Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 24 – The Blood That Binds

Chapter 24 – The Blood That Binds

Oliver's eyes snapped open, breath shallow, and his skin clammy from the dream that had just ended.

Or was it a trial? He wasn't sure anymore. The moment his consciousness returned, glowing glyphs shimmered into view above him in the dark corner of the slave cage.

+5 Points to Speed

+2 Points to Strength

He blinked. Just that? But then he paused. All he had done was run—and yet, he had gained this much. These were not small rewards. They were generous, considering he did absolutely nothing in the dream, much like the uselessness he was.

Still, he had no time to dwell on the pleasure.

There was problem at the side.

A commotion had broke out at the edge of his vision.

Two slaves were grappling within the cramped confines of the cage. At first it looked like a fight. But it was not a fight, but a one-sided beating.

One man, larger and louder, slammed his fists into a smaller, weaker figure, who barely had the strength to cry out. Blood flowed freely onto the already-filthy floor.

Some slaves, bored out of their minds cheered quietly. Others recoiled into corners, clinging to whatever dignity they had left. The commotion naturally drew attention from other slaves in other cages, and of course drew the attention of the soldiers on duty. But when a soldier passed by, he peered in—and chuckled, doing nothing.

This was their plan. The slaves were meant to hate each other. It was only normal for fights to break out amongst them.

Eventually, the victor rose, shoulders rising and falling with fatigue.

He stooped down and picked up the prize that had sparked the fight: a half-moldy slab of stale black bread. He stood tall, swaying a bit.

Even Oliver was not surprised. The Fracture Protocol was invented by that pscho family in the Somara empire. They were truly devious by nature. It was only normal for it to work.

But then he did something no one, not even Oliver expected. He divided the bread.

Four pieces. One for himself. One he handed to a frail old man. Another he passed to two malnourished children sitting close together. The last piece, he gave to a woman too exhausted to meet his eyes.

Then he lifted his hand.

Even other cages fell silent as he raised his voice. His tone was low, confident, almost too polished.

"My name is Garron," he said. "No last name. Just like most of you."

A murmur rippled through the gathered slaves. No last name meant that he was of no noble or royal family.

"I see my people suffering," Garron continued. "And it hurts. We're all afraid. Taken from our homes. Dragged to lands we don't know. But we will endure. Not as peasants, or nobles, or servants. But as one people."

Cheers erupted. He raised the stale bread high.

"This man I struck down," he said, motioning to the groaning, bloodied heap in the corner, "tried to hoard. He took when others starved. He had two and refused to share. I gave justice. Not for me—for us."

The cheers grew louder. Cries of "Great man!" and "Justice!" filled the stale air.

Oliver watched silently. This hadn't happened in his past life. Not once. No man had rallied the slaves. No voice had risen in solidarity.

He couldn't help but think hard at this. In the past life after he had been beaten silly. Since Velma had also not been able to resist, Sir Bolton had them in chains in no time.

After which he went into town to hunt with the other deranged nobles.

Had Garron died in the previous timeline—perhaps under Sir Bolton's blade?

Had Oliver's interference changed things this much?

But more than that, there was something else. Oliver narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong. Garron's speech was too perfect. Too poised. Oliver had grown up around manipulators who wore masks of civility. And that smile Garron wore as they praised him... it was the kind of smile Oliver had seen on nobles.

If he didn't know better, he would say that Garron had found a loophole within the Fracture Protocol and was taking advantage of it.

Such a man to easily adapt and take advantage of the situation, especially one like this, should not be taken lightly.

Soon, with lack of enough strength, everyone had settled back down. Most had slept.

Oliver on the other hand, turned his attention to the blood on the floor.

Crawling forward while others slumped into sleep, Oliver reached out and touched it. He didn't know what to expect, only that his Blood Absorption skill called to him.

The blood surged upward like it was alive, crawling up his fingers and into his skin.

A strange satisfaction followed. Power flickered through him—only for a second. Then it vanished, almost imperceptible.

He sat back, surprised.

It worked. The ability was real. He had inherited the Demon Deity's bloodline. And a lot had happened, most were dreams, But to think this was now is reality was mind blowing.

But something still felt off. According to the system description of the skill, he should have gained more strength.

His eyes drifted to the half-dead man in the corner that had been beaten for another to rise. His limbs shook. His breaths were shallow.

That was it. The man had no real power left to give.

Oliver's thoughts turned. Did that mean... stronger blood offered better rewards?

His fingers curled into a fist. He wasn't disgusted by what he had done. He didn't think of it as wrong. But he did pity the man. A tool used and discarded like trash.

The others might see the man's fate as punishment, but Oliver saw it for what it truly was—an example.

He returned to his corner and pulled away the loose floorboard where he'd hidden his bread. Some of it was missing.

A glance at Velma told him everything. Her lips were stained with crumbs. Her eyes closed, but her expression tense. She must've finally caved to hunger.

Even as a former princess, ideals had limits.

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Oliver smiled faintly and took a bite of what remained. When he laid down beside her, Velma stirred and instinctively pulled him into her arms, cradling him like she used to in their better days.

However, the moment was terribly shattered by laughter.

Boots echoed down the corridor. A soldier held an Aether lamp high, illuminating the cages as three—no, four—nobles followed behind him. Their clothes were lavish, untouched by the filth. Their eyes gleamed with hunger of a different kind.

Slaves were ordered to stand. The chains rattled as they obeyed.

The nobles peered in, eyeing women, choosing by beauty and strength. They pointed. Whispered. Laughed.

Oliver's stomach turned. He had seen this before. Lived through it.

Sir Fen Bolton used to come during these sessions. Always choosing Velma. Always returning her more broken than the last.

Sir Fen Bolton might no longer be here. But that did not mean that the threat was gone.

Oliver looked at her sleeping form beside him—too beautiful to be ignored.

She definitely got her looks from their mother he never met. And that long white hair only added an extra charm to her.

Oliver made up his mind. He immediately reached for a splintered piece of wood not far away.

"Forgive me, sister," he whispered. "I do this for you."

She blinked groggily, raising her head just in time to see the shadow of her brother's hand.

Then he struck her across the face.

Harder than he ever thought he could.

The strength from the dream—the +2 Strength—flowed into that blow.

Velma cried out, tumbling to the floor.

And Oliver stood above her, just a scared boy with cruel eyes willing to go miles for the one he loved above his own life.

The footsteps of the nobles drew closer.