The concept of owning a slave is not entirely the same as in my old world. In here, magic is used to ensure that they cannot run away, performed by the merchant responsible for them.

Each slave has a sigil, a distinctive symbol that is personalized to the individual receiving it. In my case, At the center, there's a black arrow pointing upward, being held back by chains of iron.

Strauss raised an eyebrow when the ritual was finished, and that depiction was the product.

With a magical imprint, you’re practically forbidden to leave from your confines, or have a right to freedom other than that which your owner allows.

My eyes narrow towards the man in front of me, leading me by the leash towards his estate.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t ways to attain liberty.

The sigil can’t control your thoughts, nor is it absolute.

To fuel the contract and keep it from breaking apart, the master must continually infuse it with magical energy, meaning that his army of slaves must be taking a toll on his energy.

During the Great Korto-Warian war, he was a Captain who commanded a humble force, composed of both his personal slaves and the country’s levies, into battle.

While Robbrecht achieved victory in numerous battles, his forces faced near annihilation during the pivotal Battle of High Hills, where the Warians successfully turned the tables in what would otherwise have been a landslide victory war for the people of Kortoth.

One reason why the Korthothians lost the battle was Robbrecht’s lack of magical energy, causing him to become physically weak and lose his grip on the slaves, who held the left flank of the army, deserted at the first opportunity they had.

In other words, to attain liberty as a slave, you must first exhaust them of all their magical energy.

As I approached the plantation, the very sight of it left me awestruck. It was even more majestic in person.

The very first thing I noticed upon entering the property was the white Villa standing dead center in the plantation, almost as if it was the guardian overseer of all activities going on in its fields.

The architecture of the house, seemingly inspired from the Greco-Roman classical period transcended its way from dimensions and time to serve Robbrecht.

Perched atop the highest point of the roof, a majestic eagle statue reigned supreme, its glare seemed to penetrate the very souls of all who ventured beneath. With wings of shimmering silver outstretched in a grand display of authority, it stood as a symbol of strength and vigilance, a silent guardian over all who crossed its path.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The front lawn of the house was adorned by the most beautiful garden I had ever lay my eyes upon. It was as if nature herself had dipped her brush into a palette of rainbow, creating hues I had never thought possible for a flower to display.

Flowers as dark as the night stood in direct contrast with flowers as light as the skies, with purple and pink flowers, though a little overgrown, stood proudly on either ends of the garden.

The cotton fields throughout everywhere in the plantation stretched out like a sea of delicate white tufts, their softness belying the harsh toil required for their cultivation. Nearby, the tobacco plants stood tall and proud, their leaves a deep, earthy green, promising riches to those who could coax them into yielding their bounty.

Amidst the fields, slaves, white this time, toiled ceaselessly under the scorching sun. Their hands grew weary from harvesting the plants, and carrying it all towards a gathering house, where other slaves prepared them to be sold en masse.

Throughout the fields, One slave in particular stood out from the rest, his head clearly visible over all the cotton.

As we strolled along, our paths converged briefly, and I couldn't help but notice the stark contrast between him and most other slaves, who appeared painfully emaciated and emasculated, while he retained a noticeable degree of flesh on his frame.

Had I been just a few centimeters shorter, our physical stature would have been equal to each other.

our eyes locked in an unspoken connection as we exchanged fleeting glances during our passing.

Finally, we passed over the grand statue of Maximillian Pissingert, the patriarch and the founder of the plantation and the Pissingert family.

Just like Maximillian’s descendants, the man occupied a stern expression, his formidable eyes fixed onto the sun set far into the horizon as he stood with his hands behind his back.

It was an unforgiving loop of exploitation and profits, and a massively successful one at that too.

Then, we arrived at the the Slave Quarters.

In contrast to the beauty of the plantation, the quarters were a mess.

The air inside had a humid stench lingering as ventilation was pretty much non existent, while bed with straw as its filling lay scattered around the floor.

Suddenly, a push from the back propelled me forward.

Looking behind, I noticed that it came from one of Robbrecht’s guards, who snorted like a pig. As if it was a funny joke.

I stumbled forward, catching myself before I fell to the ground. The guard's amusement at my expense was palpable, and I couldn't help but feel a surge of anger and humiliation. But I knew better than to react. In this place, I was powerless.

For now, anyway.

Robbrecht, apparently taking pleasure in my discomfort, led me further into the quarters. The conditions here were deplorable, far worse than I had imagined. The cramped, dimly lit space was filled with the hushed murmurs of the enslaved, their faces etched with exhaustion and resignation.

One of the guards, his face etched with weariness and frustration, seemed to have had enough of this place. He forcefully used the bottom of his spear to strike my knee, sending a sharp pain radiating through my leg and forcing me to collapse onto my knees.

I let out a slight yell, though they didn’t care.

They had already turned around, and walked towards the exit door.

I collapsed onto the bed filled with straw.

It had been a long, harrowing day, and weariness washed over me like a suffocating tide. I had slept on unforgiving concrete in my past life. How much worse could this be?