Night fell over the Kingdom of Bridges, Tequila Wolf.
Due to the periodic relocation of laborers and officials as the bridge construction progressed, the workers' living quarters were hastily and crudely built. Rows upon rows of warehouse-like buildings stood tightly packed together, identical as if stamped from the same mold. These structures were far from comfortable, and in the harsh winter, they barely provided any warmth.
Inside one of these warehouse-like shelters, the space was vast and open, with no partitions. Numerous laborers lived together, completely devoid of privacy. Aside from a bed, most had no other furniture to speak of.
The interior was dim, illuminated only by the faint moonlight streaming in through the windows.
The young boy Abram sat on a low stool by the edge of a bed. His mother lay weakly on the bed, unconscious, her breathing faint. The fabric on her back, soaked with blood, had frozen in the biting cold, sticking to her wounded skin.
In this place, the laborers—more accurately, the slaves—had no access to doctors or medicine. They couldn't even manage to boil hot water.
Abram's mother's injuries weren't as severe as they appeared, but in a place like this, where everyone was powerless to help, her situation was no less than a death sentence. Compared to those beaten to death by overseers on the bridge during the day, her current state was a slow, indescribable torment.
Even ten-year-old Abram, in his naivety, understood this vaguely.
The occasional sounds of coughing and groaning kept Abram in a state of half-sleep, his small head nodding forward repeatedly. Suddenly, a soft voice called out to him, waking him up.
"Abram?"
Abram looked up to see that his mother had woken up at some point. She lay on her side, her gaze gentle as she looked at him.
"Mom, you're awake!" Abram's swollen eyes, red like walnuts from crying, lit up. He quickly turned to check the cloth on her back, but the blood-soaked fabric had fused with her torn skin. At his age, he had no idea how to treat such a wound.
Seeing her son's helpless expression, Abram's mother spoke softly, "Abram, come here."
Obediently, Abram approached the bed and curled up in his mother's outstretched arms. Many harsh winters had passed with him finding solace in her warm embrace during the cold, grueling nights.
"Mom," Abram whispered.
"Yes?"
"I was wrong," Abram said, lifting his tear-streaked face. "They say you're going to die. Please, don't die, okay?"
Abram's mother struggled to stroke his slightly curly hair, her voice weak but tender. "As long as Abram is alive, Mom won't die. Because I'll always live in your heart. So, Abram, you must promise to live well, for Mom's sake."
"I don't want you to live in my heart. I want you to stay by my side," Abram replied, his voice trembling.
"Silly child," his mother murmured, kissing his forehead. In a voice barely audible, she added, "How could I possibly stay with you forever?"
...
The next morning, Abram woke up shivering from the cold. Sniffling, he realized his mother was still holding him tightly. But her once warm embrace had turned icy cold.
Abram's mother had passed away.
His mind went blank as he sat slumped by the bed. The world around him seemed to fade into irrelevance.
It wasn't until her body was discovered that Abram snapped out of his daze. A group of slave laborers, acting under the orders of an official, came to move her body. Abram lashed out in a frenzy, punching and kicking to stop them from taking his mother away.
But he was just a child. His resistance did little more than momentarily hinder the workers. One of the men, frustrated by Abram's interference, shoved him aside and shouted angrily, "Why are you making things difficult for us? We're just slaves—what can we do!?"
The warehouse fell silent. The man who had pushed Abram bit his lip, then hastened his work with his companions, leaving the scene with an uneasy expression.
...
Tony bit down on a cigar, his fingers adorned with eight gold rings. A heavy gold chain hung around his neck, completing his ostentatious, nouveau riche look.
He stood in a warm room heated by a roaring fireplace, accompanied by Captain Nezumi and a rotund official of Tequila Wolf. Through a glass window, they observed the laborers outside, toiling away in the freezing cold.
Tony had visited Tequila Wolf twice before. However, perhaps due to the explanations William had given him beforehand, his perspective had shifted. Now, as he looked at the laborers, he noticed things he hadn't before.
The laborers of Tequila Wolf, forced to work year-round in harsh conditions, had developed an extraordinary adaptability to group living and teamwork. The lack of safety measures meant that a single mistake could lead to fatal accidents, endangering others as well. As a result, these people had become highly disciplined and cooperative.
On the other hand, the brutal working environment had instilled in them a remarkable resilience. People with such traits were unlikely to resist grueling and monotonous training.
Moreover, the harsh conditions of survival acted as a natural selection process. Those who endured were individuals with strong bodies and solid foundations.
Living on the edge of survival, in such a hostile environment, was akin to the breeding grounds for excellent soldiers in William's past life on Earth.
Blowing out a smoke ring, Tony increasingly felt that William was right. These people, capable of enduring hardship, willing to cooperate, and full of potential, were born to be soldiers. Most importantly, they had nothing to rely on. If William could rescue them from their suffering, he would become their savior, their second parent. In the future, they would have no choice but to depend on him, with little room for alternatives.
"Mr. Tony, you mentioned that your company plans to open a mine and needs to purchase slaves who don't require safety guarantees..." The official from Tequila Wolf glanced at a list in his hands, detailing various requirements. "But why are you even buying children as young as ten or in their teens?"
"Kids are easier to manage," Tony replied nonchalantly, flicking ash from his cigar. "Adults are more likely to escape, aren't they? Besides, wouldn't you and your colleagues be glad to get rid of these kids?"
Captain Nezumi chimed in, backing Tony up. "Exactly! These kids are at the age where they're growing, eating a lot, and being disobedient, all while contributing little to the labor force. If someone's willing to pay to take them off your hands, it'll lighten your logistical burden. Isn't that a win-win?"
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~ The story isn't over...🤔 Want to know what happens next to the characters? 🤫 Eager to explore the untold secrets of this world? ✍ Ready to read more of my wildest stories?✨patreon.com/GoldenLong