Second Choice Noble Son: Apparently I’m Stronger Than the Summoned Heroes Chapter 88 : Chains in the Field

Selene POV

The sun bore down on the Valemont land, but Selene barely felt its warmth. Her sharp eyes were fixed on the line of slaves, each dragging their feet as they moved through the rows of crops.

A beastkin man tried to lift a hoe, arms trembling so violently that it slipped from his hands. The rchant’s whip cracked the air—not on flesh this ti, but close enough to make the man flinch and force him to pick it up again.

Selene’s jaw tightened. Pathetic… they can’t even hold a tool properly.

But the thought didn’t co from cruelty. It ca from sothing worse—recognition.

When the elf woman attempted a simple aqua ball to water the saplings, Selene almost intervened. The spell was weak, sputtering, barely a droplet. Yet the effort was enough to send the woman staggering to her knees, clutching her chest. The rchant barked, “Up! Tools don’t rest until the sun does!”

Selene’s hand twitched. She could silence him with one flick of her finger. Turn his arrogance to ash.

But then she looked at the elf woman’s eyes.

Empty. Hollow. The sa eyes I had when they called “weapon.”

mories clawed back—standing in the academy courtyard as tutors ordered her to cast again, again, again, until blood dripped from her nose. Her parents’ screams twisted into monsters in her mind. “Just a tool,” the council whispered then. “She doesn’t need love. She only needs results.”

Selene pressed a hand against her stomach, feeling the faint swell of the child within. I won’t let Rooga… or any of them… beco that.

By dusk, when the rchant finally ca to collect them, the slaves shuffled like husks. Chains rattled as they were loaded back into the wagon. No thanks. No words. Just obedience.

Selene stood by the doorway, her expression calm as stone. Only Lyra, watching from the shadows with Riaz in her arms, noticed the faint shimr at the corner of her mistress’s eye.

Darius POV

The clang of tools echoed faintly across the fields as Darius pushed his plow through rich, dark soil. The air slled of growth—fresh, green, alive. The kind of land any farr would kill for. Yet his hands felt heavy on the handle.

Because just down the rows, he could hear them. The strained breaths. The hoarse coughs. The sound of chains rattling whenever one of the slaves stumbled.

Darius tried to focus on his own work, but his gaze kept drifting. A beastkin boy bent double beneath the weight of a basket he had no strength to carry. A lizardman scowled as he scraped earth with bleeding hands, the hoe too warped for his scaled fingers to grip. Even the elf woman—with only one arm—kept moving, silent, her pale hair falling across her disfigured face as though she wished to vanish.

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It twisted sothing inside him.

Valemont land never had chains. Not when I held my banner high. Not when my sword defended farrs who could stand tall and free.

He gritted his teeth, rembering the words he used to tell his n: “If they bleed for our fields, they should eat from them first.” Back then, the thought of a slave stepping foot on Valemont soil would have been unthinkable. His household had pride, not profit.

Now here he was, forced to watch n and won—broken shells—drag themselves through the fertile earth his son had miraculously brought back to life.

Every swing of his plow bit into him as much as the soil.

How far have we fallen… that I must allow this just to feed my family?

The curse he once carried burned faintly in mory, replaced now by the strange strength of his cyan core. His body was whole again. But his spirit… no strength could erase the sha of seeing helpless eyes lowered in front of his land.

When the dusk bells rang and the rchant gathered the slaves back into chains, Darius stood still in the middle of his field. His calloused fists tightened on the plow handle until his knuckles turned white.

He whispered to himself, low, bitter:

“Valemont will never use chains. Not while I draw breath.”

Rooga POV

Rooga tossed and turned through the night, the sight of the slaves’ hollow faces clawing at him even in dreams. When the first light crept over the horizon, he slipped quietly from his mat, padding barefoot across the cool floor.

Outside, the morning air clung damp and fresh. The great tree stood tall in the mist, its leaves shimring faintly blue-green, wisps drifting lazily about its roots.

Rooga padded closer. “...Maori?”

A soft yawn answered him, followed by a shuffle of branches. The child goddess, hair tangled like leaves after a storm, peeked from the tree trunk as though she’d just crawled out of bed. Her small arms rubbed her sleepy eyes.

“Rooga…? Why so early? I was dreaming of rivers again…” she mumbled, her voice drowsy.

Rooga looked down, biting his lip. He didn’t know how to say it. His little fists balled up at his sides. “...Can people… live with you? Under the tree?”

Maori blinked once, confused, then tilted her head. “People? You an your family? You already do. You and your mama and papa and little Riaz. Even the grumpy maid.”

“No,” Rooga shook his head quickly. “Not us. The ones… who can’t go ho. The people that wear chains. They don’t laugh. They don’t smile. They don’t even eat much. Can they stay here? With you?”

The goddess’s drowsiness lted away in an instant. She knelt down, serious now, her eyes—green and glowing—catching his.

“Little caretaker… do you know what you’re asking?”

Rooga swallowed. His heart pounded, but he nodded. “If they stay here, maybe… they don’t have to hurt anymore. Maybe they can smile.”

Maori studied him for a long mont. Her small hand reached out, brushing his cheek like a leaf caught in the wind. Then she gave a soft laugh, though it sounded almost sad.

“Humans. Always surprising .” She sat back on the root and tapped it with her heel. The tree humd faintly, resonating with her voice. “The tree doesn’t forbid life, Rooga. If you wish for people to stay, it will shelter them. But…” She leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. “…you must understand. If you bring people here, your secret will beco harder to hide.”

Rooga looked back at the farmhouse, at the faint smoke rising from the chimney, then back at the glowing wisp dancing above Maori’s shoulder. His little brows furrowed.

“I don’t care. I don’t want to see anyone hurt if they can smile instead.”

Maori smirked at that, a sly grin spreading across her face. “You’re more of a monster than your mama ever feared. But not the kind who destroys. The kind who makes gods nervous.”