He doesn't hit.
He doesn't yell.
He doesn't grab her by the hair for making a mistake or kick her for no reason.
At first, she thought it was some absurd dream.
The boy who called himself her new master, Lucas Argent.
While living under him, Piel was spending the safest days since becoming a slave.
Which... terrified her even more.
Because Piel knew kindness hurt more than betrayal.
The other slaves in the prison had been the same.
At first, they treat you well.
They talk to you, give you a taste of freedom, don't touch your body, feed you scraps.
Then one day, it flips.
"You let your guard down."
That one phrase, and it was all over.
So no matter how much Lucas smiled now, no matter how gently he spoke, no matter how much he said "It's not your fault"—
Piel thought she must never believe it.
The moment she believed, she'd die.
The moment she hoped, she'd shatter.
The moment she yearned for warmth... she'd be torn apart.
So Piel swallowed her gratitude, her emotions, her desires, practicing only how to submit like a proper slave.
That was how to survive.
Today was the same.
Her master smiled.
As if it was truly fine, as if there was nothing to worry about, he offered her—a slave—a seat at the table, at the same level as him.
That act of kindness chilled her blood.
A slave eating with the master?
Impossible.
Eating at eye level with a master like the heavens? That was a trap.
All slaves knew it.
Words that lifted you up were bait to drop you from higher.
Beastkin knew it best of all.
Creatures not even treated as people in some regions.
Offering a seat next to one of those? Ridiculous.
So Piel had planned for today too.
Pretend to touch the chair since it was an order, then drop straight to the floor, kneel, bow her head, shrink her body as small as possible, and beg forgiveness as fast as she could.
'That way, he won't kill me.'
The survival equation her body remembered.
So... she sat.
But that was a mistake.
Tremble tremble tremble tremble tremble—
The moment the hard chair surface brushed her thighs, reality shattered.
No time to even inhale; the underground prison stench stabbed her nose.
The mingled rot of mold and blood, the smell only sniffed right before death.
The sound of dried blood flaking off iron bars scraped her ears.
Dragging chains, snapping shoulder bones, the wet rip of tearing flesh.
All memories revived at once.
Back when her mother vanished, leaving Piel as the only beastkin slave left.
"Beastkin can't act like humans."
"The moment you sit in a chair, I'll shatter your legs."
"Let's see if you qualify for a person's seat... with your body."
Just like that moment, the fox girl's body screamed before her mind could react.
A nauseating heat surged from stomach to throat, ripping upward.
Before she could breathe, hot, bitter, sour liquid exploded from her mouth.
It ran down her chin, her hands, not to the floor but straight onto her master's clothes.
Again, again.
Even after one vomit, her body wouldn't stop.
Even with nothing left, her muscles convulsed, squeezing out more.
She felt the scraping pain inside her esophagus but couldn't halt it.
Her own vomit clung to her nostrils; screams and retching echoed in her ears.
She couldn't tell if it was her voice.
Her fingertips froze.
Not her heart, but all her blood draining away.
Then a kick flew; her breath cut off at her jaw.
Crash!
Thoughts collapsed faster than her body hitting the floor.
It hurts. Hurts. Hurts.
And the immediate terror that followed.
Am I dying?
Right now?
No. No no no no no I don't want to die!!
Her master was a young master of the noble Argent Family.
Noble.
The kind her mother always said to never catch the eye of.
One word from them, and people knelt; one command decided life or death.
And now, she'd vomited on him.
Not strange if she died.
No, she deserved death.
In a way, the moment she'd secretly wished for.
But strangely, when it arrived... Piel didn't want to die.
After her mother died, she'd thought of following her so many times, believed death would bring peace.
'I want to live...!'
That scream echoed in her mind.
Even dragged by her hair, only one thought looped in Piel's brain.
Please.
Spare me.
I want to live.
She knew from experience: after crying this much, came the next phase.
Now her master would drop the mask.
Wipe away the kind face, reveal the cruel truth, start the torture with "How dare you vomit on your master."
So with her face frozen in terror, Piel awaited the most familiar words.
'Die.'
Those words.
One phrase, and it ended.
And her master spoke.
"You're family now."
Fa... mily?
Her breath caught sharper than fear of death.
Slaves had no family. Those worth calling family... were all gone.
She'd believed she'd never hear that word again.
Yet here it fell from lips inches away, a word that should never return.
Her chest burned like fire touched deep inside.
One more breath, and something would burst.
Burst, and it was over.
So she desperately suppressed it.
Pushed the unknown emotion—sorrow? Hope? Expectation?—deep into her throat.
But the more she held it, the more the long-rotted darkness inside... slowly turned warm.
And the place her master took her wasn't a beast-washing livestock pen or an icy well.
A bathroom with steam rising waist-high.
One of the luxuries in this world reserved for nobles.
There, Lucas didn't strip her rags and toss them aside.
No, he tore them and threw them to the floor.
So she'd never wear them again, never return to her old life.
And—
No torture, no orders, no mockery.
Sweet shampoo enveloped her hair, warm water soaked her shoulders, careful hands wiped the vomit stains.
As if, for this moment, Piel was the master and Lucas her servant.
"..."
Piel said nothing.
No, she couldn't.
If she opened her mouth, sobs would escape. Slaves couldn't cry.
Never lose the smile, no matter the situation.
The moment expression crumbled, punishment came.
So she clenched her teeth and endured.
Digging nails into her jaw to stop her lips from trembling.
But the warm water brushing her skin felt too much like her mother's embrace.
With the flowing water, something long-held back poured out.
"Hic... hic...!"
Sobs leaked.
She had to stop. She could die. She knew.
Yet tears wouldn't stop—not from the sensation of washing for the first time, but from feeling alive for the first time.
Later, after washing until her eyes were bloodshot and stepping out.
Piel kept her head down, swallowing tears, fearing discovery meant punishment.
Then what her master offered wasn't chains, a collar, or a switch.
Clean clothes.
"Put them on. That's an order."
Her bandaged hand, slightly bloodied, entered her view.
A bold gesture showing it off, proof he'd really pricked his own hand.
No backtalk possible.
Piel dressed immediately.
They were... unbelievably clean.
A white apron, skirt hem pressed smooth as fresh bandages.
At the bottom, the Argent crest embroidered in silver thread.
Clothes allowed only to slaves who served masters directly.
Even before slavery, she'd never worn anything so fine.
Her eyes gleamed—just for a moment, truly a moment.
But no time to savor it.
"Follow me."
Expressionless voice.
Steps betraying no emotion.
Each shoe click in the hall louder than Piel's heartbeat.
And they arrived at the annex basement.
The door opened, metal stench slapping her face.
Chill froze her spine faster than expected.
Candlelight revealed an interior far more sophisticated and perfect than the dungeon where Piel had once been tortured.
Machines, restraints, gears, red-hot tongs, iron needles... one glance showed its purpose.
'So... this is how it ends.'
The bath's warmth, shampoo's scent, gentle touches.
All illusions.
The family feeling? Just fooling herself.
In the end, she was a slave.
Family or whatever, it always came to this.
Still—from the bath, she'd felt it.
This master, Lucas, had a bit of warmth.
But nobles had their tastes; duty was duty.
So seeing him bring a massive bear trap, Piel decided to accept it all.
'Ah, that's it...'
The tool from training days, deliberately stepped on to crush her ankle.
The trainers had said:
"Wail in maximum agony; that's what masters love."
Those words were command and law.
So Piel was grateful.
For the brief 'family' pretense in the bath, for ending at torture instead of death—that mercy.
And accepting it was truly over, she walked toward the trap with emotions fully shut off.
But that instant.
Crunch!
Metal exploding.
The torture tool under her feet shattered before her eyes.
Lucas held an iron club.
Next was even faster.
The knee-crusher he fetched next... crunch!
The nail-remover after... smash!
Spine fixator, no-standing platform—tools that had torn Piel's body, taught her screams, shattered her humanity—smashed one by one, piling like a mountain.
Not a basement, an execution ground.
The instruments screamed.
And when the club finally crushed the last and was tossed aside.
Lucas wiped sweat roughly and looked at Piel.
His face neither cruel nor kind.
Just one emotion.
Resolute.
"With that, I've smashed a bit of the world you endured."
Piel's heart stopped for a moment.
Her master's next words arrived slowly.
"From now on, run, cry, rage—whatever. But don't... hide any of it."
And very lightly, too lightly.
"I can handle that much."
Those words cut deeper than torture.
Her breath choked.
Deep in her chest, like in the bath but... bigger, it cracked open.
Don't believe. Don't fall for it.
That was the prime rule for slave survival.
But—
For the first time, Piel broke the rule.
Because, for the first time ever outside family, someone she wanted to believe in appeared.