Chapter 68
Written by Bayzo Albion
"Then get dressed, my witch. Time to move."
I took her hand (warm, slender fingers curling possessively into mine) and teleported us straight to the prisoners' camp.
We materialized in a swirl of shadow and frost-kissed air.
The effect was immediate.
The atmosphere thickened like syrup. Every head snapped toward us. Eyes widened, faces drained of blood. Men who had been idly poking at the dirt with their pickaxes suddenly scattered like startled roaches. Axes bit into timber with frantic desperation; trash piles grew as if by sorcery. The entire camp erupted into a parody of industry.
I frowned. "I told you to rest…"
The Baroness tilted her head, voice lazy but edged with frost. "So what am I supposed to do with them?"
The moment her voice floated across the clearing (low, velvety, and unmistakably dangerous), the prisoners redoubled their efforts. They moved like men who'd just realized Death herself had come to inspect their work.
I watched in silence.
Their terror was almost beautiful. Trees toppled with pathetic slowness, each swing weak, clumsy, drenched in sweat and panic. I could have felled a dozen trunks in the time it took them to manage one.
And yet… fear is the oldest motivator known to man. It turns cowards into machines, if you know how to pull the lever.
After ten excruciating minutes, one of them (red-faced, trembling, soaked through) finally brought a tree crashing down. Dust plumed. The scent of fresh sap and crushed pine needles flooded the air. Without pausing to breathe, he fell to his knees and started clawing at the roots like a man possessed.
I couldn't help the low chuckle that escaped me. "There are three things you can watch forever: fire burning, water flowing… and someone else working their ass off."
The Baroness shot me a withering sidelong glance. "You dragged me across half the territory just so I could scare your slaves straight?"
"Not at all," I turned to her, softening my voice. "I didn't plan that part. But thank you for standing beside me anyway… my dear princess."
Her lips twisted into a sardonic half-smile, eyes glittering with venomous amusement. She leaned in, voice a silken whisper: "Would you like me to fuck them senseless instead?"
"No," I said instantly, stepping closer, all humor gone. "Never. You're mine. Only mine. No other man touches you. I'm completely serious."
For a heartbeat she studied me, testing for cracks in the claim. Then she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, the corner of her mouth quirking in something that might have been approval.
"So tell me what I'm actually here for."
"Nothing yet. Just stay close."
I turned back to the prisoners and raised my voice. "Second assembly! Drop tools. Line up."
They obeyed with comical speed. No dragging feet, no muttered complaints; just instant, military precision. Some even squared their shoulders like soldiers awaiting inspection.
I paced the line slowly, letting the silence stretch. "Look at you. One glimpse of an audience and suddenly you're model citizens. Maybe that's all you ever needed (someone to watch)."
I didn't intend to become their jailer. Breaking people wasn't the goal.
I glanced at the Baroness. She stood a little apart, arms loosely folded, eyes gleaming with predatory curiosity, as if waiting to see whether I'd bare fangs or offer a hand.
"You want to drink?" I asked the group, meeting each man's gaze. "You want to smoke?"
"No, Your Majesty!" one shouted, standing ramrod straight. "We only wish to labor tirelessly for your glory!"
The others nodded with frantic enthusiasm.
I narrowed my eyes. "Don't lie to me. Honest answers only."
A heartbeat of hesitation, then a desperate chorus: "Yes! God, yes!"
"How badly?" I pressed.
"We dream about it day and night!" the same loud one cried, eyes shining with feverish sincerity.
I snorted. "No need for theatrics. Give me a number. One to ten."
I walked the line again, stopping in front of each man.
Ten.
Ten.
Ten.
Every single one.
By the time I finished, I was grinning outright. "Perfect. Addicts are so much easier to manage."
I beckoned the Baroness and led her far enough away that the prisoners thought we were out of earshot. They immediately started whispering like conspirators.
"Is there a way to bind rewards directly to output?" I asked under my breath. "One cigarette per tree felled. Five trees (one hundred grams of vodka). Something airtight. No cheating. Magic can do that, right?"
She didn't even blink. "Contract. Simple."
I laughed softly. "And here I was overcomplicating it."
She rolled her eyes. "You teleported me across the wilderness for that?"
"But you'll help me anyway, won't you?" I murmured, stepping close enough to smell the faint night-blooming flowers on her skin.
She exhaled through her nose, theatrical and long-suffering, then gave a curt nod. "Fine. I'll be the intermediary. It's tedious, but not difficult."
She emphasized the word slaves again, testing.
We returned to the group and began the ritual.
It was far more painstaking than I expected. Every clause had to be razor-sharp; every loophole anticipated. The magical script floated in the air between us (shimmering silver runes twisting into an ever-growing scroll that pulsed like living starlight). Reality itself seemed to lean in, listening.
The Baroness stood at my side, voice cool and precise as she wove the binding. Whenever I missed something, she corrected it with a flick of her fingers, amending the glowing text mid-air.
At last the contract hung complete (iridescent, unbreakable, humming with power).
"Listen up," I announced. "From this moment forward: one tree felled equals one magical cigarette or its equivalent in vodka. The contract sees everything. It counts every swing, every tree, every lie. Cheat, and it punishes. Work honestly, and you get paid instantly. Understood?"
A ragged cheer went up (half exhaustion, half wild hope).
"Good," I said. "But that's enough for today. Go rest."
One of them blurted, "Already?"
"Yes. Sleep. Tomorrow we start for real."
I produced a lacquered box from thin air and opened it. Inside lay twenty-two shimmering cigarettes that smelled faintly of clove and starlight, and a crystal flask of vodka that swirled with captured galaxies.
Their eyes went round as saucers. Jaws dropped. A few men actually clasped their hands in reverence, as if I'd handed down divine relics.
They accepted the gifts with shaking fingers and stumbled off to their shelters, buzzing with giddy disbelief.
I watched them disappear into the dusk, silhouettes swallowed by firelight and long shadows.
The contract was ironclad. They couldn't hoard, couldn't shortchange one another, couldn't fake a single tree. Magic itself was their overseer now (silent, impartial, merciless).
For the first time, the sensation that washed over me wasn't mere control.
It was power. Clean, intoxicating, and utterly delicious.
The Baroness folded her arms, eyeing me suspiciously. "Why let them go early?"
"Because they're exhausted," I answered calmly.
"You shouldn't coddle criminals."
"I'm not coddling them." I turned to her, letting her see the calculation in my eyes. "There's more cruelty in calculated kindness than in a whip. Every investment needs patience… and an understanding of what people truly crave."
I stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper against her ear. "Am I wrong, my Forest Queen?"
Her head snapped around, scanning the treeline as if expecting some ancient spirit to step from the shadows.
She cleared her throat, one elegant brow arched. "Care to explain who you're flirting with now?"
"I'm certain the real Forest Queen is watching," I said, gaze drifting into the darkening woods. "Maybe listening. After all… we're business partners."
I smiled faintly.
These men had already seen hell. Give them the faintest taste of paradise (regular meals, a place to sleep, a shred of dignity), and they would chain themselves to this world with their own hands.
The Baroness scoffed. "You're wasting resources on trash."
"Resources replenish," I replied softly. "Loyalty doesn't. These criminals will become workers. Workers will become soldiers. And one day (if they earn it) citizens."
She shook her head, silver hair catching the last rays of sunset. "You're either noble or insane."
"Both can be true." I met her stare without flinching. "You don't have to understand my path. Just walk it beside me."
She huffed, rolling her eyes so dramatically I almost laughed. But beneath the performance, something shifted in her expression (an unwilling flicker of respect, grudging and sharp).
It wasn't agreement.
It was concession.
And for now, that was more than enough.
In paradise, everything comes to me effortlessly—strength, confidence, even the courage to act without hesitation. And sometimes I can't help but wonder: what if I had been like this in the real world? What kind of life would I have carved out for myself?
Would I have fought harder, spoken louder, stood my ground instead of shrinking back?
Would everything have turned out differently… or was I always destined to be the man who only finds his true self in another world?
Here's a clear, polished English version with the same meaning and emotional weight:
I died only because I had already killed myself with my own thoughts. Survival demanded it. In the real world, you weren't supposed to stand out—you were supposed to fade into the crowd. And so I did.