Lavaad continued to rest until a servant arrived, bearing news that dinner was ready and he was to go down to the hall.

The dining hall was a grand chamber, adorned with opulent furnishings and extravagant decorations that spoke of great wealth, at least greater than what Lavaad was used to.

Towering columns lined the room, their marble surfaces polished to a glistening sheen. At the center of the hall, a colossal dining table stretched its length, a masterpiece of craftsmanship. It was crafted from rich, dark wood and intricately carved with various symbols and images Lavaad couldn't give context to. The table was so long that it seemed to extend endlessly, with enough space to accommodate a banquet for royalty.

But once again, this was the dining hall of a small barony, pushing Lavaad to picture how royalty actually dined if the grandeur of the hall in front of him was that of a low rank noble household.

Within the opulent hall where he had earlier encountered Cassius, now sat Cassius himself, flanked by the esteemed Lord and Lady of the Lormodra family. Lavaad occupied one of the cushioned seats, while empty places were reserved for what Lavaad assumed were other family members, who were not here tonight.

Attempting to put food in front him into words would do it a grave disservice. The grand table boasted an array of dishes and delicacies that Lavaad had never before seen, complemented by dishes native to Lormodra that even he knew, such as the various fish meals commonly seen across the fishing town but made with luxury in mind.

Although he had regained memories of his past, the finer details remained elusive, Lavaad couldn't remember how he dined when he was apart of the Kalpuk family, and after years spent eking out an existence on rotten fruit, stale bread, and whatever leftovers he could scavenge from various taverns and eateries the meal in front of him drew him in completely.

This banquet surpassed any recollection he could muster—a feast for all five senses enveloped the room with indescribable aromas. Even after he had savored his fill, Lavaad found himself hesitating to depart. But his lessons with Cassius awaited him the next day, compelling him to reluctantly bid the dining hall farewell for the night.

Lavaad reclined upon his massive bed, quickly succumbing to sleep as the exhaustion from his earlier fight and hours spent gathering his thoughts overtook him.

Despite his formidable physical prowess, he remained a growing youth, needing prolonged periods of rest. As he descended into the depths of slumber, his consciousness ventured elsewhere.

Desert of Terboruk

"Poho. Poho! POHO!" A distant voice reverberated, drawing nearer or growing louder within the mind of a frail boy, hovering on the brink between underfed and malnourished.

The boy's scalp appeared freshly shaven, almost bald. Aside from his emaciated frame, there was little remarkable about him, even then such gauntness was a common sight in these surroundings. Others equally emaciated, some even frailer, dotted the barren landscape.

"POHO YOU BRAT, WAKE UP!" The distant voice had now reached the boy, rousing him from his slumber, a colossal hand encircling his scrawny neck from behind, swallowing it whole.

"POHO, GET TO WORK. YOU'VE HAD YOUR REST. IF WE FALL SHORT, MASTER JURRAN WILL MAKE US SUFFER!" The booming voice instantly roused Poho, who, struggling to orient himself, surveyed his surroundings.

Before him stood hundreds upon hundreds of emaciated figures, young and old alike, their faces bearing a sullen demeanor and hollow cheeks. They congregated along the shores of a vast, shadowy bay, flanked by rolling hills that stretched as far as the eye could see. Where they stood marked the sole access point to the water, save for a perilous leap from the towering cliffs that lined the coastline.

The sandy expanse was strewn with rags and slumbering bodies, some of whom may have been lifeless.

As Poho regained his senses, he turned his attention to the individual gripping the nape of his neck, holding him as if he were a helpless pup. The massive hand belonged to another individual, not as emaciated as Poho, his lean physique visible beneath the grimy tatters that were his clothes.

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"Oh... Head Slave Ganriel, I apologize. I think I had a dream and couldn't wake up. I can—" Before Poho could finish explaining, Ganriel flung him aside, indifferent to his excuses, whether they held any truth or not.

"Just start fishing. The last week's ending, and we've yet to meet Master Jurran's quota. We have much work to do, and the others are already out there. If you wish to avoid bearing all the blame, prove your worth."

Poho landed in the sand, scrambled to his feet, and hastily made his way to one of the boats heading out to sea with an expressionless face, he was used to this.

Along the shoreline and out into the ocean, various boats of varying sizes were scattered about, each filled with a motley crew of slaves. This was an annual ordeal for the slaves. The waters east of Terboruk were treacherous nearly year-round, and fishing was not a task typically assigned to them. However, for one month a year, the waters grew relatively safe, teeming with both common and rare fish. During this brief respite, slave masters dispatched portions of their enslaved workforce to fish, securing a vital food source and, for some, a means of income.

Here, the slaves toiled tirelessly throughout the month, striving to catch as many fish as possible before the waters once again became infested with deadly creatures from children's nightmares.

While venturing into the ocean still held some risk during this period, it was far safer than remaining in the heart of Terboruk itself, where monstrous creatures ran rampant year-round, with the majority of the military dedicated to maintaining the front lines.

The inhospitable nature of this arid region had driven normal citizens, essential to society elsewhere, to the brink of extinction. In Terboruk, where the delicate cogs of civilization were absent, slavery was the grim solution.

This harsh reality was accepted across the world as a necessary evil, but within Terboruk, slave masters spared no effort to exploit their chattel, denying them even the semblance of humanity.

Poho loathed this system, but not as much as he loathed those worldwide who sought to justify it. Why should his happiness waver and wither in the face of someone's desire for a simple fish dinner?

What vexed him most was the enigmatic leader, Tyrant Maladran, a figure shrouded in mystery. Some believed he was a mere puppet for the slave masters, while others claimed he was the most formidable being in the world. Yet, he rarely made public appearances, his activities and true strength concealed from the masses. Poho's thoughts often swirled with grandiose dreams of liberating all the world's slaves.

Although he was just a teenager, his aspirations were boundless and ill-fitting for his station. As his mind once again ventured into lofty visions, he set out to sea, resuming his fishing duties.

While he was not a prodigy, years of experience had made him above average, particularly given the pitiful equipment at their disposal. As he reeled in his catch, fellow crew members on his boat engaged in the same endeavor. Due to the cramped quarters, they occasionally bumped into each other, causing their hooked fish to escape. Hours passed as Poho continued fishing, forsaking even meals.

Slaves here received sustenance only once a day, but it was still superior to the meager provisions he had endured back in the heart of the desert, where some days passed without any food at all.

Upon returning to shore, Poho searched for the group of slaves assigned to Master Jurran. He found them gathered, surrounding Head Slave Ganriel, who wore a solemn expression.

Poho approached, overhearing their conversation. "Apologies, everyone. Master Jurran has ordered me to return, and you all to stay beyond the end of the month, as we have not met the quota. You'll have to remain until it's fulfilled." Ganriel's voice carried a mix of sadness and relief, likely due to his own reprieve.

Poho's heart sank, and his teeth clenched at the news. Staying past the month's end was often a means for slave masters to dispose of unwanted slaves. Feeding them sometimes cost more than their labor could produce, and while slaves here were denied basic human rights, they couldn't be killed without cause.

Hence, masters often resorted to this tactic, leaving their slaves here a little longer, in hopes that the sea would turn perilous again, disposing of them while they fished. While some slaves used this opportunity to escape, the slave markings within their source core would inevitably lead to their capture and execution. Running away only justified their deaths.

Poho felt a trace of fear, but his overriding emotions were anger and outrage. There was no way he would allow himself and his comrades to be discarded simply because their master could no longer feed them. His fate seemed sealed, but he refused to go down without a fight, for it went against all his principles.

The group of slaves sent by Master Jurran numbered in the teens, and by week's end, all would be claimed by the unforgiving ocean, save one—the head slave, of value to Jurran. This crew of malnourished individuals, spanning various ages, races, and origins, spent the night fearing their impending doom. Poho, however, stayed awake, desperately seeking a means of escape, though sleep eventually claimed him, yielding no solutions.

Morning light crept over the desolate shores of Terboruk, casting a harsh, unforgiving glare on the gathered slaves. Most of those who had been there the previous day now moved in hurried lines to the exit of this bay. Those left behind looked toward the sea with a wavering gaze.

Within the dwindling group still in the camp, Poho and his fellow slaves moved with cautious resolve, mirroring other such groups also left behind that began their laborious trek to the sea.

As the camp cleared out, Poho finally had a clear view of the grim encampment. A flimsy wooden fence spanned the valley's two sides, its purpose to confine the slaves. Numerous guards patrolled its length, their watchful eyes fixed on the slaves left behind, ensuring none would dare attempt escape.

Rags lay strewn across the campgrounds where the slaves had sought fitful rest, a testament to the harsh existence they endured. Some unmoving forms sprawled amidst the rags, their fate sealed by hunger, thirst, or perhaps a brutal dispute over a rare catch.

Poho scanned for any potential escape route, his heart heavy with the knowledge that his fate, and the fates of his comrades, hung in precarious balance. However, the multitude of vigilant guards encircling the camp offered no respite, leaving no room for hope or opportunity. With reluctance, he rose and made his way to the ocean's edge, a weighty resignation settling upon him.

It wasn't the fear of his impending demise that weighed most heavily on his heart. Rather, it was the knowledge that his few friends, his brothers in suffering, would share the same grim fate. And he, despite his determination, had no answer, no solution to change it.