Rebirth as a Slave
What would it feel like to reincarnate while carrying every memory of your previous life?
He was dreaming of the end of his last life. The memories were hazy yet vivid, flashing by like a panorama. Two men appeared in them.
One was the victor. He had driven his enemy to the edge of a cliff, backed by countless masters.
The other had been betrayed by the lord he trusted and cornered at the cliff's edge. All his comrades who had shared life and death with him were already dead.
Nothing remained for him. Only the lone carriage of the woman he had secretly loved stood empty behind him.
The two men began to speak.
“Do you know why I’m still keeping you alive after all the trouble you’ve caused my alliance?”
“Because of the Ten-Thousand-Year Chest, I suppose.”
“As expected of the one called Blood God.”
“Where is the Ten-Thousand-Year Chest?”
Chu Young asked. His only goal now was the chest—nothing else mattered more.
“What will you do for me if I tell you its location?”
“I won’t take your life. You’ll have your martial arts crippled and spend the rest of your days in the Repentance Cave. Whether there’s still room there is another question. My alliance has won. Jang Jin-bo abandoned you to save his own skin. Am I wrong?”
“If you spare my life, there will be complaints from within. Are you certain?”
“The chest is more important. Capturing Jang Jin-bo cleanly matters more—he’s a nuisance when he decides to run.”
“Then make me a promise.”
“A promise needs proof, yet you have little left to offer.”
“I’ll stake my head and the chest’s location.”
“Let’s hear it first.”
“Simple. If I land even one strike on you, guarantee the safety of the carriage.”
“You still have loyalty left for the lord who discarded you?”
“What choice do I have?”
“You’re a peak expert in your own right. Do you truly believe it’s possible?”
“That’s my concern.”
“Very well. I accept. I’ll declare it before my family. If you manage even one strike, I’ll ensure the safety of Jang Jin-bo’s wife, Jong So-so, and his son, Jang Jeong. Satisfied?”
“Good. One request before we begin.”
“What is it?”
“I want one last drink. Give me some wine.”
“All we have is Baekgeon.”
“That will do.”
The man emptied an entire jar of wine. As the intoxication rose, he channeled it through the Forbidden Vein Strike and the Drunken Immortal Technique at full force, pushing himself momentarily into the realm of the divine. That was his plan.
“I’m ready.”
“Then begin.”
It was a duel between Yoo Sang-cheon, the Sword Emperor and master of the Divine Sword Alliance, and Chu Young, the Blood God and strategist of the Blade Heaven League.
From the start, it was an absurd matchup. In the current martial world, few could stand against Yoo Sang-cheon.
Chu Young’s sole aim was to leave even the smallest scratch on Yoo Sang-cheon’s body. He ignored everything else. He closed the distance in an instant, disregarding incoming attacks, and carved a wound into Yoo Sang-cheon’s flesh.
At the same moment, a spear pierced Chu Young’s side. It was the work of one of Yoo Sang-cheon’s subordinates. Chu Young confirmed it and laughed. His plan had never included Yoo Sang-cheon’s death. The man had to live for Jong So-so and Jang Jin-bo to survive.
Enraged, Yoo Sang-cheon drew his sword toward the subordinate who had thrown the spear.
“Out of the way! How dare you interfere in a sacred duel!”
Then Chu Young grabbed Yoo Sang-cheon’s arm.
“Would you kill a loyal subordinate over something so trivial?”
His body burned as though it would ignite at any moment—the backlash from using forbidden arts.
“…The chest is in Uicheon… Keep… your promise.”
With those final words, his body burst into flames as if someone had set it alight. The countless masters of the martial world who had been watching turned away. Only the solitary carriage remained at the cliff’s edge, desolate.
That marked the end of his previous life’s memories.
The scene faded like falling asleep once more. It felt as though he were dreaming.
* * *
When he regained consciousness, he was in a new world. He immediately realized he had reincarnated into another body.
How did he know so quickly? Because this was not the first time he had felt this sensation.
Muslan. The man who had repeated reincarnation. This was his second rebirth, carrying every memory of all his past lives.
After finishing his life in the martial world, the world had changed. It was no longer the one he knew.
‘These buildings… Europe? Where am I?’
Soon, memories from the past began flooding into his mind—the original memories of the body’s former owner.
The first memory that surfaced was the name Muslan—the original owner’s name, and the name he would now live by.
He sorted through the memories of this life while still dazed, then organized those of his past life as well.
He had lived and died in the martial world under the alias Blood God, a title meaning his talent for bloodshed was extraordinary. He had been the strategist of a faction that split the martial world in two. Though betrayed by his lord and killed, his schemes had reached a level ordinary people could never approach.
Just before death, he had sworn: if given another chance, he would live for himself this time.
As if in answer to that vow, he had been reborn as a new person.
The unfortunate part was that his current situation was far from easy.
After sorting through the important memories, Muslan understood he was in quite a difficult position. There were many problems, but the most pressing was his current status.
A slave. Not just any slave. Muslan had originally been the crown prince of the Maran Kingdom. But now that the kingdom had fallen, he was bound as a slave on the cold stone floor.
“Get up!”
The cold voice of the slave manager Liscal rang out. People rose in a rush. Shackles bound their ankles and wrists, making movement difficult. The chains were all linked in a single line.
Then came the selection. Strong builds, weak ones, those with experience, those without, the sick and the healthy. Countless slaves were sorted. Muslan realized what kind of slaves were being chosen here.
The arena. A place where people fought for bets.
‘At least that’s fortunate?’
Muslan had trained in modern martial arts and learned the techniques of the martial world. As long as he assessed the situation and adapted, he was confident he could survive.
Yet he wasn’t blindly optimistic. He examined his body. The frame wasn’t bad, and he was taller than most slaves around him. But he was far too thin.
‘He was a crown prince… Did he never exercise at all?’
One small mercy was that Muslan’s age wasn’t too advanced. He was only fifteen. There was still room to grow. At fifteen and this height, he was quite tall—over 175 centimeters by modern standards.
‘Still, there’s almost no muscle.’
The slave manager explained each slave’s traits one by one. Soon it was Muslan’s turn.
“Muslan. Crown prince of the Maran Kingdom. No special illnesses.”
The manager spoke to Roccom, the owner of all the slaves here—the head of a family that had run the arena for generations.
“So this is the one. I can tell at a glance. Don’t brand this one.”
His appearance set him apart from the other slaves at first sight.
“As expected… He ended up here by mistake. I’ll prepare to send him back.”
“No. We’re not returning him.”
“Pardon? You don’t mean to send him to the male brothel? With that face?”
“I’ve already been paid. It’s a shame about the face, but the money’s been received.”
“With that build, he won’t last even one match.”
“How old is he?”
“Fifteen.”
“Send him to the cadet division matches. Someone must hold a grudge against the Maran Kingdom… They specifically want to watch him die.”
“I… see. But if that’s the case, shouldn’t he be sent to gladiatorial combat instead of boxing?”
“The body must remain intact even after death.”
“What?”
“Nothing can be cut off. It’s a special request. I don’t understand the tastes of the upper class. They want to preserve the expression of the Maran crown prince as he dies from being beaten, then stuff him.”
“……!”
“What did they call it again? Ah, lifelike. They want it to look alive and vivid. Like how animals are stuffed mid-roar.”
Liscal’s face hardened at Roccom’s words. The slave arena wasn’t a place where ordinary ruined lives ended up. Even the managers who handled such desperate people found this horrifying.
Stuffing a human being. It was a hobby he had never heard of.
“I know, Liscal. I had the same look when I first heard it. But what can we do when the request came in? It’s not a bad deal. They paid well. So send him as instructed.”
“Understood.”
“Ah! Branding—don’t mark him anywhere. Got it? Not a single blemish. That’s the request.”
“Truly? You mean no marks at all?”
“Yes. That’s the agreement, so don’t brand him. Don’t touch him at all. Keep everything natural. Understood?”
Muslan, who had overheard everything, cursed inwardly.
‘Damn it! This is bad!’
One look told him everything. From the first impression, he could roughly gauge the atmosphere of this world. A class-based society with nobles and slaves was something he could accept.
But stuffing people? Muslan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
A world with high-ranking individuals who stuffed humans couldn’t be normal. It was likely even more brutal than the martial world ruled by power.
While countless thoughts raced through his mind, the selection ended, and he was returned to the prison.
* * *
Several days passed. Once a day, something called soup was served. It tasted awful, of course. A flavor made from who-knows-what, and he had no desire to find out.
“Muslan. Even if you came from another land, you should know the common tongue. Why aren’t you answering?”
“I understand it.”
“I’m Liscal. I’ll be in charge of you from now on. You’ll be seeing my face until the day you die.”
“……”
“No need to overthink it. I don’t know how the outside views this place, but there are rules here too. Follow them, and there’s no reason for this whip to touch you.”
Muslan didn’t believe Liscal’s words. The other slaves in the same cell had been struck by Liscal’s whip many times. Strangely, however, Liscal never hit Muslan. He had thought it was because of his royal status, but that wasn’t the reason.
“They’re different from you. They need to earn money. For exciting matches, training is necessary. That means taking the whip too—so they grow accustomed to pain.”
“I don’t need training?”
“Didn’t you hear? You don’t. The question is how you’ll die.”
“Is there no way to survive?”
He hadn’t reincarnated just to die meaninglessly. And he had no intention of dying in the first place.
“Huh? A way to survive? There is. Keep winning matches. If you can keep winning, that is.”
Liscal chuckled.