His black hair clung to his face from the sweat.
No shackles, but still imprisoned—his body was covered in untreated open wounds, dried blood staining him from head to toe.
"E-Eighty-two…" he whispered with difficulty, his mouth dry and his stomach hollow from hunger.
That number marked the days he had spent here. To stay sane, he had started counting—seconds, minutes, hours, and days.
Sometimes he lost track—after being deprived of sunlight for so long, keeping count became guesswork. But it helped him hold on to his sanity.
"Though it feels like a year has passed…"
Talking to himself also helped—reminding himself that he was human, not just property.
But if you asked him what truly kept him sane, he'd answer without hesitation:
Hatred.
Hatred for Gilert, for his servants, his fellow Celestial Dragons, and the entire world for putting him here.
He lived for the hope that, one day, he could kill them all—make them beg like he had begged, torture them as they tortured him, and take from them what they had taken from him:
His humanity.
Over all this time, he had been beaten, tortured, humiliated—used as a mount, forced to crawl for food, to beg for it, only for them to throw him a pig.
Alive.
He had to kill it and eat its raw flesh like an animal, drinking its blood as the only source of liquid to quench his thirst, and storing the rotten meat to eat later because they had made it clear:
"This is your only food for the next month. Make the most of it."
Those were the Saint's mocking words as he gave him the pig.
Remembering that greasy, useless face laughing was the only thing that gave him the will to kill it—he gutted and devoured it like a desperate animal after days without a single bite.
That was just one of countless atrocities he endured—and committed.
He was forced to be a bed for the Saint while he had sex with a female slave.
And then clean the room afterward.
All of it only fed the hatred burning inside him. He touched his collar, fists clenched in frustration.
"One day… One day I'll kill them all!!"
He screamed with what little strength he had left, eyes weary and without a place to rest. He lay down on the cold floor and closed his tired eyes, sleeping only to silence the growling in his stomach.
---
Eyes shut tight, teeth clenched from pain, he walked forward holding a rope in his bleeding hands.
He opened his eyes with a wince, breathing heavily but refusing to scream.
He was currently pulling a royal carriage alongside another, more muscular slave—likely newer or better fed, judging by how he stared at him with fear and horror at the sight of his bleeding wounds and countless scars.
Behind them, riding the carriage, sat Saint Gilert—his greasy face resting on one hand, while the other held a whip, which he used to lash him purely for amusement, not because he was slow.
"So boring... You don't scream like you used to. Are you broken already, slave?"
He asked, getting no reply. Irritated, he raised the whip and struck him three times in a row, drawing a pained grunt as he nearly collapsed.
"Did you hear me, slave!? Are you deaf now!? I don't recall amputating your ears just yet!"
He shouted in anger, whip in hand, as they paraded through the streets of Mary Geoise.
It was the first time a ray of sunlight had touched him in over two months, but he couldn't enjoy the view—not with the company he had.
"Hmph… You've lost your use. You're boring now. Tomorrow you'll be executed. Hear that, slave? You die tomorrow!"
He shouted with twisted glee, hoping for a reaction.
But he got nothing. His face remained neutral, unwilling to give that bastard the satisfaction. He gritted his teeth in anger and received another lash, this one commanding him to move.
"Move it, corpse!"
He ordered, forcing them forward, his head bowed low.
Despite his cold reaction, the news hit hard.
To know he had endured so much humiliation, so much suffering—for nothing?
It only made the rage burn hotter inside.
---
That same night, back in his cell, he gripped his head, scratching it desperately.
His skinny, malnourished body screamed for food—but what did it matter if he was going to die?
"Damn it, damn it, damn it! Think of something, damn it!!"
He slammed his head in frustration, trying to come up with an escape plan—anything to survive.
Break his wrist? Dislocate his jaw and remove the collar? Beg?
It didn't matter what he thought of—there was always a "but."
He hated it.
Hated his uselessness.
How weak he was.
How alone he felt.
On the brink of madness and despair, he suddenly heard something.
He looked up, confused.
(Ding… Load Complete: 100%)
[Welcome, Host, to the Recruitment System]
[Would you like to activate the Roulette?]
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What...?