The Slave Manager
“If a slave becomes too accustomed to their life as a slave, they will, surprisingly, begin to boast to one another about the chains binding their legs.”
They say a man named Leroy Jones said this. There is some debate over whether those were truly his words, but regardless of their authenticity, everyone would agree that it is a sentence that sharply pinpoints the slave mentality. I first heard it when I was bickering with my fellow soldiers about who had the harder military life, and it left such a deep impression that it stuck with me.
However, after falling into this other world, I realized there was a slight flaw in that statement. The truth is, chains are indeed something worth boasting about, and it’s not surprising at all.
The Dragonian who lives alone in the slave cage across from me has Cold Iron mixed into her shackles. Since her race naturally masters physical enhancement from birth, they need to be bound with cold iron alloys that possess anti-magic properties. Because she is bound tightly not just at her ankles, but at her tail as well, she is given the best food here. She doesn’t seem to mind being treated as the best, either; at every mealtime, she lightly wags her tail, creating a clear, clinking sound. Then, everyone else envies her cold-iron-infused chains, comparing them to the dull, clanking iron chains on their own ankles. After all, only she, wearing the cold iron alloy chains that make such clear, high-pitched sounds, is qualified to eat soup with actual chunks of meat in it.
It’s not just the material of the chains, either. The shackles of the half-elf in the next cage are padded with cloth. As if that weren’t enough, a worker comes by periodically to apply powder to her skin, claiming it shouldn't get soft. They are so devoted that rumors circulate among the slaves that the slave trader isn't planning to sell her, but rather make her his lover. She receives a whole loaf of black bread at every meal. Occasionally, she would tear off a piece of bread and give it to me; every time she did, I felt so grateful, yet so hateful, and I was so envious of her shackles that looked even slightly more comfortable.
And then, in the corner, opposite to them—the bare stone floor without even a scrap of straw. The cage where they cram eight cheap slaves who don't even have chains to boast about. And among them, the worst of the lot. A useless, young female squirrel beastkin. That was me.
There are grades to chains. And I am a slave who doesn't even possess the lowest grade of chain.
I don’t know how I ended up in this world. Just as the content of a dream shifts, I realized I had been dropped into this world, this place, and this body without any context. The memories of my original world faded away like a dream. Just like a dream that was vivid upon waking but is forgotten before the morning passes, becoming impossible to recall. Memories I didn't desperately cling to vanished beyond the river of oblivion. By now, I couldn't even distinguish if the memories I held were of things that actually happened or not. No, it was unclear whether the "original world" even existed or if it was just my delusion.
'If it were a delusion, I would have aimed to become a great literary master under a good master.'
Every morning, imagining that and giggling to myself was the greatest pleasure I could find in this life. I couldn't even laugh out loud. The beastkin in the same cage would pick a fight with me in an instant. The beastkin race seems to be the lowest among slaves, and a squirrel beastkin seems to be of an even lower grade among them. Even if we get scratches from fighting each other, the guards, who would otherwise beat us to death, turn a blind eye to the bullying directed at me. It even feels like they go beyond turning a blind eye and secretly hope for us to bully each other. Perhaps they think that rather than us fighting and lowering our value, it’s fine to just use up and discard one slave they couldn't sell properly anyway?
Whatever the reason, it was a bad thing for me. The trash that wouldn't sell even if they were bundled up by the threes or fours didn't let a single trivial opportunity to bully me pass by. If I try to fall asleep, they poke me to wake me up, and the bread the worker tosses after roughly tearing it apart is divided among them first, and they roll the smallest piece onto the floor. If I don't scramble to pick it up and eat it, they stomp it into a pulp as if it were a mistake. They stomp on my body pretending it's a mistake too, so what wouldn't they do?
Unable to sleep and starving, my mind is hazy and I have a fever. My body hasn't had a single normal part since the day I first opened my eyes. It feels like I have many inflammations; everywhere aches and my muscles are tight. I feel as if my entire body is swelling and shrinking in time with my heartbeat, so I can't even be sure if my body is moving correctly. If the half-elf in the next cage hadn't taken care of me, I would have surely died. No, perhaps the original "me" died long ago, and I just filled that empty space. Because the first memory I have in this world was the half-elf pressing her hands against me, saying she thought I was dead. If I had died then, it would have been easier. Then I wouldn't have had to suffer this pain. I resented this body, which was stubbornly sturdy just because it was a beastkin.
I don't know how much time has passed. I just decided not to move at all. A body that wouldn't last long anyway if there was no one to take care of it. I thought I would just like to die naturally, as things pass, like water flowing. The guards whipped the beastkin who bullied me, saying it was punishment for damaging the merchandise. Then they threatened me, saying they would dispose of me if I didn't act like I was fine. Let them. Living is not really living.
Just then, the bell for guests rang. The guard hurried back to his post, and the beastkin straightened their posture as if they had never been beaten. The room, which had been so noisy, became quiet in an instant. Seeing the guest who followed the shopkeeper inside, my mind snapped awake. I felt my tail puff up and stand stiff. Black hair and skin that was bright but had a yellowish tint. It was an appearance similar to me in my previous life. He looked around, pretending not to look, and then handed a cloth sack to the shopkeeper, saying, “The cheapest item I can buy with this money.” It looked thin, as if there wasn't much inside. As expected, the shopkeeper counted the contents for a moment and said,
“There is nothing useful for this amount. The only thing you can buy is that squirrel beastkin at most.”
I made eye contact with the guest who shifted his gaze following the shopkeeper’s chin. His eyes were burning fiercely. It was a look I could sometimes see in slaves who came here as merchandise. Eyes filled with anger, a desire for revenge, and malice.
“What are you going to use it for?” the shopkeeper asked. He seemed discouraged, as if it weren't a profitable deal.
“Do I have to tell you?”
“You don't necessarily have to. But wouldn't it be easier to match it to your circumstances?”
When there was no answer, the shopkeeper grumbled and continued, “The best among those that fit this amount is that one. It’s still small, but if you feed it and put some meat on its bones, it’ll be fine as a pet.”
He seemed to emphasize the word "pet" on purpose. The place where the shopkeeper’s eyes swept over was chilling. As the gaze gathered, the slaves in the same cage moved their bodies to the corner. Whether they were trying to make the merchandise the shopkeeper wanted to sell more visible, or whether they didn't want to go under such a poor master—I couldn't know.
“If you’re going to work it, it’s not bad. It’s a beastkin, so it’ll be better than a human.”
“What about fighting?”
“It’s useless for combat. Even if it looks okay because it’s a beastkin, the rat race is inherently timid.”
The shopkeeper said that and suddenly stomped his foot. My body reflexively shrank at the loud noise. Looking around, I was the only one who reacted this strongly.
“See?” The shopkeeper shrugged as if he had expected it.
“Does it listen well?”
“Well, since it’s a beastkin, I can’t guarantee it... but it’s docile.”
“You.”
The man didn't take his eyes off me and walked straight toward me. “Can you die if I tell you to?”
If his gaze had temperature, I would have burned to death. Why would he ask something like that? Customers buying slaves didn't care if they listened well. Face, body, strength, or talent. They only looked at those things and chose their slaves. Because if they were going to engrave a brand anyway, there was no need to consider whether they listened well or not.
Suddenly, a familiar development came to mind. An old development where the entire early part has now become a template. The story of a protagonist who crossed into another world and the slaves who never betray him. There is no solidified name yet, but if I had to name it, it would be a genre that could be called an "Otherworld Slave Harem." My heart pounded. It seemed I wasn't just thrown into this world to suffer. I looked at the man in front of me again. A typical Asian appearance and eyes filled with poison, as if he had already been bitten hard somewhere. If he isn't the protagonist, I wonder what kind of guy he is. My thoughts naturally continued. Then, perhaps, the "me" he is about to buy, I am perhaps...
< The Slave Manager END >