Chapter 11
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 11
Chapter Title: How to Raise a Fox
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He doesn't hit her.
He doesn't yell.
He doesn't grab her by the hair for making a mistake or kick her for no reason.
At first, she thought it was some absurd dream.
The boy who called himself her new master, Lucas Argent.
While living under him, Piel was undoubtedly spending the safest days since becoming a slave.
Which only made it... more terrifying.
Because Piel knew that kindness hurt more than betrayal.
The other slaves in the prison had been the same.
At first, they treat you well.
They talk to you, give you a moment of freedom, don't touch your body, feed you scraps.
Then one day, it all flips.
"You let your guard down."
With those words, everything ends.
So no matter how much Lucas smiled now, no matter how gently he spoke, no matter how much he said, "It's not your fault"—
Piel thought she absolutely could not believe him.
The moment she believed, she'd die.
The moment she hoped, she'd crumble.
The moment she longed for warmth... she'd be torn apart.
So Piel swallowed her gratitude, her emotions, her desires, practicing only how to submit like a proper slave.
That was how to survive.
Today was the same.
Her master smiled.
As if it was truly fine, as if there was nothing to worry about, he offered her—a slave—a seat at the table, at the same level as him.
That act of kindness chilled her blood.
A slave dining together?
Impossible.
Eating at eye level with a master like the heavens? That was a trap.
All slaves knew it.
Words that lifted you up were bait to make the fall hurt more.
Beastkin knew it best of all.
Beings not even treated as people in some regions.
Offering a seat next to one of them? Ridiculous.
So Piel had planned it out today too.
Since it was an order, she'd pretend to touch the chair for a moment, then drop straight to the floor, kneel, bow her head, make herself as small as possible, and beg forgiveness as quickly as she could.
"That way, he won't kill me."
Her body remembered the survival equation.
So... she sat.
But that was a mistake.
Tremble, tremble, tremble—
The moment the hard chair surface brushed her thighs, her present shattered entirely.
No time to even breathe in—the underground prison stench stabbed her nose.
The mingled rot of mold and blood's metallic tang, the smell you only caught right before death.
The scraping of dried blood flaking off iron bars clawed at her ears.
The friction of dragging chains, screams of dislocated shoulders, the wet rip of tearing flesh.
All memories revived at once.
Back when her mother vanished, and Piel was the last beastkin slave left.
"Beastkin aren't allowed to act human."
"The moment you sit in a chair, I'll snap your legs."
"Let's see if you qualify for a person's seat... with your body."
Just like the instant those words had been spoken, the fox girl's body screamed before her mind could react.
A nauseating heat tore from esophagus to stomach, surging up her throat.
Before she could breathe, hot, bitter, acidic liquid exploded from her mouth.
It spilled over her chin, her hands, not to the floor—but straight onto her master's clothes.
Again. Again.
Even after the first heave, her body wouldn't stop.
Even with nothing left, her muscles convulsed, squeezing out vomit.
She felt the scraping pain inside her throat but couldn't halt it.
Her own bile clung to her nostrils, her ears rang with screams and retching she couldn't tell were hers.
Her fingertips froze.
Not her heart—but all her blood draining away.
Then a kick flew, breath cut off at her throat.
Crash!
Faster than her body hit the floor and rolled, her thoughts collapsed.
It hurts. Hurts. Hurts.
And the immediate terror that followed.
Am I dying?
Right now?
No. No no no no no I don't want to die!!
Her master was a young master of the noble Argent Family.
Noble.
The kind her mother always said to never let notice you.
One word from them, and people knelt; one command decided life or death.
And now, she'd vomited on one.
It's not strange if she died.
No, death was expected.
In a way, the moment she'd longed for.
But strangely, when it actually came... Piel didn't want to die.
After her mother died, she'd thought of following her so many times, believed death would bring peace.
"I want to live...!"
That cry exploded in her mind.
Even dragged by her hair, only one thought looped in Piel's brain.
Please.
Spare me.
I want to live.
She knew from experience—after crying this much, the next phase began.
Now her master would drop the mask.
Wipe away the kind face, reveal the cruel truth, start the torture with, "How dare you vomit on your master?"
So with her face frozen in fear, Piel awaited the most familiar words.
"Die."
Those words.
Once they fell, it was over.
And her master opened his mouth.
"You're family to me."
Fa... mily?
Her breath caught sharper than from fear of death.
Slaves had no family. Everyone she could call that... was gone.
She'd believed she'd never hear that word again.
Yet now, a word that should never return fell right before her lips.
Her chest burned like fire touched deep inside.
One more breath, and something would burst.
If it did, it was over.
So she desperately suppressed it.
Pushed the unknown emotion—sorrow, hope, longing?—deep into her throat.
But the more she held it, the more the long-rotted darkness inside slowly... shifted to a warm hue.
And the place her master took her next wasn't a beast-washing livestock pen or an icy well.
A bathroom with steam rising waist-high.
One of the luxuries in this world reserved for nobles.
There, Lucas didn't strip off her ragged clothes and throw them away.
He tore them to shreds and discarded them on the floor.
So she'd never wear them again, never return to her old life.
And there was—
no torture, no orders, no mockery.
Only the sweet scent of shampoo wrapping her hair, warm water soaking her shoulders, careful hands wiping the vomit stains.
As if, in this moment, Piel were the master and Lucas her servant.
"......"
Piel said nothing.
No, she couldn't.
If she opened her mouth, sobs would escape. Slaves couldn't cry.
They had to keep smiling, no matter what.
The instant their expression crumbled, punishment came.
So she gritted her teeth and endured.
Digging her nails into her jaw to stop her lips from trembling.
But the moment warm water touched her skin, it felt too much like her mother's embrace.
Along with the flowing water, something she'd held back poured out.
"Hic... hic...!"
A sob leaked.
She had to stop. She could die. She knew.
Yet for the first time, it wasn't the sensation of bathing—but of truly feeling alive—that made the tears unstoppable.
Later, after washing until her eyes were bloodshot and stepping out,
Piel kept her head down, swallowing tears, terrified her crying would be discovered and punished.
Then what her master offered wasn't chains, a collar, or a switch.
Clean clothes.
"Put them on. That's an order."
Her bandaged hand, slightly stained red where blood had seeped, entered her view.
A bold gesture displaying it, proof he'd really pricked his own hand.
No room for backtalk.
Piel dressed immediately.
They were... unbelievably clean.
A white apron, skirt hem ironed smooth as fresh bandages.
At the bottom, the Argent crest embroidered in silver thread.
Clothes allowed only to slaves who served the master directly.
Even before slavery, she'd never worn anything so fine.
For a brief—a truly brief—moment, her eyes sparkled.
But no time to savor it.
"Follow me."
An emotionless voice.
Steps impossible to read.
Each shoe click echoing down the hall louder than Piel's heartbeat.
And they arrived at an annex basement.
The door opened, metal stench slapping her face.
The chill down her spine came faster than expected.
Illuminated by candlelight, the interior was far more sophisticated and perfect than the underground prison where Piel had once been tortured.
Machines, restraints, gears, red-hot tongs, iron needles... one glance revealed its purpose.
"So... this is how it ends."
The bath's warmth, shampoo's scent, the touch lingering in her ears.
All illusions.
The family feeling? Just her fooling herself.
In the end, she was a slave.
No matter the talk of family, it always came to this.
Still—from the bath, she'd felt it.
This master, Lucas, had a sliver of affection.
But nobles had their tastes, and duties to fulfill.
So when her master brought a massive bear trap, Piel decided to accept it all.
"Ah, that's it..."
Back in training, the tool they'd made her step on to crush her ankle.
The trainers had said,
"Scream in as much agony as possible. That's what masters like."
Those words were command and law.
So Piel was grateful.
For the brief 'family' pretense in the bath, for the mercy of torture over death.
And with all emotions shut off, she walked toward the bear trap, accepting it was truly over.
But that instant.
Crunch!
A thunderous shatter of metal.
The torture tool at Piel's feet exploded into fragments before her eyes.
Lucas held an iron club.
What followed was quicker.
The knee-crusher he fetched next... crunch!
The nail-removal clamp after... smash!
Spine-fixation frame, no-standing platform—tools that had torn her body, taught her screams, shattered her humanity—one by one, pulverized into a mountain on the floor.
Not a basement, but an execution ground.
The instruments screamed.
And when the club finally smashed the last one and was tossed aside,
Lucas wiped his sweat roughly and looked at Piel.
His expression was neither cruel nor kind.
Just one emotion.
Resolute.
"With that, I've smashed a bit of the world you endured."
Piel's heart stopped for a moment.
Her master's next words arrived slowly.
"From now on, run away, cry, rage for all I care. But don't... hide any of it."
And very lightly, too lightly.
"I can handle that much."
Those words cut deeper than any torture.
Her breath choked.
The depths of her chest cracked open again like in the bath—but larger this time.
Don't believe. Don't fall for it.
That was the prime rule for a slave's survival.
But—
For the first time, Piel broke the rule.
Because for the first time ever, beyond family, someone she wanted to believe in had appeared.