Bastian let the voices swim around him. Being surrounded by chatter helped him relax and ruminate. Before the war, he enjoyed silence and solitude. Now, regret managed to find him when he was alone.

Jimea and Lun were arguing about something or other. He didn't get the sense they really cared about the topic, but they wanted to interact as much as they could. With one more night of marching until the port market, they may never see each other again.

He had grown to like Lun. Jimea was easy to like, as she always made the work easier. She was a positive force, both on the workload and on morale. Lun mainly kept to himself but had a chaos about him whenever he decided to interact. It was silly and playful, which he found rusty in himself. He had lost some play in the war and the rest in the pits.

He relaxed in this journey across Teras. When they arrive, he would likely be back to making a show of death. It was disrespectful but not as disrespectful as dying before earning his life.

This trip would have been perfect, except for the sudden antics of Salvia. He wasn't social, but that broad was hard to miss. He even talked to her early in the trip. She was smart, and she listened as if you were telling her the secrets of the universe. Talking with her was the best conversation he'd had since being enslaved.

Then she started talking with the play-slave priest. Whatever dangerous game she was playing there, he'd decided to leave her to it.

Bastian surfaced from his musings to the sound of Jimea snorting. Even her snort was elegant. Lun must have said something funny, and he was disappointed that he missed it, but being near them was enough.

These past few days, he endured the company of a simpering Salvia. It looked like her game failed, but she would be the type for a long game. He was glad she pretended not to know him with the play-priest hanging around. With every hit she took in his arms, he held steady. Carrying her, his thoughts drifted to carrying his own children. It made listening to her beatings all the more difficult.

As he turned in for the night, leaving the others to their quiet flirting, he felt ready for his ensuing masters. The more time in the pit, the faster he would level, and the sooner he would be free. At level 13, he still had a long way to go, but the market offered him an opportunity to find a pit he could thrive in. His thoughts cycled around his future as he tried to sleep.

The lost smiles of his children finally brought him to rest.

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Bastian ate gruel with Jimea and Lun. Everyone was quiet in the mornings, with Jimea and Lun content to touch shoulders as they sat just a little closer together than any else.

The flavor of potato, if you could consider potato a flavor, overpowered the rest of the gruel. Bastian's pit meals consisted primarily of stringy meat, so he enjoyed the easier texture if not the taste.

The cries of Salvia punctuated through the meal. He ignored her as he could, but he would have to carry her afterward. With every echoed scream, he got angrier at her foolishness. She could have waited until the port market for her scheme.

He didn't understand why she would lie about her class. Only a high-level [Slave Master] could create conditions for freedom for a [Slave]-type class. One of the reasons he took his [Slave Gladiator] class was that his first master gave him a condition of freedom upon reaching level 50.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Many classes have the option to change when certain conditions are met. Certain immutable classes like the [Slave]-type class have no such self-directed options.

There were no high-level [Slave Master]s on this last trip of the season, and her previous masters were mid-level at best for them to have missed her true worth. She must still be a [Slave], and this farce just brings complication to his vacation.

After eating and saying what may be his final goodbyes to Jimea and Lun, he went over to pick up his charge.

The play-slave priest peered at his approach. Chills spread across his body as he entered the priest's field of power. He stole his face as always. He had faced worse auras from worse people than this low-level rejuvenator.

Salvia sat chained at the neck. A superficial cut above her left eye drenched her face in blood. The other eye was swollen shut, giving her near-zero visibility. Her blood-soaked, now tar-black hair clumped down over her face, covering her swelling lower lip overtaking her upper lip. Rarely are female slaves beaten anywhere visible, so she must have genuinely angered someone.

He hardened his heart and signaled the play-slave to unchain her. She slumped to the ground with the sudden slack. The chain rained down on her side, but she remained unmoved. He pulled the chain away and brought her to his chest.

He followed the play-slave, not giving that leech his back. The low-level [Slave Master], Contassa or something, had him walk in the middle of the procession. He felt the eyes on him, and he itched for a weapon.

Contassa stomped up to the broken thing in his arms. She slapped Salvia awake with three reverberating hits, but he kept his stride.

Contassa held Salvia's chin to face her.

"Have you taken the class now?" She asked with ice in her voice.

Salvia responded by pulling her head up out of Contassa's grasp and turning around in his arms.

Contassa gave a slight growl as she punched Salvia in her kidney. Salvia bit into his shirt to hide her sobs as Contassa stormed away.

Salvia shook his body as she cried. She grabbed his arm to hold herself steady. A shock laced from his arms throughout his body and into his soul. Only the speed of it and his practiced [Constitution] kept him from noticeably faltering.

The Foundation sounded within him.

Class [Slave Gladiator] converted to class [Gladiator].

Level 13 dropped to level 9.

Skill [Vampiric Hit] lost.

Skill [Limited Weapons Mastery] upgraded to [Modest Weapons Mastery].

Skill [Constitution] replaced with skill [Arm Shielding].

Skill [A Slave's Will] lost replaced with skill [Showmanship].

Bastian nearly dropped Salvia. His head whipped down to look at her, but she had already passed out.

He slowed down, keeping his ears open for deterrents. The [Slave Master] wasn't near, and the play-priest didn't notice the distance grow between them. The other slaves let him pass, not willing to get in his way usually, and especially not with the walking problem in his arms.

He slipped further and further to the edges until he felt no eyes on him. He heaved Salvia onto his shoulder, and he ran. They wouldn't follow him to the coast between Teras and The Garden, not for two cheap slaves like them.

Brambles cut his shins and his arms and his face. Minor cuts that his [Constitution] used to handle plagued his body, but he barely noticed.

He had a way home.