Chapter 1: A Slave’s Final Wish
The ancient runes on the dungeon walls pulsed with eerie light, their glow flickering across the cold, damp stone floor. The scent of blood and decay filled the air, a testament to the countless lives lost within these depths. Yet Oliver Von Rich did not flinch. His weary, sunken eyes barely registered the mystical radiance surrounding him.
The only sound that truly reached him was the wet, grotesque sucking noise coming from his arm.
And then, intensionally, Oliver flicked his wrist a bit, allowing his blood to stain the man's garment.
With a sigh of satisfaction, a pale, withered man lifted his lips from Oliver's wrist, his crimson-stained tongue flicking out to taste the last remnants. He licked his fingers, savoring the rich, royal flavor. "Even after all these years, your blood is exquisite," the man said, his voice tinged with twisted delight. "Trash! But still..." he looked like he was squaming in pleasure from the meal.
Oliver, clad in tattered slave robes, remained silent, his body frail and hunched. His once-strong frame had withered to brittle bones wrapped in leathery skin, his hair was ghostly white despite his youthful age. He looked no different from an old man on his deathbed, yet deep inside, he was barely in his twenties.
And yet, he was amongst those that had it easy. Just to be alive, breathing, was a grace he thanked the heavens for. With what he had seen in this world, by the hands of these people, Oliver knew he had good enough luck.
A woman, dressed in luxurious silks, stepped forward, her sharp eyes assessed Oliver with cold amusement. "You look dreadful, Slave A666," she murmured, tilting his chin up with a gloved hand. "But that's only natural. After all, we've drained you of everything your bloodline could offer. Strength, vitality, potential..." She let go of his chin with a chuckle. "And yet, you still have your uses."
Oliver lowered his gaze, bowing his head in obedience.
To look one's master in the eyes was forbidden, and his many years a slave had drilled the fundamentals of Slave culture into his bones.
He knew his place amongst them. He was only a slightly more useful rag. Then again, as a rag, the more useful you are, the longer you are kept around.
It wasn't much, but it was better than dying. Not that Oliver had not contemplated the choice a thousand times. But not yet.