Time became a liquid thing. Days bled into each other until he could no longer tell where one ended and the next began. It took him almost a full week to realise that the sun and moon still followed a rhythm. Another week to realise that he no longer cared. And by the end of the fourth week, he had discovered that caring only made the suffering sharper.
The routine was always the same.
A kick to the ribs at dawn.
A bucket shoved into his hands.
Shouted orders spat at him in a language he only partially understood.
Then the endless march between the muddy riverbank and the growing wall of clay at the village edge.
It was not living.
It was simply surviving one command at a time.
The villagers fed the slaves the bare minimum. Each morning he received a handful of dark purple berries that stained his fingers and tongue. The berries were slightly sour but carried a strange warmth that spread through his chest. By the end of the first week his fever finally broke. The trembling stopped. His thoughts sharpened. He could stand for more than a minute without almost collapsing.
But the berries also made his stomach twist with hunger. They were not enough.
At night, the slaves received a single bowl of soup. Cloudy water. A few floating pieces of root or grass. No meat at all. He remembered the day they roasted the monster he had fought. They had dragged its corpse into the village centre and celebrated like it was a holy offering. The hunters tore into the roasted flesh with bare hands. Some danced. Some laughed. Some argued loudly over which part belonged to which family.
The slaves sat in the shadows, waiting, staring, drooling. Each received a bowl of the leftover liquid, thin and clear, with no meat at all.
They had eaten his kill.
He had eaten the water it bled into.
That was the way of this world. The strong feasted. The weak scraped the bottom of the pot.
Despite the lack of food, he endured. Something inside him refused to die.
He began learning the language.
At first he only caught repeated commands. The word for bucket. The word for mud. The phrase get up or die, which became so familiar he could almost say it back with perfect rhythm. Sometimes he repeated it in his head with a mocking tone, amused by the absurdity of it. Somehow, bitter humour made the days less unbearable.
He learned more by watching gestures and lips.
Come.
Move.
Stop.
Faster.
Drink.
Slave.
Fear carved the language into him far more effectively than any teacher could.
Whenever he could, he searched for his broken suit. Not the whole thing, but any fragment that might be useful. Even a chip, a wire, a battery. He searched behind huts, beneath drying racks, near piles of tools and discarded junk. He sifted through rubbish heaps, hoping for a glint of metal from home.
He found nothing.
On the third attempt to move beyond the slave area, they caught him.
They tied him to a tree at the edge of the village. His wrists were raised above his head. The rope bit into his skin. Three men gathered around him. Their excitement made his stomach twist.
They stripped branches from the nearest tree and whipped him.
Thin branches. Flexible ones. Designed to sting rather than cripple. Each strike lit a line of fire across his back and shoulders. The men enjoyed themselves. They laughed at his flinching, nodded approvingly when he fell silent, and walked away when boredom set in.
They left him tied to the tree until nightfall. His back burned. His arms throbbed. His throat was dry. He did not scream. He did not beg. He simply endured.
The next morning, they dragged him from the tree and shoved a bucket into his hands. Work resumed.
He learned the rule.
Search only when the chance was perfect.
Search only when the risk was worth it.
The village itself began to reveal its structure as the weeks passed. No more than seventy people lived here at most. Sometimes fewer when hunting parties were away. Their lives were harsh but structured by tradition. Slave labour sat at the bottom of everything.
Families lived in wooden huts. Fish dried on racks. Meat hung over smoky fires. Children played, ran, and threw stones at slaves as if it were a game. The tribe was built around cruelty, but not mindless cruelty. It was systematic. Expected. Ordinary.
Slaves were not people to them.
They were tools.
Resources.
Things.
The tribe could not afford to let them die. Slaves hauled mud, carried water, gathered firewood, and repaired the outer wall. If one collapsed, the guards dragged him to the shade and poured a few gulps of water into his mouth. Not kindness. Just maintenance.
He was alive because labour was valuable.
His pain meant nothing.
By the end of the third week his body had changed. His muscles had grown lean, hardened by constant use. His skin darkened from long days under the sun. His back bore dozens of whip scars. His bitten hand remained stiff and swollen, but functional. His feet were covered in blisters that never fully healed.
Every night he collapsed into the slave hut. Sleep came in fragments. The others lay beside him silently. Some whispered nonsense. Some stared vacantly at the ceiling. They flinched at loud noises and barely reacted when new slaves entered. Hope had been beaten out of them long before he arrived.
They saw him as another soon-to-break newcomer.
He refused to join them in that quiet surrender.
During the fourth week, the entire village changed.
It started subtly: more fires at night, more shouting, more excited chatter. Hunters returned early, carrying bundles of animal hides, plants, and decorative feathers. Women scrubbed clothes at the river. Men decorated the central hut with stones and carved wooden patterns. Even the children practised chants in shrill voices.
Something important was coming.
He tried gesturing to another slave, pointing at the decorated huts and raised platforms.
The man only stared at him with hollow eyes and looked away.
The other slaves acted the same.
Silent.
Nervous.
Afraid.
If they would not speak, it was because the truth was worse than speculation.
The next morning, the air felt charged. Villagers scanned the horizon. Hunters remained on watch posts. Drums beat in a slow, steady rhythm.
He noticed the tribe was not preparing for battle.
Nor a ritual sacrifice.
Nor a hunt.
They were preparing for trade.
This thought unravelled slowly in his mind. Who would they trade with? What sort of civilisation existed beyond these forests? What kind of world was he trapped in?
He carried another heavy bucket of mud up the slope. His muscles strained. Sweat ran down his face. His hand throbbed beneath the bandages.
Then he heard it.
A soft, distant ringing.
Not animals.
Not wind.
Bells.
Dozens of them.
The villagers erupted with cheers. Women grabbed their children. Hunters rushed toward the gate. Men pushed each other aside for a better view.
The bells grew louder.
Shapes emerged between the trees.
Wagons. Several of them.
Painted with vibrant colours. Red cloth. Green patterns. Blue symbols. Tall banners fluttered in the wind with characters he could not read. They shimmered faintly, almost glowing against the sunlight.
Animals unlike any he had ever seen pulled the wagons. Tall, long necked beasts with spiralling horns and calm, dark eyes. Their hooves thudded steadily against the earth.
Guards walked beside the wagons, wearing polished metal chestplates and carrying curved blades. Their discipline was unmistakable. Their steps mirrored each other. Their expressions were stern and unreadable.
The traders themselves wore flowing robes. Gold rings. Embroidered cloth. Smooth belts. Their posture straight. Their gazes sharp and assessing.
Compared to the tribe, they looked civilised.
Refined.
Disciplined.
But beneath that surface something darker lingered.
A calculating stillness.
A coldness behind their smiles.
Eyes that measured people like livestock.
One trader paused when he saw the slaves. His gaze lingered for a moment. A very small, very thin smile touched his lips.
Not a kind one.
A merchant evaluating stock.
The tribe swarmed the traders in excitement. They offered bundles of dried herbs, bone ornaments, animal hides, and carved tools. The traders accepted them politely, with nods and quiet words exchanged through interpreters.
The guards moved to clear an open space.
The negotiations would begin soon.
Standing on the slope with his bucket, he felt a tremor run down his spine.
The world was larger than he thought.
Structured.
Connected.
Alive in ways both incredible and terrifying.
Caravans did not travel this far for nothing.
If they traded in goods…
They would trade in people.
Slaves were one of the few things the tribe owned.
As the wagons settled near the centre and the villagers cheered in excitement, he lowered his bucket slowly and breathed.
Tomorrow, or the next day, or soon after…
Everything in his life was going to change.
Because the caravan was not here for celebration.
It was here to buy.