On the bank of the river, amidst the sea of slaves and slavers, stood a young man with messy brown hair and beige-toned skin. His brown eyes were wide with confusion and disbelief.
Before him, the slavers—and even the slaves—had fallen to their knees, bowing as if he were a living deity.
Only one person remained standing.
A girl with brown hair and ember eyes. Seriah. She looked at him—not with awe or fear, but with something stranger. A flicker of disbelief… maybe even a hint of betrayal in her gaze.
What the hell is going on? Aarav's mind reeled.
A few weeks—maybe a month—was all it had taken for the world to forget him completely. Left to rot in a dark, stinking basement with other slaves, stripped of everything… everything but his will to survive.
And in that suffocating pit, the only thing that kept him tethered to any shred of humanity was her. This girl—the one who now stared at him like a stranger.
Back then, deep in that hell, he had steeled himself. Readied his heart. If it came to it, he'd fight. He was prepared—at least, in theory—to kill if necessary, though he hadn't even killed a chicken in his entire life.
But there had been a glimmer of something—a spark of hope.
Just moments ago, when his hand had crushed the stone to dust… when the slaver's iron couldn't bend his body, no matter how hard they tried… it felt like, finally, something was shifting in his favor.
And now? Now, here he was—standing alone, flabbergasted, as a crowd of men and women knelt before him like he was some forgotten god dragged out of myth and dumped in the dirt.
He stared at his own hands, still feeling the rough grit of sand between his fingers, his heart thundering in his chest.
What… the hell… is this?
"The Blessed One?" Aarav muttered, his eyes narrowing. "That's what they said before kneeling… after trying to branding me like cattle."
He glanced down at his body , he'd carried through this nightmare—and scowled. The feats they had witnessed… crushing stone, resisting the brand… to them, that was enough to label him something divine.
But him?
"What the hell is a Blessed One supposed to be, anyway?" His hands clenched unconsciously. "Blessed? I'm the last damn thing anyone should call blessed… I'm cursed."
The words sat bitter in his mouth.
He looked up again, and time seemed to crawl. No one moved. Not a single slaver, not a single slave dared shift beneath his gaze. The silence stretched tight—so tight it was suffocating.
And then there was her.
Seriah's eyes—sharp, burning embers—locked onto him, unblinking. Her stare cut deep, like a blade pressing against his bare skin.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple, trailing along his cheekbone. He gritted his teeth, his nerves fraying under her piercing gaze.
"Don't look at me like that!" he snapped, voice cracking with frustration in his head . "What the hell did I even do?!"
The words exploded out of him, raw and angry.
No response. Nothing but wide eyes and held breaths.
Aarav's chest rose and fell rapidly, but then—forcing himself to steady—he raised his voice, his tone heavier now, an edge of command he didn't even know he had.
"Up… Wake…"
It was clumsy. Broken. His grip on their language was far from perfect.
But it didn't matter.
Like puppets on strings, they rose to their feet—every last one of them—silent, heads bowed, as if any wrong word might summon his wrath.
Aarav's eyes swept over the crowd, his mind racing.
What the hell do I even say now? What do I do?
He could understand the basics of their speech, just enough to catch the gist, but piecing it together properly—talking like them—was still a mess. His tongue stumbled awkwardly over their words.
His fists tightened at his sides.
"Going… on what?" he blurted, voice rough, trying to grasp for some direction, some sense of control.
A few moments passed in thick silence. Then, as if gathering courage, a slaver stepped forward, bowing deeply, not daring to meet Aarav's eyes.
"Sir… we were mistaken… to treat you that way. We didn't know… my lord, please forgive this servant of yours."
He knelt fully now, forehead brushing the dirt in apology.
Aarav stared at him, completely baffled. The words echoed in his head.
Servant? Master? Am I… a master now?
He shook his head, utterly lost in the absurdity of it all. His eyes darted between the slaves and the slavers, their bodies stiff with fear, their faces downcast.
His breath hitched—and without thinking too much, he blurted out, "Wake! Free all!"
The slaver on the ground hesitated, frozen. His shoulders tensed. Slowly, shakily, he raised his head, eyes wide.
"But… lord—"
Aarav's eyes sharpened, his voice low but cutting, "You heard me."
The slaver's face twisted in conflict, his lips trembling. Then suddenly, as if snapping out of a trance, he barked to the others, his voice hoarse but forceful.
"Free all! All of them! Don't you scoundrels hear the will of our lord?! Free every last one of them—now!"
A hush fell over the clearing, broken only by the clinking of chains as they slowly, reluctantly began to unlock.
Time passed, and now—unlike the dark, stinking basement he had known—Aarav found himself sitting on something almost throne-like, soft and high-backed. Before him stood a broad, bald man draped in a shining purple robe.
Is he the king? …No, he can't be…
The man bowed low, his voice deep and formal.
"Sir, forgive us. The one responsible for your mistreatment will be punished! This is the word of this lowly baron of the state… Please, accept my deepest apology."
Aarav's head spun. Just a short while ago, he hadn't even been granted basic human rights—not that he'd expected them. Yet now, he was being treated like some kind of deity.
And if that wasn't enough, a stunning woman with golden hair cascading like a shimmering waterfall was kneeling at his feet, her delicate hands massaging his legs. His face flushed red as his eyes kept darting—despite his best efforts—noticing her low-cut, barely-there dress.
What the hell is going on?!
He shifted uncomfortably, swallowing hard. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Seriah sitting beside him, her gaze locked on him—sharp, cold, murderous.
"Aaha…" he muttered under his breath, sweating nervously. "I… I don't know what's going on…"
Somehow, despite her protests—despite her pushing and trying to slip away—Seriah ended up with him. Aarav didn't even fully understand how it happened, but after the slaves were freed, they were told to follow him, and she… well, she did.
Now here he was, sitting uncomfortably, watching the man in front of him bow low, eyes averted, not daring to meet his gaze. The man, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, easily towered over Aarav in size and presence, and yet—here he was, kneeling like a servant.
It made Aarav's skin crawl with discomfort.
What the hell is even going on?
Just days ago, he'd been a captive, chained and thrown around like garbage, a slave among slaves. And now? Worshipped as if he were some kind of living god.
He didn't feel pride. Not even close. In fact, it felt ironic.
A place like this—a situation like this—would have been heaven for a lot of people. The kind of fantasy people might dream about: power, worship, luxury.
But to Aarav, it was suffocating.
This isn't me, he thought bitterly.
He was never someone who would be considered an outcast. Back home, he had a good life. He was decent at his studies, had fine communication skills, and, by most standards, was good-looking. Sure, he preferred solitude most of the time, but he had a close circle of one or two good friends. People generally liked being around him. He worked hard. He had a good family—a loving mother and a sister. Times were tough, sure, but he'd done his best to pull through it. He even had a family business to inherit.
He clenched his fists.
And now? Now he was here. In this… world. Banished—not by law, but by the universe itself.
What did I even do to deserve this?
"Everything is so absurdly weird it actually makes me wanna puke," Aarav muttered under his breath with a sigh.
He stood up, and as if on instinct, the man in front of him dropped back to his knees. Aarav quickly stepped forward, gently placing a hand on the man's broad shoulder, urging him to stand. Slowly, the man rose, towering above him.
Aarav didn't feel even a shred of pride watching it happen.
If anything… guilt twisted in his chest.
He was just nineteen. And this man? He had to be around the age of his grandfather. His face was mature, weathered, lined with age and experience. His deep green eyes seemed full of wisdom, and yet—his expression was tense, his heart thumping visibly with panic, like a child afraid of punishment.
It made Aarav feel small despite his current "status."
God… this guy must be at least 6'5… Aarav thought, tilting his head up.
For a moment, their eyes met—his own uncertain and awkward, the man's full of nervous respect.
Clearing his throat, Aarav finally asked, his tone rough, almost interrogative,
"Blessed One?... What?"
His question, simple and clumsy as it was, seemed to spark something. Seriah, standing a little behind him, perked up, her gaze flicking to Aarav with a glint of curiosity and amusement in her ember eyes, as if seeing him in a new light.
The old man's eyes widened in shock, and suddenly his entire demeanor shifted—as if, in that moment, he had pieced everything together. Without hesitation, he gestured for Aarav to follow, a friendlier smile creeping onto his face.
"Dusk," Seriah muttered reluctantly, clearly unhappy about being left behind.
Aarav, not wanting to leave her either, quickly asked her to come along. The old man didn't seem to mind, and soon the three of them were walking down a long hallway, eventually entering a massive room that looked like some kind of meeting hall.
Aarav's eyes widened in awe.
Books lined the walls, stacked high on ancient wooden shelves. A massive table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by large, ornate chairs. His eyes darted around, catching sight of a beautifully detailed painting—then froze, locking onto something else.
A giant wolf's head—at least twice the size of a normal one—hung high on the wall, like some grim trophy. It looked almost alive, its fangs bared in a silent snarl.
Aarav gulped hard and took a seat, his body tense.
The old man settled into a chair opposite him, his expression serious now.
"Sir," he began, "you don't seem fully aware of who you are… and this man shall tell you everything you do not know."
Aarav blinked in bafflement. The words felt like they were swirling around him, passing through his ears but refusing to settle in his brain. It was only after a moment that he realized—this was the longest sentence he'd heard since coming here. He could just about grasp the basics, but the meaning…
He glanced at the old man, confused and frustrated.
The old man stared back, his brows furrowing deeper as he waited for some kind of response. After a beat, he turned to Seriah and asked cautiously, "Pardon my rudeness, young lady… but is something wrong with the Sir?"
Seriah looked from the old man to Aarav, then down at herself as if trying to figure it out, before replying simply, "He can't understand our language."
The old man turned back to Aarav, completely deadpan now, staring at him in disbelief.
Aarav sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. It finally hit him—the biggest piece missing in this insane puzzle.
If he was ever going to understand where he was, what he was supposed to be… or even if there was a way back to his world and the family he missed so much…
First, he had to learn the language.
It was the bridge between confusion and answers—the key to everything.
Soon, a group of elegant ladies appeared, carrying platters of food and wine. The rich aroma drifted across the hall, making Seriah's nose twitch. She froze for a second, her eyes shining with a kind of wild excitement. Aarav saw her try to hold it in, but the sheer hunger was plain on her face.
Aarav couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt seeing her like that.
The moment the food was set down, Seriah lunged at it, devouring everything in sight like a starved beast. Within moments, food crumbs were scattered across her face, and grease and sauce smeared her cheeks. Aarav, mortified, quietly turned his face away and hid behind his palm.
The old man barely managed to hold back a chuckle, watching the scene unfold with amusement.
"You know what…" Aarav thought with a small smile, "I kinda like this girl."
Sure, she was pretty—but right now, sitting next to him at this luxurious table, her face buried in food, she looked completely out of place. It was like someone had jammed the wrong puzzle piece into a picture. And yet… it didn't bother him at all.
He smiled again, still hiding behind his palm.
The old man stayed quiet for a while, just observing. But eventually, noticing that Aarav hadn't touched his food, he frowned and asked, "Sir… why don't you eat?"
Aarav, at a loss for words, just pointed at Seriah, silently passing the question to her.
Seriah was still busy chomping away, totally absorbed. After a few moments of awkward silence, the old man's brow twitched and he called out, "Young lady… young lady… YOUNG LADY!"
She finally snapped out of it and looked up, blinking at the old man. "Yes, Lord? Is something the matter?"
She said it in a tone so polite and graceful that it could've put even the noblest of nobles to shame—but the effect was completely ruined by the mess on her face: crumbs everywhere, curry smeared across her cheeks, soup dripping from her chin, and a half-gnawed bone still clutched in her hand.
Aarav completely acted like he didn't know her, silently scooting his chair a bit away.
The old man, sweat dripping down his temple, struggled to keep his composure. "Why… why doesn't the Sir eat?"
Seriah blinked at him, then casually wiped her face with her sleeve (making it worse) and said, "Oh, that's normal. Since the day I met him, he's never eaten. Not once. We were locked up together in the slave basement for days, Sir."
The old man's eyes widened in shock. "How many days are we talking about, young lady, if I may ask?"
Seriah thought for a moment. "Hmm… maybe a month at most?"
The old man's expression darkened immediately. "Rest assured, I will punish whoever is responsible for this matter," he said, his tone sharp.
Then, softening a little, he asked, "By the way, young lady… may I ask your names? And just to be clear—you didn't know the Sir from the start?"
Seriah blinked at him, a bit surprised. "Ah… my name is Seriah. And no, Sir, I didn't know him before. We met in that slave pit."
The old man sat back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "Hmm… I see. I am Valiont Desja of the Desja family, the Baron of this land."
His eyes flicked between Aarav and Seriah, curiosity burning in his gaze.