In the great continent of Vingard, where magic and reality intertwine like two sides of the same coin, the land pulses with tales woven by the hands of sorcerers and warriors who command the secrets of hidden powers. Beneath a sky glittering with stars that bear the names of fallen kings and untold legends, trade routes and paths stretch like great veins, carrying life from one end of the continent to the other. Along winding trails that cut through ancient forests and guardian mountains, caravans travel like an unending heartbeat, each one telling its own story.
But among all the caravans that roam the land, none could rival the Caravan of Dreams—the one owned by the mysterious merchant Jabelin Fraylee , a man said to sell not just goods, but dreams themselves, made real in the form of strange artifacts he displays. Wherever his caravan stopped, it drew those seeking hope and adventure, those chasing mysteries or simply longing for a piece of the past buried in the dust of forgetfulness. An old chest said to have belonged to a lost king, a dagger etched with symbols no one can decipher, a silk doll that might carry a blessing—or a curse—everything in Jabelin's caravan holds a story, and each story stirs a hidden desire in those who see it.
Jabelin and his men were known for their sturdy clothing, made from rawhide leather, fitting their rugged nature and the harsh paths they traveled. There were no fancy decorations or showy details—only garments designed to endure and to reflect the quiet authority of a man who commanded respect through presence, not appearance.
Jabelin was not just an ordinary merchant roaming markets, cities, and kingdoms across the continent with his goods. He had a keen eye for opportunity in a world of trade where interests often overlapped and tangled. He began with the usual merchandise—livestock, spices, metals, weapons, armor—but over time, his gaze turned toward a different kind of trade, one where people were treated as goods, passed from one hand to another. His entry into the world of slave trading was not sudden; it happened gradually, step by step, with each deal drawing him deeper into it.
Yet when you ask any slave ever sold by Jabelin, you will hear the same answer: "Jabelin is a great man. He treated me kindly, and selling me was his way of setting me free." Jabelin would sell a slave, then secretly hand them the money he had received and allow them to walk away free. Though it was a losing deal for him, it was simply part of who he was—a merchant who found joy in doing good.
"Hmm~ Whip him harder. It seems he still feels nothing," said Jabelin, staring coldly at the glass of wine in his hand.
Well, perhaps that was the image seen by everyone—everyone except those who knew the truth.
"Master, he will die if we continue like this," said one of Jabelin's men, panting from exhaustion.
"Hmm~ You're right. He must not die—that would be mercy. Instead, apply the ointment we brought from those distant valleys in the south of the continent. Let his wounds heal, then pass the whip to your comrade and let him continue where you left off. Go on~"
Jabelin, as the stories go, was known for sparing the slaves he sold and giving them money—but there was one slave who never knew that mercy. That slave saw Jabelin at his worst, when he seemed to take pleasure in tormenting him, as though it were a theatrical performance.
"Well then, the time for whipping has come again. His wounds have healed."
Jabelin smiled a wicked smile and said, "Good. Let me hear the sound of the whip striking this wretch's skin."
He sat upon a chair made of black wood, holding a glass of fine red wine. On either side of him sat two beautiful girls, their hands resting on his half-bare body. Jabelin was not particularly handsome, but he had a strong build and features that suggested he was just past his mid-thirties. His beard was completely shaved, and his light gray eyes looked distant and relaxed.
The scene he enjoyed was the flogging of a frail young slave—a young man with long messy black hair and fingers , toes stripped of their nails, pulled out by hand. The young man's condition was pitiful, but Jabelin relished in his suffering, setting aside two hours each day to watch him be tortured without mercy.
The slave remained silent, enduring the blows and insults with eyes that dared not meet those of his tormentors. Jabelin's men were masked, wearing black trousers and strong leather boots, their bare chests revealing clearly defined muscles.
"Stop, executioner. There's something I need to confirm," Jabelin said, handing his glass to one of the girls beside him.
He rose from his seat with steady steps and walked toward the young man, who trembled on the blood-stained wooden floor.
The air in the room was too heavy to move, like an invisible curtain drawn over the walls, choking the breath from all but those who knew how to steal it. Jabelin alone seemed at ease in that weight, as if he breathed the same air but turned it into something else—something that belonged only to him.
He bent down, gazing at the boy whose features were half-buried beneath tangled strands of hair. Jabelin's voice was calm but carried a presence that could not be ignored: "You cursed wretch, I'll ask, and you will answer. Now then—what is your name?"
A cough tore through the silence, dry and broken, as if even the air refused to enter his chest. When his voice finally came out, it was weak and jagged at the edges: "I… have no name."
Jabelin did not blink. A faint smile brushed his face before vanishing.
"Lovely. Now, tell me—who are you?"
This time the answer came faster, yet it carried the same crushing weight that had filled the room since the beginning: "I have no identity."
Jabelin tilted his head slightly, as though tasting the response like an aged wine. He let the silence linger a moment longer before speaking again, his voice untouched by the heaviness around him: "Hmm~ Do you want to live?"
A small tremor passed through the boy's body. His breath came in shallow gasps, but when he spoke, his voice sounded like stones dragged across dry earth: "I do not have the right to live."
Jabelin tilted his head once more, a faint hum escaping him, as though he had just heard a familiar tune and wanted to be sure of its melody. Then came the final question—unhurried, with no shift in tone: "And do you want to die?"
This time, there was no coughing. Only uneven breathing, as if the boy wrestled with the answer before letting it fall between them: "I do not have the right to die."
Jabelin smiled a calm smile, as if his features overflowed with a hidden satisfaction, as though the words he had just heard had settled perfectly into the place he had intended for them. He slowly raised a hand, brushing his fingers along his chin as he contemplated the moment, then let out a short, almost contented sigh. He stood upright, his back straight as if something heavy had just been lifted from his shoulders, then began walking toward the wooden door from which an oil lamp hung. His steps were steady but unhurried—like a man savoring the echo of a truth just spoken before moving on.
The two girls quickly moved to open the door for him, their movements fluid and natural, as if they had rehearsed them a thousand times. But he paused for a moment, the tip of his finger grazing the doorframe, his eyes studying the aged wood as though he saw more than what appeared on the surface. It was not just a door—it was a threshold, a crossing point from one moment into another. Without turning, he asked: "What are you?"
The young man gasped before answering, but one of the men struck him in the stomach, growling with a voice thick with threat: "Did you not hear your master? Answer him—now!"
"I… I am the cursed one," the young man replied between breaths of pain.
A quiet, effortless smile touched Jabelin's lips—like someone who had just confirmed that everything was unfolding exactly as it should. His eyes, in that moment, did not hold cruelty, but something more unsettling—a calculated satisfaction, the pleasure of watching each piece fall into place. He exhaled slowly, a heavy sigh absent of regret, then straightened his posture. His shoulders relaxed as if some unseen burden had finally been cast off, and he stepped forward toward the threshold, his feet grounded firmly but without haste.
When he left the room, it was not just an ordinary exit. It was a shift between two faces. Outside, he was the man of honor—the generous merchant known for his kind words and giving hands. But behind that door, in the dimness where the candles had begun to fade, there was only a creature hiding behind a mask—a beast who saw the cruelty not as sin, but as an art he had mastered, a game whose rules he knew by heart.
Jabelin paused for a moment, not rushing to leave, as if wanting to savor the scene one last time before turning away. His gaze passed over the young man like a hand brushing the pages of an old book—not in search of meaning, but to confirm that everything was as it should be. He sighed softly, then spoke with a voice soaked in luxurious calm: "That's enough for today. Give him a good piece of bread this time… He gave me quite the performance, so I shall be a little merciful—for now."
He stood tall, his posture firm, with the girls at his sides—each one clinging to his arm as if she were a natural extension of him, a reflection of authority that needed no declaration. As soon as he spoke, their voices rose in unison—praise, admiration, flattery for a mercy they saw as a rare light in the darkness of this room, as if his kindness were a grace that could only be met with gratitude.
The two executioners remained in place, motionless, expressionless, until one of them finally spoke in a voice laced with a respect that bordered on submission:
"You truly are merciful. I will carry out your orders in the best way possible."
Jabelin gave no reply. He simply cast a final glance over the room before crossing the threshold, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him, as if his presence still lingered in the air despite his departure. One of his men stepped forward to close the door, while the other moved toward a large wooden chest that sat behind the chair Jabelin had occupied. He lifted the lid slowly and peered inside, then turned to his companion with a silent nod—no words were needed when the actions had long been decided.
"Well, well, cursed one. Time to return to your favorite box!"
The voice carried a cruel blend of mockery and amusement. He grabbed the young man by the arm and yanked him up, as if lifting something weightless and worthless, then threw him into the chest without a hint of care. The movement was harsh, unconcerned with the pain it might cause.
"Ugh!" The sound escaped between the young man's teeth, but he said nothing more.
The two men did not stop. One slammed the lid shut, the other turned the key in the lock, sealing a truth that needed no verification. Without another signal, they hoisted the chest and carried it out of the room, leaving the darkness behind—unchanged, undisturbed. And just before they shut the door for good, one of them exchanged a glance with the other, then slid the bolt into its final place.
' I hate this box '
The words never left his mouth. They were caged thoughts, imprisoned deep inside, never to be spoken—must never be spoken. Because experience had taught him one thing with brutal clarity: any word, any sound, could be an open invitation to something worse than what had just happened.
The chest shifted with every step, a jarring rhythm, a constant reminder that he was trapped in something that did not even offer the right to see the world around him. Inside, the darkness was absolute, consuming. Not a sliver of light seeped through—no ray, no whisper of hope. There wasn't a single crack. Whoever had designed this box had made certain it was enough to shut out everything—even hope.
Minutes later, the young man felt the weight around him lighten—a faint realization that the box was no longer swaying, that it had finally been set down. He had no time to process the moment further before the lid was yanked open, and his eyes met a scene all too familiar—so familiar it felt like part of him: the prison that had held him for what seemed like a time without end.
Before he could react, he was yanked out of the box. His light frame offered no resistance—no weight, no struggle—as if he were nothing more than a discarded object. The masked man, the one who always seemed to wear a grin, as if something about this cruel routine brought him joy, carried him without hesitation. His pace didn't falter until they reached the threshold of a filthy, cold cell—offering no comfort, not to the body, not even to the eyes.
Then, without warning, he was shoved violently inside.
The young man crashed onto the foul stone floor, his body striking the rock without the strength to cushion or resist the impact.
"Oops~ My bad~," the masked man said in a mockingly relaxed tone, before bursting into loud laughter—devoid of remorse, filled with a strange kind of cruelty-laced delight.
That bastard. The thought pulsed in the young man's mind, mingling with a helpless rage that had no voice, no outlet—not even words.
It didn't take long before the other man, the silent one, decided to join in this grotesque theater.
"Here, a piece of fresh bread. Believe it or not, it's considered a luxury meal for someone like you. So be grateful."
The loaf was tossed into his lap with carelessness, without meaning or sympathy. It wasn't a gift—it was a reminder: take what you're given, and don't question it.
"I… I'm grateful…"
The words came out in fragments, hoarse and broken, as if they had crawled up from a desert untouched by rain for years.
Uninterested in the reply, the two men turned, exited the cell, shut the heavy door behind them, and made their way up the stone staircase. Their steps were slow, unhurried, as if they hadn't left a human behind—but a thing, placed exactly where it belonged.
The young man remained where he had been thrown, sprawled on the filthy ground, listening to the faint, final click of the door above—a sound that confirmed the end of this night.
"They're gone… damn it… everything hurts."
His breathing was shallow, fragmented—every inhale a battle against the pain that ravaged him without mercy. Then, through clenched teeth, he muttered: "This hell… I don't even understand why I'm here in the first place."
The question wasn't new, yet it never lost its sting—it kept returning, wrapping around his mind like a taut rope that refused to unravel. The cell was narrow, its stone walls enclosing him from all sides. Thick iron bars sealed the front—no escape, no exit. Behind him, a small slit in the wall held two vertical rods, barely enough to let air in—and just enough to remind him that even air, here, was under watch.
The place reeked—filthy, rotting, cold, sickening. And yet… despite it all, it was still better than the beatings. Better than the lashings, the relentless kicks and punches that came for no reason other than because they could.
The loaf of bread resting in his lap was the only clean thing in the room. It looked so out of place, like an intruder in the landscape of misery.
"Ah~ it's soft, warm… I'd rather stare at it than eat it," he said with a teasing tone, though the pain still clung stubbornly to his voice.
His trembling hand reached out, fingers barely managing to grip the bread. He raised it slightly, brought it to his mouth, and bit down—like biting into a life that had only ever offered him scraps.
As the taste hit his tongue, a strange sensation flooded him. For a moment, he forgot the pain. Forgot where he was. Forgot the cell that had held him prisoner for countless years.
For that fleeting moment, the world shrank to nothing but this small, fresh piece of bread—the first real thing he had received in what felt like forever. In the far corner, the old, fossilized crusts still lingered—the supposed meals of previous days, hardened and surrendered to ants that respected no privacy. But now, they didn't matter.
"Ah~ better than I expected…" the young man muttered, as though this single moment was the only thing he could call his own, however briefly, in this hell.
He devoured the bread without realizing how much he had eaten, until he found himself staring at his empty lap. The loaf was gone—nothing remained.
His eyes drifted upward toward the cell's narrow window, where the sun's glow still clung stubbornly to the sky, signaling that dinner was far off—farther than he had hoped. Regret crept in, laced with helplessness.
"What a fool I am…"
The words slipped from his mouth, bitter and quiet, before he raised his hands and slapped his cheeks. Not hard, but with the weight of shame.
"I ate too much, and now there's nothing left for dinner… What a fool I am. What a fool!"
He knew the rule—knew it all too well. If they gave him food this early, before any main meal, it meant nothing else would come later. That truth alone was enough to let despair seep deeper into him. There was nothing to do now but wait for the night to fall—for the long, drawn-out hours to pass between him and nothingness.
When darkness swallowed the cell, he lay curled inward, body folded like a hedgehog, trying to hide—even from the air itself. But the sudden creak of the opening door tore through the silence with brutality. His body jolted in fear, forcing him to sit up fast, to appear alert, not unaware. He knew exactly what they did to those who didn't look awake in their presence.
A man descended into the cell—not one of the two who had beaten him before. This one was different—shorter, less bulky, but something about his presence was more unsettling than anyone who had walked into this place. A white mask covered his face entirely, with hollow, precisely drawn eyes—smooth, expressionless, soulless.
"This is today's water. Be grateful—Master Jabelin is in a good mood."
He opened the cell door. His words held no warmth, not even the pretense of it—just a statement, devoid of meaning. In his hand was a crude clay jar—unadorned, with no care for form. Just a vessel, carrying necessity.
He dropped it harshly on the ground, louder than needed, as if even his smallest act had to leave a mark. Then he turned away without care, shut the cell tight, and walked up the stairs, slamming the main door behind him—as though he wanted his presence to echo long after he was gone.
The young man remained still for a few moments, staring at the jar—studying it as if it were something alien, something that wasn't part of him, yet had become part of his life. He hesitated before reaching out, fingers trembling, grasping the neck of the jar. With his other hand, he brushed the hair from his face—a motion that revealed more than expected.
Even in the gloom, his face looked deformed, as though it no longer belonged to a human being. Swelling, pale blue bruises clung to his skin, scars carved by hands that knew no mercy, burns inflicted with intent. All of it told a story crueler than words could ever describe. And yet, amidst the ruin, there were still eyes—red, clear, deep, the color of fresh blood. The only part of him that hadn't been erased.
He lowered his gaze to the jar, drank slowly—each sip careful, measured. As though even water might become a luxury he wouldn't see again anytime soon.
Luckily, the jar hadn't broken when the man dropped it. The water had stayed inside, hadn't spilled onto the filthy floor, hadn't vanished like it had on past occasions. This wasn't the first time the man had entered recklessly—on some days, he'd left only shards behind, and the thirst would stretch into another day without relief. But tonight, for no clear reason, luck had sided with him.
He looked at the jar like it was something precious—something not to be taken for granted. He held it close, like the most valuable thing he owned. His breaths were quiet but laced with exhausted awareness.
"Good water… eased the pain in my throat… I won't be reckless. This is my share for today. I might not get more tomorrow."
His voice was low, barely audible, as if he were speaking to the jar itself more than to himself—as if it was something worthy of being addressed. But the hunger? It hadn't gone away. It only sharpened, especially as he remembered how foolish he'd been to devour the bread without thinking.
"I'm hungry… if only I had held on to that loaf instead of devouring it… I wouldn't be like this now…" His tone held sadness—not the fleeting kind, but the kind that settles deep, roots itself inside the soul, and offers no path to escape.
Then, in an unexpected moment, something dropped onto his head—bounced gently into his lap. A small motion, but it froze him in place.
He looked up slowly, his senses scattered and uncertain from fatigue and hunger. Was it real? For a heartbeat, he thought it might be a hallucination. But as he laid his hand on the thing that had landed in his lap—felt its texture—he knew the truth. Another loaf of bread. Real. Warm. Not a fantasy.
He looked up toward the narrow cell window. Nothing there—no hand, no face—just a dark slit that let in air.
"Who…? Who threw this?"
The question circled in his mind—caught between astonishment and suspicion, between hunger and mystery. Who had given it to him—and why?