Darkness.
The first thing to return was sensation. A rhythmic, exhausting jolt that echoed with a dull ache in his back from the hard, rough surface beneath him. Then came the sounds—the creak of wood and wheels, distant, guttural voices. And the smells—a thick, sour stench of unwashed bodies and damp straw.
Consciousness seeped back in slowly, but memory did not. It struck him like a physical blow.
A dark star in the sky. Blinding light. An ironic, grateful smile...
He had expected oblivion. Silence. An end to the white noise.
But he got a continuation.
The realization brought no relief. It struck him in the solar plexus, triggering a wave of physical nausea. It was a familiar feeling—the same spasm that twisted his gut when he fought with his girlfriend, or when he got bad news. But now, it was a hundred times stronger. It was an agony that clawed its way out.
He didn't even have time to open his eyes. His body instinctively curled into a ball. The spasm rose to his throat, and a quiet, pathetic whimper escaped his chest. He desperately clamped a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle the sound. His small body trembled uncontrollably, purging the remnants of his past life.
And then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.
The spasm released its grip. All that remained was emptiness and a strange, weary relief, as if after a long illness. He lay there, breathing heavily. And through that emptiness, a single, absurd thought broke through. A second chance. Just like in those isekai stories.
A faint, ironic smile touched his lips.
Now that the storm had passed, he could finally take a look around. He opened his eyes.
The darkness wasn't absolute. Strips of gray light seeped through cracks in the wooden walls. He was in a cart. Beside him, shifting in the straw, were other bodies.
To his right, huddled together, lay two small children. A faint, pale blue glow emanated from them.
To his left sat two others. Their auras pulsed with a rich, orange light. And in the dimness, he could clearly make out the sharp, feline ears atop their heads.
He looked down at his own hands.
They were small.
Chubby. With short, childish fingers.
From his skin, a faint, almost imperceptible wisp of white light swirled, similar to the auras he saw on the others. It was the magic from his favorite stories. A fact. A new variable in an equation he had yet to solve.
The jolting stopped with a sudden lurch that sent everyone in the cart tumbling. Gruff voices echoed outside, followed by the groan of a heavy gate. A slice of daylight stabbed Andrii's eyes, forcing him to squint.
"Alright, merchandise out!" a harsh voice commanded.
One of the guards ripped the tarp off the cart. The children were roughly pushed out. Andrii, blinking against the bright light, followed them.
They were in a neglected courtyard, surrounded by high stone walls. The air smelled of dampness, rot, and incense. In the distance, he could see the spire of a building that looked like a monastery or a church.
The children huddled together, a frightened flock. Andrii stood slightly apart, his brain greedily soaking in the details. The guards were human, their muddy blue auras nearly identical to those of the human children. He glanced again at his own hands, at the faint white light seeping from them. Different. The word echoed in his mind with cold clarity.
A priest emerged from the monastery. Tall, thin, dressed in an immaculate white robe. His sky-blue aura was pure, but strangely... still. Almost frozen. His eyes were cold.
"Five today? From the Barons' wasteland again?" he asked with a barely concealed weariness, addressing the lead guard. His gaze swept over the children, evaluating them, and then it stopped on Andrii. His eyes widened slightly. "Wait. An elf? Where did you find one in that swamp?"
"Stumbled on him near the bog, Father," the guard grunted, shifting his weight. "Wasn't with anyone. Just... there. Our lucky day, I guess."
The priest approached Andrii. "Interesting. Let's see what you can do."
He nodded to an acolyte, who brought out a wooden box. Inside, resting on red velvet, were thin, silver-gold collars etched with runes.
"These are protective charms, children. A gift from the Church," the priest announced, his voice smooth as silk. "They will bring you peace."
The other children, trusting his gentle tone, didn't cry as the cold metal was clasped around their necks. When the collar clicked shut around his neck, a primal fear, borrowed from a hundred fantasy stories, clenched his gut. An obedience collar. The thought was a cold certainty, even without proof.
"And now, a small test to see how we can best help you," the priest smiled. His aura seemed to grow colder, and a small ball of ice, the size of a marble, formed in his palm. "The instruction is simple: defend yourself."
He flicked the ice pellet at the first human child. The boy raised a hand, and a trembling white shield flickered into existence before him.
"Good. Very good."
The test continued. The cat-folk children summoned fleeting barriers. Even the second human girl managed a weak, translucent wall.
Then, the priest turned to Andrii.
He tossed the ice ball. It flew towards Andrii's stomach.
He decided to do nothing. A test. Not for the priest, but for himself. He braced his core, ready for the impact.
But just as the pellet was about to hit, his body moved on its own.
It wasn't a conscious dodge. It wasn't a reflex. His legs shifted, his torso twisted, and the ice ball zipped past him, shattering against the wall behind. It was a bizarre, unnatural movement, as if a puppeteer had pulled his strings. He stared at his own hands, bewildered.
The priest's eyebrows furrowed. The initial curiosity in his eyes was quickly replaced by a shadow of annoyance.
"Odd," he murmured, his voice losing its silken edge. "No mana signature. Is it broken?"
He formed another, larger ice ball, its surface crackling with frost. "Again."
Andrii tried to force his body to stay still, to fight the invisible puppeteer. But the result was the same. A split-second before impact, his body would execute a clumsy but effective dodge, moving with a will that was not his own.
"Stop squirming like a worm!" the priest snapped, his benevolent mask beginning to crack. He raised his hand, his voice sharp with command. "Shield!"
The word was a direct order aimed at the collar. Andrii's body obeyed instantly. But with no mana to form a magical barrier, it did the only thing it could.
His small arms snapped up in front of his face, crossing in a crude, physical attempt to block the incoming projectile.
The ice pellet struck his forearm with a sharp crack. Pain, cold and immediate, shot up his arm. He cried out, stumbling back.
The priest stared, his face a mask of disbelief that quickly curdled into disgust. This wasn't just a failure; it was an insult. A mockery. The elven child was literally using its limbs as a "shield."
"You dare mock me?" he hissed, his frustration boiling over into cold fury. He began to throw the ice pellets faster, with more force, his movements sharp and vicious.
"Shield!" he commanded with each throw, his voice rising. "Shield! Shield! Shield!"
Each command was a lash that forced Andrii's battered arms up again and again. Each ice ball was a physical punctuation, striking his hands, his shoulders, his chest. He stumbled and fell, trying to curl into a ball, but the collar forced his limbs into pathetic, useless blocking motions.
Each impact left a stinging, blooming bruise. He wasn't being punished for disobedience. He was being broken by a frustrated master because the tool was not executing the command, how he expected.
The priest suddenly stopped. The rage on his face vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating thought. He scanned Andrii's small, trembling body curled up on the ground. The idea came instantly.
"Enough," he hissed, wiping imaginary dust from his sleeve. He turned to the guard, his voice calm again, but now laced with steel. "This one is… defective. But the bloodline is pure, and he's presentable enough. Take him to the market. We can at least make a few coins from this misunderstanding."
The priest knelt, his movements precise and devoid of any warmth. He retrieved a small, smooth stone etched with a single, complex rune from a fold in his robe.
"We wouldn't want to sell damaged goods with company equipment still attached, would we?" he murmured, more to himself than to the guard.
He pressed the stone against the collar. A faint trickle of his crystalline blue mana flowed into the rune. With a soft click, the metal band sprang open. The priest removed it from Andrii's neck, leaving a cold, empty feeling in its place. He tossed the collar to the guard.
"See that this is returned to the armory."
With a grunt, the guard grabbed Andrii and tossed him over his shoulder, carrying him like a lifeless bundle, and started dragging him away. The pain from every bruise merged into a single, dull ache. He watched as the priest approached the other four children. Their frightened faces lit up with hope.
"As for you, children, you will come with me. A new, bright future awaits you," the priest declared, his virtuous mask sliding perfectly back into place.
The talented ones were led deeper into the monastery. But Andrii, the sole reject, was dragged in the opposite direction, down a dark, foul-smelling corridor that led somewhere underground.
They walked for a long time through damp, stone tunnels lit by sparse, crackling torches. Finally, the guard stopped at a heavy iron door, from behind which muffled voices could be heard. He knocked a rhythmic signal. The door was opened by another guard, even larger and grimmer.
"New merchandise from Father Martinus," Andrii's guard said, handing him over to the new escort.
"You barely made it," the other one growled. "The auction is almost over. Bring him, quickly."
The new guard grabbed Andrii just as unceremoniously and pulled him along, through a short hallway that ended behind a heavy velvet curtain.
They were backstage of a small podium. Andrii could hear the auctioneer's voice and see a dimly lit room filled with strange, somber figures in expensive robes.
"And now, gentlemen, the final lot of the evening!" the auctioneer's voice boomed. "An exclusive! Just arrived! A true elf!"
The guard shoved him through the curtain and onto the podium, into the blinding light of a magical lantern.
"Lot number six. An elf, male, approximately four years of age. Flawless appearance: skin as white as the first snow, hair of a rare ashen color. Blue eyes. Starting price—twenty silver eagles."
A dismissive silence filled the room.
"Twenty," a portly merchant called out lazily.
"Thirty-five," another sharp voice countered.
"Forty," a calm, clear voice stated from the shadows. It was the steward in gray.
The silence became final. Forty silver. Too much for simple servitude, too little for anything of true value. No one dared to challenge the bid.
"Forty, once... Sold! To the gentleman in gray!" the auctioneer slammed his gavel.
The guard pulled Andrii off the podium and roughly dragged him back behind the velvet curtain. The steward was already waiting for him in the dimly lit corridor.
"The merchandise is damaged," he stated coldly, his gaze fixed on the bruises blooming on Andrii's arms. It wasn't a question. It was a fact being entered into a ledger.
The auctioneer, who had followed them, swallowed nervously. "A small discount on the next batch, Steward?"
The steward ignored him. He retrieved an elegant collar of dark metal, inlaid with a single rune, from an inside pocket. He silently and clinically fastened it around Andrii's neck. The cold metal felt alien against his skin.
Andrii looked up, the unspoken question "What is this?" on his lips. But he was met only with the steward's indifferent, cold stare. There was no answer.
The man simply turned and, gripping Andrii firmly by the shoulder, led him toward the exit.
They stepped out into the night street where a closed, black carriage without a crest was waiting. The steward lifted Andrii inside, then took the seat opposite him. The door shut, cutting him off from the sounds of the city.
Inside, darkness and silence reigned, broken only by the creak of wheels on cobblestone. Andrii sat on the velvet seat, staring at the impassive silhouette across from him. He was trapped. In a new cage, this one rushing into the unknown. He could feel the cold weight of the collar on his neck—a silent promise of pain and submission.
The carriage lurched and began to move, carrying him further away from his past and deeper into an uncertain future.