's tent. Damien didn't see who was laughing—but he recognized the tone. It was a laugh that came not from joy, but from power.
One by one the boys were brought to the stage. They are rotated left and right. Their clothes are revealed, their bodies are measured, even their wounds are shown as "proof of authenticity".
Damien remained silent, but his eyes moved quickly. He counted the time each child spent on stage, noting how the auctioneer adjusted his speech depending on who was sitting in the bidder's seat. There was formal language. There was vulgar language. There were hand gestures—small, but meaningful.
"This isn't a market, this is theater. And he's the host."
It was the turn of the silent nobleman.
The guards carried him upstairs with care. The auctioneer immediately changed his tone of voice.
"And here he is! Look closely! Those eyes—not every child can look at you like this. A trace of blue blood! A child of the Ridhalan family that fell in the tragedy of the Hot Moon Attack!"
Whispers began to be heard among the guests.
"Saved by his own slaves. Delivered into our hands—and now, it can be yours!"
Damien noticed the boy's expression hadn't changed a bit. His blank eyes stared directly at the nobles' tent.
"He doesn't need to disguise himself. His gaze alone is enough of a deterrent."
Bidding begins.
Three hands raised at the same time.
The child's price doubled in a minute.
After that, three ordinary boys went upstairs. None were purchased. They were forcibly pulled back to the iron cage.
Damien started to step forward when his name was called.
"This kid is... skinny, yes. But look at the line of his shoulders. Look at the look in his eyes! Not many kids can stand with their heads held high after two days on the train!"
Damien stood in the center of the stage. The sun dazzled his eyes. But he didn't blink. He didn't move.
The auctioneer patted his shoulder hard.
"Look at this! It's not budging! Maybe it's stubborn... or maybe it just hasn't been broken yet!"
Laugh again. This time weaker.
No one immediately raised their hand.
Damien looked down at the audience seats. Many faces were covered, but there was one... who watched him longer than the others.
A figure sat a little further back. He was wearing a black robe. He wasn't wearing a mask. His face was flat. He was young. His eyes seemed to be calculating.
Damien lowered his gaze, then raised an eyebrow slightly—a small, but deliberate movement.
Someone whispers something into the auctioneer's ear.
The bidding is going slowly.
"THREE GOLD COINS!"
"FOUR!"
"FIVE!"
Damien looked sharply at the crowd.Come on… show me who you are. The richest. The greediest. The one who can be my next target.
But...
The bidding stops at six gold coins.
"Just that…?" Damien muttered to himself. "No one is doubling down. No one is fighting."
The auction was almost over. The bidders were getting bored, the chairs were emptying, and the atmosphere was slowly cooling.
But suddenly, amidst the silence of the auctioneer's voice, an offer was heard from the back row:
"Twelve gold coins."
The voice was calm. Light. As if mentioning the price of twelve gold coins was no big deal.
Damien turned. The figure stood alone in the crowd. The man's clothes were ordinary—plain robes, worn leather shoes. But he stood with a striking confidence, as if he didn't need a mask to hide who he was.
"Interesting…"thought Damien."This person doesn't look like anyone… but can double the price with just one sentence. This means he's not just anyone… but represents someone big."
Damien's guess was simple: the man was just a messenger. What mattered wasn't him. But who he was.ordered him.
"My target... must be behind this person."
Once the auction was over, Damien was separated from the other slaves. The chains on his hands were removed and replaced with leather straps held directly by the man.
"Walk," he said without looking back.
Outside the auction hall, Damien finally got a clearer look at his face. He was young, perhaps around twenty-eight. His features were sharp, but not because of intelligence, but because of a habitual arrogance.
The man grabbed Damien's chin roughly.
"I bought you because I failed to bid against the nobleman's son. It's a shame. But looking at your face…" He grinned. "If you take good care of it, it could be a weapon too. Well, besides, this is my master's order: buy a slave for his daughter. If the slave is handsome, perhaps she'll like it."
Damien just stared at her, expressionless. In his mind, thousands of speculations began to grow."Her master's daughter? Why does such a child need a slave? Toys? Protectors? Tools? Or..."
But he remained silent. The world was like a grand stage, and Damien was an actor waiting for his turn to speak.
Lodging.
They spent the night in a small inn on the outskirts of town. The walls were rough stone, and an oil lamp hung in the corner. Damien's room was like a prison cell without bars.
The man threw the new clothes on the ground.
"Before you dirty someone's room, take a shower first."
He dragged Damien into the bathroom. Without feeling, he poured water from a large bucket. Damien saw his reflection for the first time in the puddle. The boy in the reflection looked pale, almost as if he had never been touched by sunlight. His hair was jet black, messy, some strands covering his sharp eyebrows. His nose was high, his jawline strong, and his mouth a thin line that never quite smiled. Then he poured water from a small glass bottle. But the water felt... different.
Damien took a deep breath. The wound on his back seemed to heal instantly. The pain in his leg bones disappeared. Even his energy was slowly recovering.
"What… is this?" Damien whispered to himself.
The man laughed.
"Be happy, you stupid slave. I just gave you a healing potion. Huh, crazy… wasting a potion on a slave like you. But if I brought you home covered in wounds, I'd definitely get scolded."
Damien just stared. Enough of this nonsense—he was always the same type: a fawning underling who thrived on the praise of his superiors.
"Leech. The old world had plenty. The new world has them too."
Leave.
After bathing, his wounds healed, and his body cleaned, Damien donned a clean, pale gray slave outfit. It wasn't comfortable, but it was better than the rags he'd been wearing.
Without another word, the man tied a rope around Damien's hands, then pulled him out.
"We go. My lord waits."
Outside, the sun was starting to set. The streets were deserted, and Damien stared ahead. Still unsure of where they were going, who he would meet, or why he had been bought.
We arrived at the house in question.House, he said. But if this is a house… then anyone's house in my past life is just a cardboard box compared to this building.
A grand mansion, with white stone walls, tall stained-glass windows, and two golden lion statues at the gate. The courtyard is spacious, guards stand guard, and the front garden could be considered a mini-forest.
Howard, the annoying man who brought me here, pulled me in. Right in front of the main door, he removed the rope from my hands with a rough movement.
He stared at me sharply, full of disgust.
"Listen, slave, if you meet Master Derick later, you must speak politely. Otherwise, I will whip you a hundred times."
I just stared at him blankly."This man is clearly power-mad. But... well, I wonder who his master is."
We passed long hallways lined with red carpets, walls covered in paintings, and sparkling crystal chandeliers. Finally, we arrived at a large black wooden door with a winged lion carving.
Howard knocked softly, then leaned in with a fawning tone.
"Excuse me to see you, Mr. Derick."
I bowed too. I imitated him. This time, not out of submission—but out of immersion.
A deep voice from inside the room answered,"What's wrong, Howard?"
His tone was firm. Tense. And most strikingly: he didn't bother to look up.
I knew right away—this was a man who was used to giving orders, not talking.
Howard stepped forward, trying to keep his voice calm.
"I want to report, sir. I just came back from the auction."
Derick immediately chimed in, his voice rising an octave.
"So… you managed to bringthe nobleman's son?"
Howard panicked. His voice was shaking.
"N-no, Sir… I… I failed to get it…"
Derick turned sharply. Slowly, but very menacingly.
"Didn't II told you, whatever it takes, you have to bring that child here?!"
The sound of a slap filled the room. Derick hit Howard hard.
And to be honest, I was a little amused.
But my expression remained calm. I had to appear like a frightened child, not the man who once had the nickname "1,000 Faces."
Howard knelt down.
"I-I'm sorry, sir. It seems another noble entered the auction and bid higher than your permitted amount…"
The second slap landed. Harder. Howard fell to the ground.
I could barely suppress a sneer. But still… I just stood there. Silent. Staring. Eyes wide, feigning fear.
Derick finally turned to me. His gaze was cold. He was examining me like an unopened auction item.
"Who is this boy?"
Howard quickly stood up.
"H-he is the perfect replacement… that fits your criteria, sir! He may not be of noble birth, but his looks… just look at him, the noble daughters will surely like him."
Derick stared at me for a long moment. Then he turned to Howard again, sharply.
"So you mean…my daughter will like this slave?"
A third impact. This time, it was more brutal. Howard fell and didn't get up immediately.
I didn't react.
Because I know, in situations like this, it's not just words that speak—it's body language. I slowed my breathing. I lowered my head slightly. My face showed fear, but I wasn't strong enough to fight back.
Derick looked at me again. This time for longer.
He nodded slowly.
"Hmph… His face isn't bad. This kid could be useful. If he can get the noblewomen interested… we could use him to trap them. To dig up dirt.information."
He smiled—a predatory smile, not a human one.
"Okay, Howard. I forgive you.This time. You take care of him. Make sure he's ready before my daughter returns from training."
Howard, who was still half-kneeling, immediately bowed deeply.
"Thank you for your generosity, Sir…"
I stood still, my head slightly bowed. But my thoughts were racing:
"His daughter? She'll be the key. If I want to climb up... I have to start from this point."
After leaving the room, I walked behind Howard—or rather, dragged him. His steps were hurried, as if he wanted to get me out of Derick's sight as quickly as possible. He was silent, but his body spoke volumes. His shoulders were tense, his breathing ragged, and his fists were hard as stone.
I can easily read the mindset of someone like him. Someone who has no place in this world except to be someone else's shadow. His life revolves around one axis:sir.
And it was true.
As soon as we reached a quieter hallway, Howard stopped. He turned around, and before I could prepare my stance, a hard slap landed on my cheek.
"Do you know why I got scolded, huh?! Because of you! Your face isn't worth enough to save me from Mr. Derick's wrath!"
I didn't answer. Because it was pointless. A frustrated person only wants to hear the echo of their own anger.
Another blow followed, this time harder, sending my small body reeling against the cold stone wall. My breath hitched, but I held back a groan. The wounds were fine, but my honor must remain intact, even if I were only a slave now.
"Howard... you are not a master. But a boy who is too proud to be a dog."
She gripped her own hair, pulling so hard that strands fell out. Her mouth was muttering, as if she were begging for something she would never get.
"I have to atone for my mistakes… Derick must not lose his trust in me… I am not a burden… I am not—"
Obsession. That's the word that best describes Howard. This man doesn't love Derick—he just can't live without orders from someone higher up. A man like this will never look back, and will trample on anyone standing beneath him just to be seen.useful.
I sighed. It was a small sound. Barely audible. But enough for Howard to catch it.
He turned his head quickly, like an animal smelling the presence of an enemy.
"You're mocking me, aren't you?! Damn slave!"
His foot slammed into my stomach. My body arched, and I fell to the floor. This time, the pain was real. It was hot and sharp, as if reminding me that this wasn't my old body. It was the body of a child—weak, fragile, and unprepared for violence.
Howard flinched. Maybe he just realized that if I broke down, he'd face Derick's wrath again.
"Damn... damn... if you get seriously injured, I could be punished again...!"
He opened a small bottle from his pocket and poured a clear, bluish liquid onto the wound on my arm. It felt strange—stingingly cold, then warm, like fresh blood flowing back. My wounds slowly closed. The pain faded.
"Be happy, boy. I used a low-grade healing potion. And you just used mine."
"You healed me not out of pity. But out of fear. Good. I can use fear."
Howard was still ranting. About money, about pride, about his master. But I wasn't listening anymore.
My mind wandered to their earlier conversation.
"Plan to approach the female nobles. Gather information."
"So, in the end... I'm back in the old world. Only this time, I'm not a high class infiltrator. But a boy with an attractive face."
I chuckled. Not because it was funny, but because of how ironic it all was.
"Reincarnation. Who would have thought that instead of becoming a world hero like in novels, I would be thrown into a much more depraved reality."
But I'm still alive. That's enough.
"And if I'm still alive, then I can turn things around. Slowly. Premeditated. And bloody."
Howard stood up, then ordered me to get up.
"We'll go to your new room. Don't cause any trouble. Tomorrow, you'll be introduced to Mr. Derick's daughter."
I nodded slowly, smiling faintly.
"Of course. Introduce me to all the nobles, Howard. I will help your lord—as much as I need to get rid of him."