Author's Note:
[SYSTEM NOTICE: CONNECTION RESTORED]
Server Status: Online.
Ping: ~13,000,000 seconds (approx. 5 Months).
Update Patch 10.0: "The Idol & The Manager" installed.
⚠️ Error Log:
The Author got stuck in the "Real Life" dungeon without a save point.
To ensure the historical accuracy of this Slave Arc, the Author decided to engage in "Method Acting" and roleplay hard labor IRL.
(Result: Back Pain +50, Writing Speed -99%).
System Comment: "Finally. I thought he dropped the quest."
Reward for Waiting:
•+10 to Reader Patience.
•+1 New Chapter.
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Chapter 10 — The Idol from the Quarry and the Manager in Shackles
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If you think the worst things about slavery are the whips and the hunger, you're wrong. The worst part is "Groundhog Day" on Hardcore mode.
You wake up. You hurt. You go carry rocks. You hurt. You eat slop that tastes like wet cardboard. You hurt. You sleep. Repeat until you die.
"Number Twenty-Two! Move it, you lazy sack of meat!" the overseer barked, cracking his whip dangerously close to my ear.
"I'm not lazy, I'm energy-efficient!" I snapped back under my breath, readjusting my grip on a stone block slick with sweat. "And technically, this is called a 'tactical redistribution of effort.'"
Beside me, walking like a living construction crane, was the Professor. He carried a block one and a half times the size of mine, yet he looked as calm as if he were strolling through a park with a book tucked under his arm.
"You're breathing wrong," he noted without turning his head. "Inhale on the lift, exhale on the step. Otherwise, you'll collapse in an hour."
"Professor, I'm going to collapse in five minutes, and no amount of breathing is going to fix that," I wheezed. "Listen, I was looking at the stacking pattern yesterday... If we start laying them in a herringbone pattern instead of rows, the load distribution changes, and we save thirty percent of our energy."
He glanced at me sideways with his golden eyes. "Are you at it again?"
"It's called 'business process optimization,'" I declared importantly, nearly dropping the rock on my foot. "Even in hell, there should be effective management. Otherwise, it's just a mess, not torture."
The Professor just shook his head, but I caught the shadow of a smile on his lips. He liked these conversations. They were a distraction. They reminded us that we were still human, not just numbered draft animals.
[SYSTEM STATUS]
•Current Condition: Fatigue (High), Dehydration (Medium).
•Skill Triggered:Slave's Eloquence+1
•(Effect: You can now whine 5% more persuasively!)
Thanks, System. As always, you are the pillar of my self-esteem, I grumbled mentally.
Evening in the barracks arrived not when the sun set, but when they herded us inside and bolted the heavy bars. The smell in here was thick enough to cut with a knife and sell as a chemical weapon. Sweat, filth, rotting straw, and hopelessness.
I collapsed into my corner, feeling my muscles buzzing like high-tension wires. Every cell in my body screamed: "Why?!"
"I can't take it anymore," I groaned, staring at the dark ceiling. "Tomorrow, I'm playing dead. Or catching the plague. Do they offer sick leave?"
"They offer a pit outside the city walls," the Professor replied calmly, unwrapping the rags from his bloodied hands. "That's where they dump the 'sick'."
"You really know how to comfort a guy..."
And then... I heard it.
At first, I thought I was hallucinating from heatstroke. A quiet, barely audible sound cutting through the snoring, groans, and cursing of a hundred slaves. A melody. Someone was humming. No words. Just a pure, trembling tune that seemed so alien here, like a diamond dropped in a puddle of mud.
I propped myself up on one elbow.
"Do you hear that?" I whispered.
The Professor froze. His face, usually impenetrable, suddenly tightened.
"I hear it."
"Who is it?"
In the far, darkest corner of the barracks, hugging her knees, sat a girl. That same one.
Number 24.
Her long black hair was tangled, her dress had turned to rags, but in the semi-darkness, her eyes—an incredible, deep violet—seemed to glow with their own light. She was rocking side to side and humming.
It was a sad song. A song about something lost that could never be returned. But the voice...
[SYSTEM ALERT]
•Talent Detected:S-Rank
•Effect: Siren's Voice (Weak)
•Increases the morale of allies within a 10-meter radius.
"Whoa..." I exhaled. "She's got talent!"
I moved to stand up, but the Professor grabbed my shoulder. His grip was iron. "Don't interfere," he said quietly but firmly. "Let her sing quietly. If the overseers hear..."
"Then what?" I didn't understand. "They'll give her extra rations for the concert?"
"Then they'll take her," he replied grimly. "The Priests love anything... unusual."
I looked at him. There was fear in his eyes. Real, sticky fear that I rarely saw in this calm giant. He knew something I didn't. But I was Makoto Kamiya. An idiot who fell into this world to break the rules.
"Professor, you're paranoid," I waved him off. "In my world, talent needs to be produced, not hidden!"
I shook off his hand and crawled through the straw toward her. She fell silent immediately when I approached, pressing herself against the wall, looking at me like I was just another threat.
"Hey, shhh, easy..." I raised my hands, showing empty palms. "I don't bite. And I'm definitely not going to steal your dinner. I've only got a crust of bread myself, and I think it's older than this city."
She remained silent, drilling into me with that violet gaze.
"You sing beautifully," I said, smiling (hoping it didn't look too creepy with the bruise under my eye). "Where did you learn?"
"...Mother taught me," her voice was raspy, quiet, but surprisingly melodic. "She said a song could reach the stars."
"The stars?" I chuckled. "With a voice like that, you can reach hearts. Seriously. I've heard a lot of singers in my world, but you... You are something special."
She blinked distrustfully. "Who are you?"
"Makoto. Slave Number 22. Former gamer, currently a professional heavy-object relocator. And that gloomy guy over there looking at us like we're on death row is the Professor. Number 23."
She relaxed slightly. "I don't have a name," she whispered, lowering her eyes. "I forgot it. Only a number. 24."
"Forgot it?" I frowned. "Well, that won't do. A star needs a name."
"A star?.."
I scooted a little closer, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Listen, 24. We aren't planning to rot here forever, right? Sooner or later, we're getting out of here. Me, the Professor, and you."
She looked at me with such surprise, as if I had suggested we fly to the moon. "Get out? But... there is no exit from here."
"There is always an exit," I lied with confidence. "And when we get out... I'm going to be your producer."
"Pro... ducer?" She tilted her head funny, tasting the unfamiliar word.
"Yup. That's a person who turns talented people into legends. We're going to make you an Idol. A goddess of the stage! You'll sing, people will weep with happiness and throw flowers at you, and we'll bathe in gold and glory. How's that for a plan?"
In her eyes—those bottomless violet pools where the cosmos truly seemed to be reflected—something flickered. A spark. Hope. For the first time in this hell, someone offered her not just survival. But a dream.
"Idol..." she repeated, testing the word. And suddenly, her lips touched a shy, almost imperceptible smile. "It sounds... beautiful."
"It's not just beautiful," I winked at her. "It's your future. Deal? I'm the Manager, you're the Star. And the Professor will be... well, let's say, Head of Security. With biceps like his, it fits."
She giggled softly. That sound was, to me, a victory over the entire empire of Xerxes.
"Deal... Manager-san," she whispered.
I crawled back to my spot, feeling like I had just won the lottery. "See?" I whispered to the Professor. "She's smiling! Morale is up. Tomorrow she'll work better, and they won't beat her. I'm a strategy genius."
The Professor looked at the girl, who had started humming quietly under her breath again, but now there was a little more light in the melody. Then he looked at me. And in his gaze was a heavy, adult sadness that made me uneasy.
"You're giving her hope, Makoto," he said quietly. "That is a dangerous gift in a place like this. Hope makes a person vulnerable."
"Hope makes a person human," I parried. "And anyway, stop grumbling. We have a team now. The 'Quarry Trio'. Has a ring to it, right?"
At that moment, the heavy door of the barracks crashed open. The sleepy silence was sliced by the harsh light of torches. Standing on the threshold were not the usual overseers with whips. These were men in white, clean robes with gold embroidery. Priests.
My heart dropped somewhere into my heels. The Priest swept his gaze across the barracks, as if selecting goods at a market. His eyes slid over me, over 24... and stopped on the Professor.
"Number Twenty-Three!" the Priest proclaimed in a voice that brooked no argument. "Stand up."
The Professor rose slowly. He didn't look surprised. Rather... resigned. "You are coming with us," the Priest said. "To the Laboratory. Your blood is needed for the Higher Cause."
I jerked forward: "Hey! He needs rest! You can't..." The Professor didn't even turn around, but I saw him make a barely noticeable gesture with his hand behind his back: "Stay quiet."
"I am ready," he said evenly.
"Professor..." I whispered, watching them lead him away.
The door slammed shut, cutting us off from the torchlight and the back of the Professor disappearing into the night. The barracks became dark and quiet again, except for someone's frightened sob.
24 was sitting pressed against the wall, shivering. Her huge violet eyes seemed to have lost the shine that had lit up in them a minute ago. Fear had returned. "They took him..." she whispered, her voice cracking. "It's always like this... First, they take the strong ones. Then..."
I moved closer to her, ignoring the aching pain in my ribs and the cold stone floor. "Hey, come on now," I tried to make my voice sound as carefree as possible. "It's the Professor! Did you see his biceps? He probably just went to help them move furniture. Or give lectures on proper posture. He'll be back by morning, grumbling that we slacked off without him."
She looked at me with distrust, but the shivering stopped. "Do you... really think so?"
"I don't think, I know," I lied confidently. "We're a team. And a team isn't that easy to break."
I dug around in the pocket of my rags and pulled out a small, smooth pebble I had found in the quarry today. It was unusual—white, with veins of quartz that glinted slightly even in the gloom.
"Here, take this," I placed the stone in her small, dirty palm.
"What is it?" she blinked in surprise.
"It's your first paycheck. An advance," I grinned. "As your Manager, I'm obligated to handle motivation. Consider it a talisman. As long as you have it, nothing bad will happen."
She clenched the stone in her fist, pressing it to her chest as if it weren't a piece of rock, but a precious diamond. And suddenly... she smiled. For real. Wide, sincere, enough to show dimples on her cheeks. In this dirty, stinking barrack, her smile was like a shot at point-blank range. I felt something warm spread through my chest.
"Thank you... Makoto," she said softly.
"Manager-san," I corrected with mock strictness. "Respect the hierarchy, Star. We still have to pick your repertoire."
She giggled quietly. And then, after a brief silence, she began to hum that same melody again. Only now, there was no anguish in it. It sounded... dreamy. Gentle. Like a lullaby for the two of us.
I leaned back on the stiff straw, closed my eyes, and listened. Her voice enveloped me, chased away the pain and fear, made me forget where we were. For the first time since arriving in this world, I thought: "Maybe things aren't so bad after all."
I have a goal. I have a strong friend who will return soon. And I have her—my little project, my personal ray of light in this dark kingdom. We won't just survive. We're going to turn this city upside down. Xerxes doesn't know yet what kind of star has ignited in its dungeons.
[SYSTEM QUEST ACCEPTED]
•Quest Name: The Birth of a Star
•Objective: Make Number 24 the most famous singer of the era.
•Reward: A smile worth more than gold.
•Accept? [YES] / [NO]
I mentally pressed [YES] so hard the button should have cracked.
"Goodnight, 24," I whispered. "Goodnight, Manager-san," she replied, clutching my white pebble in her hand.
And that night, for the first time, I didn't have nightmares. I dreamed of a huge stage, the glow of spotlights, and her—shining, happy, singing for thousands of people chanting her name.
The name we would definitely invent for her.