Chapter 54: The Imperial Slave Value System
...Oliver woke as if yanked from the depths of the nightmare, as his body jerked upright. His breath ca in sharp, shallow gasps, and an agonizing tightness seized his chest. He clutched it, eyes wide.
He needed to cough. The blood was there: thick, tallic, hot, but it wouldn't co out.
It churned inside his lungs like molten iron, and the pain blood in sharp spikes, but his body refused to let it escape.
His Demon bloodline refused to bleed.
It would not allow even a drop to be wasted. Not for relief. Not even for air.
Oliver hated it.
He hated that monstrous part of himself that turned his own blood into a prison. It took ti—too long—for his breathing to stabilize. Sweat ran from his body in cold, heavy beads, trailing down like droplets of rain on steel.
The echoes of the night trial still clung to him. It was because he had taken too many blows, as usual, the pain bled into the waking world.
The One Inch punch had been more effective than he thought it would be.
After seeing that he was not able to learn it again and again, that 'cursed' bloodline will had increased the difficulty.
The skull had not been joking when it said that Oliver had been at the first and easiest level of the technique.
At the peak of the one inch punch, it could even destroy a mountain.
Was it the kind of fighting Skill Oliver was expecting?
Nope.
But was it effective?
Very much so. Now, all he had to do was morise the technique. And that speed... the monk definitely used a movent technique there.
Pairing the one inch punch with a movent technique was a good choice.
After the pain from the continuous hits had settled, he was finally able to see the fighting Skill in his head, a visual representation, and a bit of how it worked.
The mock would move fast to close the distance between them, and then just when his gingers touched Oliver’s chest, it woukd fold with incredible power, becoming a punch.
"Interesting..." he muttered to himself. The Bloodline will had been telling the truth. The hits did work.
But there was much more to the fighting Skill than that.
When Oliver finally opened his eyes fully, the first thing he noticed was the floor beneath him.
Wood. Not the rusted tal bars of his previous cage. This… this was different.
Slower now, he rose to his feet, muscles trembling from fatigue. His head lifted, scanning his surroundings. The space was vast—long and high like a warehouse, but dimly lit by sputtering, oil-fed lamps, not the common aether lamps.
At the peak were glasses that lined thr entire room.
The air slled of bruises and blood, of rot and silence.
Slaves.
Dozens of them.
Cramd together. So stood, many slumped. There were injuries everywhere—bandaged stumps, cracked skin, dried streaks of blood. Yet more haunting than the wounds were the faces that were missing.
The trial to crawl to the Outer wall had claid many.
This much was expected. Unlike what many would expect, they were still many children around his age or even younger that made it to the trial end.
Then again, this trial had been a mixture of Extre luck, so skill, and even more luck.
Oliver’s eyes darted across the room, searching. Relief hit him sharp as lightning—the Broken Man was alive, slumped against a post. Others from his kingdom had made it too. Even his step brother, Leston had made it. The last ti Oliver saw him had been during the dinner.
Apparently he too had a bit of luck. But in all honesty, Oliver wouldn't have minded if he had t his end at the hands of the trial.
Oliver looked around, they were more people—creatures.
They had been lumped up together with them. From here hence forth, their training would be together.
So Centaurs leaned together in a huddle, their arms locked in grief. If Oliver was not mistaking, this was a tradition of theres. They were mourning those that fell on the way.
He could still see the bruises on their horse legs.
The task had been to crawl to this place.
It had been far more dangerous for their kind. Half horse — half human did give them the advantage of incredible strength, but with bad horse legs their fate in death was practically sealed.
Demi humans like them carried both the advantage and disadvantage of the species that they shared relationship with.
Horses with bad legs were dood. They would not be able to move. However, their legs added in the pumping of blood around their body, just as much as their hearts. That was why they ran a lot.
With a lack of enough pumping of blood, they would start to have other issues, so of them, digestive in nature.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Oliver was once a prince. This much was basic knowledge he had to learn. When a horse had a bad leg, it was always easier and cheaper to put the horse down, and permanently out if it's misery.
While Centaurs had two hearts, one in the upper human half, and another in the lower horse half—and one could assu that their nature should give them a upper hand, the opposite was the truth.
Their bodies would put too much load on the heart in the human half, and dying of a heart attack would be possible in at most a week.
Right now, they were mourning their dead comrades, just as much as they were preparing to die.
Their slave masters had a solution to this, but the Centaurs would have to display loyalty akin to a dog licking it's master's dirty feet.
All this was a part of the training.
Oliver's eyes turned to others. They were the Dark Elves, their ears drooping and eyes dull. They shared quiet glances that spoke of their sha.
Oliver rembered that in his previous life, when he had followed the road to reach the outer wall, so Dark elves had intensionally killed themselves. It was as a result of their pride.
Why should they crawl?
Elves,even the minority dark Elves had deep pride. So say that it was the true source of their power, and not just Aether.
Right now, these ones felt nothing other than sha. Unlike their other comrades, they had not been so bold as to just take their own lives.
The sha they felt touched their hearts too deep.
Oliver sighed at this. The breaking had already began.
The Vaelcrest were indeed very terrifying people, with a grasp of psychology that many had never seen.
Oliver turned to the Winged folk. These ones had their feathers clipped, their wings were bound with iron clasps. For them, surviving was fundantal.
They had no pride like the dark Elves, and no bold culture like the Centaurs.
They lived and died easily on their ho mountain tops. As such, their only goal was to survive.
Crawl to the outer wall like dogs, and survive?
Hell yeah!
They did it without hesitation. They would do anything as long as they could survive.
While one would think that this should get them favourable marks with the Vaelcrests, the opposite was the truth.
The reason was because the winged people were loyal to their own survival. The Vaelcrest wanted them to be loyal to only the Somara Empire’s Will.
A special kind of training awaited them.
In the farthest corner, Reptilians sat in isolation—untouched, untrusted.
No one went near them.
Not after what happened at the shores. They were probably the most dangerous group amongst all.
These ones were loyal to their hunger. Even now, many looked at the other slaves and licked their mouths continually.
This would have to be changed. And if the Reptilians were too stubborn, ending up at the bottom of a cauldron pot would be their fate.
Just then Oliver noticed sothing else. Sothing...uniform.
Their clothes. All of them. Sackcloth. One shade—dull, brown, lifeless. This was a fabric chosen not for comfort, but to strip away identity. No class. No race. Just slaves.
His eyes dropped to himself. He, too, had been changed.
The Blood and gri were gone. He was clean.
But he did not rember changing his clothes. And he doubted the Vaelcrest would touch him to clean him up.
A voice interrupted him.
“You were knocked out like a snake after its al. After the others ca back, we were giving two hours to clean up and rest. I… took the liberty to clean you up and help you change.” He spoke with so much just, that one might think he actually did Oliver a favor.
Oliver turned his head.
Garron.
The ever-grinning, ever-hungry-eyed man stood nearby with his usual smirk.
Oliver’s gaze narrowed. Clean him up? That was a lie. Garron wasn’t a Samaritan. He was a scavenger.
The only reason he helped was likely to search for anything of value—perhaps even for the red rag Oliver had hidden away.
That shard from the forest. Sothing he couldn't let go.
Too bad for Garron—it was stored in the pouch inventory, far out of reach.
It was a good thing Oliver did that before he slept off into the night trial.
Oliver returned Garron’s grin with a polite smile laced in venom.
“Thank you.”
But his a realization suddenly dawned on him. His heart sank. 'Shit!'
He’d been cleaned.
That ant...
His hair.
Panic twisted his insides. His blood-dyed hair—his attempt to hide its pristine white—was gone. He didn't need a mirror to know. Garron had scrubbed it clean.
Before they began the first trial, Oliver had dyed it in the blood of Roderick’s unfortunate victim at the shore.
Roderick had made his life a living hell because of it in his previous life.
Before Oliver could sink deeper into dread, a sound echoed in his mind.
It was the Slave Sigil.
[Alert: New Daily Task]
[Openly recite the Slave Anthem 1000 tis daily. Failure will result in punishnt by the Box of Blessings.
[The Imperial Slave Value System]
1. Somaran Empire:
> The Somaran Empire cos first—always, without question, without hesitation. My breath, my bones, my blood belong to the Crown Eternal.
2. Slave Services:
> I pledge myself to the holy tradition of worship through obedience. I do not question. I do not falter. I serve the Slave Master as law, voice, and god.
3. The Slave System:
> We are proud to be Slaves—unworthy maggots given aning through pain. Our worth is written in our scars and proven in our blood. We are the shadow arms of the Somara Empire, seen only when summoned.
4. Discipline:
> Discipline is the spine of servitude. I will not speak without command. I will not think without permission. I will not rest until permission is given. Pain is not punishnt. It is Love
5. Supervision:
> I am watched always. My body is not mine. My thoughts are not private. Eyes of the Vaelcrest burn through all disobedience. In sha, I am seen. In silence, I am judged.
6. Bloodline:
> My blood is worthless alone. Only through the branding of the Vaelcrest does it gain purpose. I am property, born to kneel, and made clean through the holy mark of pain.
7. Truth:
> I shall follow the harder right of my Slave Master, rather than the easier wrong of my own will. His cruelty is truth. His words are law. My doubt is treason.
8. Death:
> Death is second to pleasing my masters. If I die unworthy, may my soul be bound in chains until reborn in service. If I live in disobedience, I do not deserve to live at all.
---
Bonus: Closing Oath (recited before missions)
> “I am the chain. I am the silence. I am the blade of the Empire.
May my pain honor Somara.
May my blood glorify Vaelcrest.
May my death be useful.”]
The words burned. Not just on his Slave sigil, but across every slave’s.
A low, dreadful silence settled—broken by the sudden slam of doors.
Roderick strode in, bootsteps loud against the floor. His presence struck like a hamr. Every slave snapped to attention, flinching like hunted dogs.
Except Oliver, who had quickly moved, and ducked behind the broad fra of a Centaur. His instincts scread at him to hide his hair.
If he rembered correctly,and he did, Roderick had punished him continually, until he dyed it black.
This ti around, he had co more prepared. In the forest, he had actually taken so herbs that a lasting dying effect.
But he had not gotten the opportunity to use it just yet.
He would dye his hair black, the first chance he got.
Roderick’s cold gaze swept the room.
This teenager that was in charge of their training. He looked at them and he saw the fear, the hate.
"Good." He muttered.
Soon, it would beco loyalty.
His voice echoed like thunder in a tomb.
“You’ve all received your next task. Refuse to obey, and you’ll be… blessed.”
He turned. A coffin-like construct rolled in on silent wheels, guided by an unseen force.
It was tall, black, and etched with the image of a crying woman—tears of iron carved down her cheeks. Roderick placed his hand lovingly on the device.
“This… is the Box of Blessings.”
Oliver’s stomach twisted into knots.
He knew this box.
It was a cage. But more of a coffin.
It was a machine of pain disguised as virtue. Inside, thorns lined every wall. Once sealed within, needles pierced deep into flesh, injecting raw, burning Aether—this was not to heal, but to infla the nerves, to stimulate every single pain receptor in the body.
Oliver rembered that it made him feel like his veins were being torn apart, one thread at a ti.
Slowly. Lovingly.
Just then, one of the slaves, a Centaur. From the way his eyes moved, he had probably read through the Imperial Slave Value System.
He struggled through his pain and wounded legs to stand to his feet.
He looked at Roderick in the eyes. "NO!"
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