“Stay inside,” Burn said as he opened the carriage door. He glared at Yvain when the boy was about to follow him out, but he deflated back to his seat instead.
“Sir Sator, this is nothing. Please return inside,” the coachman urged.
Ever since he’d taken up the job of Wilderwood Mansion’s coachman, he had never encountered a man with such a commanding presence. Not even the Marquis who employed him bore the same air that Morgante di Sator exuded. Not to mention his wife and son—
Burn walked toward the man who had jumped in front of the carriage, the horses nearly trampling him had the coachman not been so adept. He looked down at the figure, seemingly uninjured but radiating confusion and pain.
The man suddenly lunged at him, clutching his ankle.
“Good sir…! Please! Please help—please!”
He was dirty—filthy, really. His skin was smeared with the remnants of hardship, a canvas of grime etched upon his frail frame. He was young, but the harshness of life had aged him prematurely, turning his boyish features into a mask of desperation.
At a glance, it was painfully obvious he was a slave, bound not just by chains but by the weight of despair that clung to him like a second skin.
His clothes hung off him as though they were borrowed from a more fortunate soul, tattered and threadbare, doing little to shield him from the elements or the world’s judgment.
His hair, matted and unkempt, framed a face that looked as if it had forgotten what joy felt like—a reminder that innocence often fades in the light of cruel realities.
The way he clutched his ankle spoke volumes; it wasn’t just physical pain, but a plea for acknowledgment in a world that had long since chosen to ignore his existence.
“Ah, just what I needed today,” Burn thought, “a young rebel appealing for a hero's rescue. How quaint.”
He kicked him away, and the slave’s desperate clutch on his ankle was gone. Glancing at Wilderwood Mansion, he unleashed a twisted sneer; a loose slave impeding his return home was just the delightful inconvenience he needed.
He hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting this pitiful creature before because he left much earlier from the academy.
“Master Sator,” Finn appeared briskly from the mansion gates, his gait almost frenzied, his guards in tow. “What’s this?”
Burn shrugged. “Just a random slave?” he replied. “What brought you out here?”
Finn’s expression soured slightly. “I heard the Madam collapsed during the entrance ceremony buffet. You took your sweet time returning, and I started to worry something dire had transpired. So, I patiently waited for your arrival, and…” His gaze drifted to the slave, writhing on the ground like a fish out of water.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“My Madam is perfectly fine,” Burn declared.
Finn waved his guards forward to remove the slave, concern plastered across his face. “Well, that’s a relief—”
“No! W-wait! Please help! Help!” The young slave scrambled past the guards, his plea a frantic echo. “Save me—my… my… someone…! There’s someone I need to save! Please…!”
Confused and desperate, he was nonetheless relentless, the kind of unwavering determination you’d expect from a poorly scripted play with an overly enthusiastic actor.
Burn couldn’t help but smirk. The irony of it all was delicious—a slave imploring assistance from someone like him, as if he were some sort of knight in shining armor, rather than just a master in dull, metal heeled shoes.
The day had turned delightfully ridiculous.
“This one is clearly an illegal slave. Look at the state he’s in,” Finn declared, a mix of disdain and pity in his voice. “I’ll handle him from here. You were leaving today, right? No need to delay anymore.”
Knowing Burn, Finn didn’t want him to cast more bad luck on this already unfortunate soul of a slave. After all, Burn had a reputation for turning prisoners of war into slaves—a delightful pastime he’d practically mandated for the nobility of the Elysian Kingdom.
Finn couldn’t even begin to imagine what Burn would do to this poor soul for the crime of inconveniencing his travel plans.
“Just… please… I’m going to die… they’re going to die…!” the young slave pleaded, his bloodied palms scraping against the pavement in desperation. “They forced us… they… they tortured us…! Those people…!”
Finn clicked his tongue, grumbling softly, grimacing. “Why do we still endorse this whole slavery thing…?”
“Would he die just because he’s a slave?” Burn asked, an eyebrow raised, irritation simmering beneath the surface.
“Well,” Finn nearly stuttered, “Yes, he would die at this point.”
“No,” Burn retorted. “He won’t die simply because of his status as a slave. He'll die because his owner decided it was a good afternoon for an execution.”
Finn narrowed his eyes. “That’s because he’s a slave in the first place. Isn’t that how people treat slaves? That’s why slavery is—”
“Slavery is good,” Burn shrugged. “Clearly, some people don’t have a right to an opinion or voice. I know you’ve met people like them.”
Finn widened his eyes. Some nobles, criminals, and horrible people’s faces flashed in his mind.
“Anyway, as long as slavery is perfectly regulated with precisely maintained rules, nothing like this would happen,” Burn said. “My Empire’s slaves had chances to prove themselves useful and free themselves from their lowly status too.”
“Except those who were only suitable for menial work, the unambitious ones, or the turned-inside-out-asshole criminals, everyone had the same chance to prove themselves,” Burn shrugged.
Galahad was a slave, yet he became the strongest knight of Soulnaught.
“There are slaves walking among us, living decorated and rich lives under their generous masters, their lives better than most free people, pampered and loved. And when you put it another way, you can call anyone a slave,” Burn signaled the guards to pull the young slave to his feet.
“Like I am a slave to my wife, and my wife a slave to me,” Burn looked closer at the young slave. Meanwhile, Finn was stunned. Now his view of Burn completely changed.
Burn had promised Morgan to explain himself more now. And even though his view was twisted and cruel, there were reasons behind it. He stood firm in his opinion that some people just fit to be slaves.
Some people needed to be made into slaves.
Most people were already slaves anyway, even though they thought they were free. They were usually slaves to money, slaves to their own desires, or slaves to what they thought were where their happiness lay.
If one thought about it, extreme slavery like this would still happen nevertheless, hidden under the shadow of the underground world. So why not entirely make it legal and keep a keen eye on it? Enforce order.
This truth about humanity—he might be one of the small community of people who dared to face it and fix it.
Of course, if it were Morgan, she would try to fix it some other way—since she was also part of this small community.
After observing the young slave, Burn frowned. He ordered—
“Bring him inside.”