The next day, during our so-called "break" from back-breaking labor, it was training time again—this time with our special guest, Draven. My muscles already ached at the thought, but my mind was still lingering on the sweet dream I'd had last night.
"Can I ask you something before we start?" I said.
Darius and Draven both gave me that expectant 'go on' look.
"Do either of you know how to make a tattoo of my parents' initials?" I know I will eventually forget them sooner or later; the day would come when their faces would fade from my memory. I just wanted something to hold onto, even if it was only a few letters in my skin—a little reminder that they were real, and that I had once been theirs.
They exchanged a brief glance before Draven spoke up.
"Maybe… use something like a branding iron?" he said, rubbing his chin and staring off as if digging through old memories. "Celestial Dragons sometimes burn their name into slaves' skin. If you can get one, you could have your parents' initials made into the iron instead."
"Yeah, it could work—if you don't mind the pain," Darius added, his tone matter-of-fact. Then he leaned forward slightly, brow furrowing. "But the real problem is… how do we even get our hands on one of those branding tools in the first place?"
"Maybe we could bribe a guard to do it for me?" I tossed the idea out, though I had no clue what a guard could possibly want badly enough to take such a risk for me.
Draven's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Hmm… I know one guard. Shady guy—runs some illegal side business. He's been looking for a slave to act as a front for him. Basically, someone to help smuggle his goods… and take the fall if things go south."
That was an option… but did I really want to risk my neck just to have a few letters etched into my skin?
"Is he even offering anything?" I asked, raising a brow. "I mean, who'd take his deal if there's nothing in it for them? A slave could just sell him out any time—they've got no loyalty to him anyway, the masters of the slaves is celestial dragons not the guards."
"Don't know," Draven shrugged, "but I guess it's something like better food and fewer labor hours. He's high enough to grant that, but not so high he can excuse you from work entirely."
The food would be a nice bonus, sure—but the real prize was the reduced labor. Right now, we worked twelve to thirteen hours a day, with barely one or two hours of rest. If I could shave even two hours off, my break time would double. That meant more time to train—not that anyone would be teaching me, but I could still drill what I'd already learned, sharpening it until I master it.
"Can you tell him I'll take the deal?" I said, not just because the offer sounded good, and not because I was ignoring the risk—but because I knew at least once, someone would cover for me if I slipped up. Sure, I'd get punished, maybe badly, but I doubted it would be fatal.
"You sure, kid?" Darius asked, his tone laced with disbelief. I couldn't blame him. Who in their right mind would gamble this much—just to have their parents' initials burned into their skin?
"Yeah." I met his gaze without flinching. His own narrowed eyes, measuring me, weighing whether I was just being impulsive or truly committed. Then he sighs and throws his hand up half-heartedly.
"Alright, you win, do whatever you like, but don't drag me into your mess." I know he has good intentions, and he doesn't want anything to happen to me, at least not too badly. But this is important to me, what I etched isn't a letter, it's memories, it's proof of my past, and a promise to myself that no matter what they did to me, they couldn't erase where I came from.
"Alright, I'll tell him later. For now, let's train first."
Before I could answer, Draven's voice cut through our little exchange. He tossed me the same worn, sweat-stained training clothes I'd used last week—but what caught me off guard was when he handed a set to Darius as well.
"Wait… you're training with me, old man?" I asked, brows raised. I couldn't figure out what was going on.
Draven grinned like he'd just heard the setup to a joke. "Well, turns out this old man came to me earlier saying he's got a reason to get stronger now. Can you believe that?" His chuckle carried that smug edge, like the whole thing was hilarious. "Finally, my friend here understands the importance of muscle."
"No, you idiot," Darius shot back with a sneer, "I understand the importance of Haki. I'm not about to end up like you—nothing but muscle and no brain."
Draven's smirk faltered. "What's wrong with that?" He sounded genuinely insulted.
"You fight like a bull—just keep charging until you hit something," Darius said in his usual flat tone, the kind of delivery that made it hard to tell if he was insulting or just stating a grim fact.
"It works, though," Draven replied, though his voice dipped toward the end, losing steam. "…Sometimes."
Darius didn't bother with a verbal comeback. He just gave Draven a slow, sideways glance—the kind you'd give a sad clown at a kid's birthday party. Not angry. Just… pitying the poor fool for the job he chose.
"You know what, Darius, I'm your teacher right now. So you should respect me." Draven raised his chest like he found some of his confidence right now.
"Right." But Darius just slowly raised his middle finger to Draven, and covered his eyes with the cloth, as what Draven said isn't important.
"Kid, whatever your decision is, just stay alive. I'm placing my bet on you." Darius tossed the words over his shoulder, not even bothering to look at me.
Before I could answer, he was already sprinting off, so I tightened the cloth over my eyes like a blindfold and took off after him.
Draven's voice barked through the make-shift training yard—half instructions, half insults, with a special reserve of venom for Darius. We kept running, striking, dodging, until the world blurred into the rhythm of sweat and breath. It wasn't until a pair of guards appeared, calling out that break time was over, that we finally stopped.
--
The next morning, as the guards herded us toward the day's worksite, one of them suddenly blocked my path. His shadow fell over me, and his voice came sharp and cold.
"Kid. Follow me."
He didn't wait for an answer—just turned on his heel and marched off like my compliance was inevitable.
Déjà vu.I've just been in this place before.
We wound our way past the labor lines until the noise of hammering and shouting faded. Then it appeared: a massive tent, looming near the construction site. Its canvas walls stretched wide, bigger than the shoebox studio apartment I once called home.
When I stepped inside the tent, the heavy canvas muffled the outside noise, leaving only the faint rustle of fabric and the sharp scent of cigar smoke. At the far end sat a middle-aged man, lounging like the place belonged to him—and maybe it did.
He wore a crisp white shirt tucked into rugged cargo pants, scuffed boots planted arrogantly on top of the table. Papers and documents lay scattered to the side, ignored, while his hands rested lazily behind his head. A cigar smoldered between his lips, its smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. Draped loosely over his shoulders was a white cape, not worn with formality but with the kind of careless confidence of someone who didn't need to prove anything.
As my footsteps creaked across the wooden floor, the man finally stirred, tilting his head just enough to glance at me with a pair of half-lidded eyes. His gaze was just… indifferent, like he was measuring me against a scale that only he understood.
The guard who had brought me here didn't linger—he simply turned on his heel and strode out without so much as a word of acknowledgment, leaving me alone under his gaze.
"How old are you?" The man's voice was unhurried, carrying the same lazy weight as his posture. He didn't even bother straightening up, just let his eyes drift over me like he was reading a line in a book he'd already grown bored of.
"Thirteen," I answered smoothly. My real age sat somewhere in my mid-twenties, but this body wasn't mine. I didn't even know its true age. Best to stick with a number that fit the face in the mirror—close enough to be believable.
"Could work…" he muttered, voice so low it slipped into a whisper. I caught only the first words before the rest dissolved into smoke and silence, but I understood enough. This was his way of saying I'd been… recruited.
"Come here, kid." He didn't even bother lifting his feet off the table. Just leaned sideways, pulled open a drawer, and gestured me closer.
When I stepped up, he revealed the contents inside. My eyes narrowed. Drugs. A neat little bag, packed tight and smelling faintly bitter even through the wrapping.
"Take it." His tone left no room for hesitation. I faltered for half a second, then forced my hand forward and accepted the bag, its heavier than it should've been.
"Now, until I tell you otherwise, you hide it. Somewhere safe." He spoke as if it were the simplest thing in the world, but my gut twisted. Simple orders in this place were rarely simple in practice. Still, I already knew the best spot—the cell. Guards never set foot inside unless dragging someone out, which made it the safest hole I could think of.
"And my reward?" I asked flatly, watching him through narrowed eyes. He hadn't mentioned it, and from the way he moved—or rather, the way he didn't—I doubted he intended to. So I made sure to force it out of him.
"So long as you work for me, I can get you food the guards usually eat. And your work time… cut in half." He said it lazily, as though granting me a luxury was no more effort than flicking ash from his cigar.
"You mean… I don't have to work till midnight again?"
He gave a slow, indifferent nod at my question.
Relief bloomed in my chest.
That's great
I didn't know the exact measure of 'half,' but even if it shaved the hours down to finishing before the sun set, it's the best result that could have happened, and I hope that will happen.
And the food? That was just a bonus. Because, as the saying went—with great food comes great happiness. Or… something along those lines. I couldn't remember exactly, but close enough.
"Then… can I use the branding tools?" I asked. That was the real prize. The one reason I was willing to risk this job at all.
"Sure," he said without much care, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Ask the guard outside to take you there."
Now I had access to the branding tools. Time to get my first "tattoo"—though calling it a tattoo was stretching the definition.
"Thank you," I muttered, giving the man a small bow. He barely acknowledged it, just flicked his hand dismissively and shut his eyes, already drifting toward a nap.
I turned on my heel and stepped outside. A guard lounged among some crates. He was different from the guard who took me here; he looked more relaxed and younger, perhaps just in his early twenties. A cigarette dangled lazily from his lips, smoke curling up into the stale air.
He cut his eyes toward me without moving his head. "What do you want?" His tone was flat, bored, like he couldn't be less interested.
"The person inside said I could make use of the branding tools with the guard outside," I said carefully. "That's you, right?"
"Yeah, follow me." The guard pushed off the crates and started walking, heading out toward the edge of the city. I followed close behind, realizing quickly this wasn't the same direction I remembered from when I'd first been branded.
"Is this a different place than where I got branded?" I asked, trying to sound casual. His relaxed pace made me think I could squeeze a bit of info out of him.
"Yeah, it's different," he said with half-hearted effort, like he couldn't be bothered to care. "Where you and the other slaves got branded, that's a special building. This place? Just where we keep the stock animals."
His words were lazy, but they carried weight.
"So… slaves get a separate room from animals? That's actually good to hear," I said.
He gave a short, humorless laugh. "You got it wrong, kid. The only difference is the tool. A normal brand? You could scrape it off with the right tools, or even cut the skin away. But yours…" He tapped the side of his neck meaningfully. "Yours makes that impossible."
We walked the rest of the way in silence, the awkward kind. After a few minutes, the smell told me we'd arrived—animals everywhere. Cows, sheep, a horse that had to be at least three meters tall, even a lion the size of a wagon. Some I recognized, others looked like they'd crawled out of a storybook.
The guard led me into a squat building beside the pens. Inside, the air was heavy with the stink of scorched iron. Rows of metal pipes lined the wall, each with letters or symbols forged at the tips. In the center, an oven glowed faintly, its embers hot enough to turn steel orange.
"So," the guard said, lazily picking through the pipes. "What do you want for your brand?"
I hesitated only for a moment. "Um… M, S, R, and J."
He raised an eyebrow.
"My parents' initials," I explained quickly. "And my sister's. Oh, and my cat—Martha, Silas, Rosa, and John. Can't forget John-cat. He's… kind of an important part of the family."
A faint smirk tugged at the guard's mouth as I added, with full seriousness, "I even adopted his kid and named it John-kid."
"Never asked what it means for, but it's okay," the guard muttered.
He shoveled a pile of coal into the oven, the fire roaring to life with a hiss that made the air shimmer.
From the rack, he pulled the pipes with the letters I'd chosen, sliding their tips into the glowing furnace. A few minutes later, he fished one out—the M. The iron blazed orange, raw, alive. Without hesitation, he stepped toward me.
"Where is it?" he asked flatly.
I stretched out my right hand, palm-down, and offered the back of it. Luckily, the letter was small—just enough to fit on that patch of skin.
The guard grabbed my wrist, pinning it against the table. Then, without warning, he pressed the searing metal against my flesh.
A hiss split the air, followed by the sickening scent of burning skin. My entire hand jerked violently, trembling as if it wanted to tear itself free. Sweat poured down my face in torrents, stinging my eyes, my whole body shaking under the molten bite.
But I clenched my jaw, biting back the scream clawing at my throat. It hurts like hell, sure. but it's not as hurt as the first branding I got.
Only the crackle of fire and the muffled sound of my teeth grinding filled the room.
After what felt like an eternity, the iron finally lifted from my skin. The pain didn't vanish—it lingered, a raw, pulsing throb that gnawed at the edges of my nerves—but at least it dulled enough for me to breathe again.
"Here, take this." The guard—whose name I still didn't know—handed me a glass of water from somewhere. I didn't hesitate; grabbed it with my left hand and drained it in one gulp, throat burning in a different way.
"If you need more, it's there." He jerked his chin toward an open barrel in the corner, half-full of water.
"Thanks," I rasped.
"No prob. Tell me when you're ready for the rest."
I wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist, tasting ash and sweat. "Let's go right now."
He raised a brow but shrugged. "Fine by me."