Setting Foot in Rosel Manor
Isel gazed at the crimson sunset painting the wilderness as they approached the Rosel Mansion. Near the vast Rosel Territory lay expansive farmlands, and their carriage now raced along the paths between them. With harvest season approaching, the golden rice fields bowed their heads as if greeting their lord's return. The red sunset colored it all. It was beautiful.
Such scenery had once gone unnoticed amid her continent-spanning campaigns with the subjugation party. But two months of brutal life in the underground dungeon had turned even this ordinary vista into something moving. The dungeon held only pitch-black darkness without a single ray of light, broken only by the occasional torch-bearing torturer... She had learned then that the prison floor crawled with swarms of insects. And to survive, she had devoured them.
The holy hero she once was had become a beast gobbling bugs in the kingdom's dungeon, all due to their schemes. By then, her mind was so shattered that no tears came. With her will to live fading, even tears felt like a luxury.
Rosel glanced at Isel from the distant territory gates. Her emerald eyes held no sorrow, anger, or anticipation—only hollow emptiness. What is she thinking? He wanted to ask but held back. She had endured days worse than hell for two months. All he could do was silently watch her heal on her own.
Rosel knew her better than anyone, so he had no doubt she would recover. Betrayed by nobles like himself, any kindness he showed would only breed suspicion. Biela was a baron's only daughter. Daltan, the firstborn son of a viscount family. Gleon, a count's second son. They had all feigned goodwill toward Isel until they achieved their goals. And once they claimed the feat of saving the continent, they betrayed her without hesitation.
Having suffered such vicious betrayal from noble heirs, she would see his kindness as just another ploy to take something from her. Until she opened her heart on her own, he had to maintain this careful distance—for both their sakes. If he showed too much goodwill and she leaned on him, it would draw suspicious eyes in the mansion. Such mishaps had to be prevented before all preparations were complete.
So Rosel spoke as little as possible to Isel. Actions over words would let her feel safe—that was best.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa. It's the lord's carriage. The territory's master has arrived."
The guards at the gates skipped formalities and flung open the southern gate. With a majestic creak, the towering portal—tall enough for six grown men to reach its top—swung wide. Its height spoke to the territory's immense scale. Compared to the capital's 15-meter gates, one could guess Rosel's vastness.
"Good work, everyone~"
"All hail—salute!"
At the coachman's greeting, watch captain Reshus barked the order, and every guard around the gate saluted the carriage. They were clearly well-drilled soldiers. Rosel, who poured immense effort into territorial defense training, nodded in satisfaction at their crisp salute.
The carriage rolled on, and Isel peered anxiously out the window. As her master had said, arrival was now truly imminent. The silence of the ride was ending; her life as a slave was about to begin. She bit the inside of her lower lip until faint blood welled—another habit born of exhaustion. The metallic tang sharpened her foggy mind, if only a little.
"..Don't be so anxious. Rosel Territory is a peaceful place."
Rosel finally uttered the words he'd held back. He'd wanted to say it sooner but knew reassurances wouldn't ease her fears. Still, he couldn't ignore the terror in her eyes, as if the mansion were a slaughterhouse.
"..."
Isel gave no reply, as expected. But Rosel didn't press her. He was grateful she didn't respond. If imprisonment had robbed her of speech entirely, his heart would ache even more.
Soon, the mansion's iron gates parted, admitting the carriage into the garden. Speed slowing, Rosel prepared to disembark. He straightened his collar and smoothed his disheveled hair from leaning back. Then he looked at Isel.
"..."
Her emerald eyes, which should have sparkled, stared blankly. Fear amplified endlessly, as if her mind had given way. Yet Rosel saw the grief hidden within. He knew well the emotions of a slave en route to a new master's home after being sold.
Clack.
After a moment, butler Demian, who had followed on horseback, opened the door. Rosel stepped down silently and glanced at the rigid Isel. Terror flickered back into her empty eyes.
But he could wait no longer to douse that spark of fear. The mansion's chief butler and head maid hurried over at their lord's arrival. Where eyes converged, they were just master and slave.
"Welcome back, Duke Rosel. I worried if Demian served you well—couldn't sleep a wink."
"No need for concern, Gellion. Demian did splendidly."
"Head maid Jichel greets you. Was your journey safe? Shall I prepare dinner at once?"
"Quite safe. Special menu today, if you please."
Rosel replied curtly to the neatly groomed, gray-bearded chief butler Gellion and the middle-aged head maid Jichel, whose hair was tied back primly. Formal words, but laced with mutual affection and trust.
Rosel glanced at Isel again. From Gellion and Jichel's angle, the carriage wall hid her. They had no idea what their lord awaited. Rosel had only said he had business in the capital. Even Demian hadn't known of the auction bid until it happened—thinking it mere observation, like any commoner.
Rosel clasped his hands behind his back, face stern, and murmured lowly.
"Come out."
"Someone inside?"
Chief butler Gellion asked, but Rosel stared silently at the carriage. No boorish man to ignore questions outright, his displeasure was clear. Gellion asked no more.
Rosel raised his voice slightly toward the carriage.
"I said come out. I won't repeat myself thrice."
"...."
At their lord's rare stern aura, Gellion glanced at Demian with a nod—silent order to hurry whoever was inside. As Demian moved to act—
The carriage creaked; its passenger descended.
Emilia, savior of the continent. Isel, the sex slave sold for history's highest price, now set foot in Rosel's mansion.
**
Gellion, two full years into service at Rosel Mansion, had been chief butler from day one. A veteran of over twenty years serving noble houses—from Ice Grand Duke Rusillan in the north to Sword Count Nebron in the south—his career shone. In his later years, at the king's recommendation, he settled here near the capital.
A commoner half his age, yet Rosel possessed cool judgment, broad magnanimity, visionary ingenuity, and even sword skill when needed. Gellion served him wholeheartedly. Rosel seemed born a noble heir, thrust into commoner life by misfortune.
"Heh, who would've thought our lord would buy a traitorous criminal as a slave. For five hundred gold, no less? My, my."
Thus his deep puzzlement now. The mutter escaped as Isel trailed silently behind—the very subject. His sharp words pierced like barbs to her lungs, yet she followed like a corpse, unresponsive.
"Heh heh, from hero to slave. You've rewritten history, Isel."
Gellion spat occasional barbs en route to her assigned quarters. Disgust etched his wrinkles. Recommended by the king, he was kingdom-friendly, fiercely loyal. To him, an assassin-attempting traitor was a thorn—hero or not.
Rumors said her party members' feats outweighed hers anyway. The hero title was empty pomp. He'd gladly stable her and starve her four days straight, but his lord never acted rashly or wasted resources. There must be reason. Believing that, Gellion stopped before a door.
Her halted steps startled Isel into a flinch, head bowed.
"This is your room. Overkill for traitor scum, but our duke must acknowledge your 'merits' somewhat."
"...."
"I'm his proxy here. Least you could do is thank him through me."
Treated as traitor to her face, it was routine now. Isel hunched her shoulders, bowing deeply.
"..Th-thank you.."
She murmured thanks, but Gellion's face remained icy. He tried grasping his lord's intent, but it eluded him.
"No clue why you're here, but act the slave—it'll help. Fold away that hero pretense. Not that you have any left."
Gellion narrowed his eyes, probing. Living under one roof, he needed confirmation she knew her place.
Isel bowed with detached calm.
"I'm trash who committed treason.. a worthless slave."
Her words nearly induced vomiting. But her grievances were buried in the dungeon now. No matter.
Gellion nodded approvingly.
"Heh heh, at least you have shame. But no brains, eh? Dared treason after being pampered as hero."
"..."
Isel fell silent in guilty fashion, and Gellion opened the door. A spartan room: simple bed, wooden rack, round table, two chairs. On the mansion's third floor—dubbed the "family wing"—at the hall's end, far from servants' paths. No footsteps reached here.
"Enter. No wandering unless ordered."
"...Thank you."
Isel stepped in. As in the dungeon, she huddled against the wall.
For a slave, traitor scum, even perching on a chair or bed was brazen. Thus she sat on the floor until moonlight bathed the window.
**
That night, as all slept, Isel sat against the wall like a stone statue, basking in the streaming moonlight. Over six hours unmoving—mere child's play after dungeon days of the same. Rest was for the dead, for slaves and traitors. This penance suited her.
This tiny room was no sanctuary, just an aboveground prison. Shackles absent changed nothing. She must adapt to slave life. No slave had ever become human again in centuries. She'd be a sex slave till death—fail to adapt, and she'd hasten her end.
Then, faint footsteps reached her ears. Dungeon life had honed her senses razor-sharp. Noises, lights absent—now terror gripped her emerald eyes anew.
The time had come. To prove herself as slave.
Knock knock.
She flung open the door without hesitation. Inevitable, to endure. No delay, no right to it.
As expected, her master Rosel entered.
"Ah, some food left over. Too good to waste."
His hand held a plate of appetizing dish—hardly "left over."
Isel knew it instantly. Since isekai transfer, her top craving. Fish lover in this meat-poor medieval world, she adored grilled salmon: fresh fillet semi-cooked in special sauce, then fire-roasted.
"Slave life starts tomorrow. Can't use the frail—worthless as a weak slave. Eat up."
A delicacy slaves dared not smell, let alone eat. But the salmon's aroma pierced her core; she swallowed reflexively.
"It's cooled a lot, but still edible."