Dang… my personal room and training quarter? Sick! Like, seriously, this is some VIP stuff. A whole ass chamber for me? That's crazy. Though sadly, do I even have a choice for leisure? Nah, not really. I'm still a slave, y'know. And as far as I'm concerned, I'm the only one here. And I doubt — like in any of the novels, fictional comics, or movies I've ever read — that I can somehow escape this HUGE place just because I got a fancy-ass mattress and four walls.
"Welp, I guess I have no choice but to train then," I muttered, rolling my eyes at myself.
Ngl, I'm pretty much a training junkie and a gym rat anyway. Discipline, martial arts obsession, all that. It's not even just because of anime or movies — okay, maybe a lot because of anime and movies — but also because I grew up as an orphan in the inner city. Trouble follows you when you're weak. That's a lesson I learned early. So for me, training isn't just some hobby. It's survival.
So, first and foremost: the basics.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Pull-ups. Squats. Crunches. Planks. Lunges. All the basic bodyweight stuff that forms the backbone of any real training routine. And yeah, even though I'm in a five-year-old kid's body, this body is surprisingly durable. Like, it's not jacked — I'm not walking around looking like baby Hercules — but the foundation's good. Toned. Tough. Like someone's been sculpting this vessel for combat. Probably because he's been raised as a damn battle slave. Makes sense, right?
Still, I didn't half-ass it. I dropped to the floor, palms flat, and banged out push-ups until my arms burned and my chest felt like it was on fire. Then sit-ups until my core screamed. Pull-ups on one of the wooden beams until my arms trembled. Rinse and repeat. Over and over.
And it wasn't just about brute strength. Nah. I added footwork drills. Dodges. Quick steps. Shifting my balance like a boxer or a martial artist. Parkour across the room's walls and ledges, vaulting and rolling until my body learned how to flow instead of stumble.
Then came reflex training — shadowboxing with fast jabs, kicks, elbows, and knees. I pictured the ogre's ugly mug in front of me, or that smug bastard I killed in the arena. Every strike was a reminder: if I stop training, if I get lazy, I die.
Hours slipped by. I honestly lost track of time. The room's lighting didn't help either — no windows, just these dim lamps that never changed. I had no idea if it was day, night, or the in-between. The only thing I knew for sure was the sweat soaking through my ragged clothes, dripping down my arms and chest, stinging the fresh cuts and bruises under my bandages.
That's when I remembered: this body can actually lift weight. Like, not just "five-year-old toddler playing with Legos" weight. I tested it. Found some weighted stone blocks in the corner — probably meant for conditioning — and to my surprise, I could bench about 25kg without breaking a sweat. That's nuts for a kid my age. Guess being a battle slave has its perks.
"Alright then. No excuses."
So I stacked weight on weight, doing curls, presses, squats, and deadlifts until my muscles shook. My breath came in short, sharp bursts. Sweat blurred my vision. My knuckles were raw from punching the wooden training post, and my shins ached from kicking it over and over.
Still, I kept going. Because discipline is discipline. Because I know weakness gets punished here. Because somewhere out there, stronger bastards are waiting for me, and I refuse to be the weak link.
Finally, after what felt like forever, I collapsed onto the mat, chest heaving like I'd just run a marathon. My body burned all over. My hands trembled. I couldn't even feel my arms anymore.
That's when the door creaked open.
I blinked through the haze of sweat dripping into my eyes. At first, I thought it was another handler, maybe here to drag me back to another fight already. But nah. What I saw instead made my brain short-circuit for a sec.
She walked in.
A maid. But not just some random background extra with an apron and a bucket. Nah, this one looked… different. Mature. Sharp. She had glasses balanced perfectly on her nose, a mole perched just above her lips — the kind that just screams elegance and maturity. And let's not even cap: her body? Bro. Every curve, every step, screamed breedable. My field of vision wasn't doing me favors either because of the height difference. Everywhere I looked, it was just… yeah.
"She's hot," I muttered under my breath before shaking my head violently, dusting myself off like nothing happened. What the hell was I supposed to do? Greet her? Bow? I don't even know the etiquette here. All I do know is that maids are servants — but even servants are above slaves in hierarchy. So I froze, standing there awkwardly, covered in sweat, bruises, and dirt, while she looked like she belonged in some noble's mansion.
"My name is Roosevelt," she said smoothly, voice steady like she'd rehearsed it. "Maid of the Lady in Veil. As of today, I will be the one who takes care of your meals. If you have any requests, I shall list them for you."
The way she said "Lady in Veil" wasn't casual either. That title carried weight. Authority. Prestige. Probably that mysterious noblewoman who was watching me fight earlier, the one hidden behind lace and shadow. My stomach twisted. If she sent this maid, that meant I wasn't forgotten after the fight. Someone important was watching me.
I didn't argue, didn't speak. Just nodded dumbly.
Roosevelt walked forward, her steps calm, deliberate. She carried a silver platter balanced in her hands. When she set it down and lifted the cover, I swear my jaw almost hit the floor.
Food. Actual food. Not slop. Not scraps. Not some half-rotten chunk of bread. But steaming dishes that looked like they'd come out of a five-star restaurant. Roasted meat, vegetables glazed with sauce, bread that looked freshly baked. It smelled so damn good my stomach betrayed me instantly, growling loud as hell. I nearly drooled.
But I caught myself. Shook my head. I'd read enough slave stories to know what happens when you act greedy. Best-case scenario, you look like a fool. Worst-case, they smack you across the face for being "uncivilized." So I sat there stiffly, hands clenched in my lap, waiting for some kind of permission.
Roosevelt just watched me. Neutral expression. No scolding, no mocking, no kindness either. Just… watching.
Screw it.
I pressed my hands together, bowed my head, and whispered:
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen. Thank you for the food."
Her eyes widened. A tiny flinch. Like I'd just pulled out a live grenade and set it on the table.
I didn't miss it.
Why'd she react like that? Was it surprise? Fear? Disgust?
Slaves praying… is that not a thing here? Do they not even let us have religion? Damn. I remembered bits of history back on Earth — enslaved nuns, priests, people of faith. It wasn't unheard of. But here? The look on her face told me it was something else entirely. Something dangerous.
Still, I didn't care. My hands shook, but I kept my head down, finished the prayer, and dug into the food like my life depended on it.
And maybe it did.