HPL 07

chapter 07

As I glanced around the room, Roy stepped out from behind the curtain. So he had hidden because he sensed someone.

Roy approached me, and when he saw the tray full of food, his eyes widened.

“Are you going to eat all that by yourself?”

“No. You’re going to eat with me, Roy.”

“Me too?”

Roy gave me a strange look as he questioned.

I didn’t know if Roy, like me, hadn’t eaten anything for two days, but as a slave, he probably didn’t have the chance to eat plenty.

I placed the food on the table and gestured to Roy, who was standing still.

“Come here and eat with me.”

My gestures grew faster and more urgent.

Come quickly. Come quickly. I’m anxious. Why do I feel so strange?

When I almost flapped my hands to signal him, Roy approached the table with an even stranger expression than before.

I watched quietly as Roy picked up some bread.

When I just stared, he tilted his head.

“Why are you just staring? You were hungry.”

Eating = putting food in the mouth, chewing, and swallowing.

I knew what eating was. But until now, my knowledge hadn’t connected properly to action.

I thought it would be better to watch a human’s example first, in case some variable came up again.

“You should eat first. It’s for the guest.”

At my words, Roy tilted his head in confusion and took a bite of bread.

I carefully observed him chew and swallow.

Ah, so that’s how it’s done. Simple enough.

Confidently, I picked up a piece of bread and took a big bite.

A moment later, I heard Tommy’s voice.

{Couldn’t you eat a bit more properly? Watching you is embarrassing.}

When I regained my senses, there was a pile of eaten food in front of me.

Did I really eat all this? I couldn’t remember when or how I had done it.

When I glanced at him, Tommy seemed to sense my question.

{How did you eat? Like a maniac. If I were the same kind of god, I might have died of shame.}

Gods don’t die.

{That’s even worse.}

I quietly put down the bread in my hands.

Roy held the half-eaten bread and looked at me curiously. He didn’t say anything, but I explained anyway.

“A lot happened over the past few days. Don’t worry about it now—just eat.”

“…Seems like too much to eat alone. Let’s eat together.”

{After watching you eat like that and still telling him to eat more? You’re not an ordinary guy.}

Tommy forgot that Roy couldn’t hear him and spoke to him.

Meanwhile, I was lost in thought for a moment.

My stomach no longer twisted from hunger. But one fruit I hadn’t tried yet caught my attention.

Yes. I’ll just eat that one and be done.

I slowly reached out and grabbed the orange fruit.

When I bit into it, the hard, smooth skin enclosed sweet flesh.

Every bite of the flesh washed away the irritation and unexplained anxiety I had felt around the maids.

I bit down on a seed in the middle, forcing my jaw to crush it.

When I heard the cracking sound, Roy quietly asked,

“You wouldn’t eat the seeds along with the fruit, right?”

I quietly spat the seed into my palm and said, more seriously than ever,

“Who eats persimmon seeds? It was a mistake.”

“Still, you chewed quite a bit.”

Roy looked at the almost crushed seed.

Hmm, maybe I chewed it too much to call it a mistake?

{Go for it, Naida.}

Tommy left a cheer from nowhere. Helpers, tell me how to get out of this situation.

I had no choice but to slightly adapt the truth.

“Lots happened over the past few days. I was distracted and didn’t even realize I was chewing the persimmon seeds.”

Honestly, it sounded suspicious. Yet, surprisingly, Roy didn’t press the matter and began eating again.

His lips seemed to curl slightly. I hoped it was just an optical illusion.

Suddenly, Naida collapsed, and the man panicked.

Should I run away? Why did I follow this woman?

A flood of thoughts overwhelmed him, but he approached Naida. Her face was pale up close.

“Did she use too much divine power?”

He muttered, recalling the moments she had treated him.

One of the slaves who had been trapped with Roy always mocked him under the guise of giving advice.

[Only a high-ranking priest can fix that knee. Even high-ranking priests, whom normal people barely see, would help a slave? Accept your situation if you don’t want the other knee ruined too.]

Another slave warned that she was top-quality now and they’d try to train her, but if her value dropped, they’d kill her immediately.

At that moment, the man wished he were dead. He wanted to die while he still thought of himself as human.

No one helps a slave.

Even treatment was just preparation for further torture. So he believed death was the only way out.

Yet this woman helped him. She healed him. Even if hypocritical, he had never received help like this.

The man cautiously reached his hand toward Naida’s forehead.

Just before touching, he instinctively hesitated.

Slave traders, and even fellow slaves, had tormented him.

Slaves who accepted their fate felt a sense of deprivation when they saw someone resist until the end. That deprivation quickly turned into violent words and actions.

[You fool. You’re just like us, a slave.]

[If you ruin the instructors’ mood because of yourself, today’s meal will be messed up too!]

[It’s not the knee, it’s the head that needs fixing for you to snap out of it.]

After all this, he even hated physical contact. Yet he suppressed the instinctive aversion and touched Naida’s forehead.

There was no fever.

He moved his hand to her neck.

Feeling her warmth and pulse, he was overtaken by a feeling he could not describe—so intense that he couldn’t tell if it was pleasant or not.

After overcoming the strange feeling and testing it, he confirmed Naida’s pulse was normal.

{Human, don’t worry. I thought you were staying awake out of a mission to prevent the world’s destruction. But seeing you now, you seemed to have forgotten that humans need to sleep.}

Tommy crossed his arms in midair, clicking his tongue.

The man, unable to hear Tommy, looked around and found the bed. He lifted Naida in his arms.

Not knowing what was wrong, he decided the bed was better than the floor.

As he carried her, a strange sensation swept over him.

Just a few hours ago, moving even slightly had been excruciating.

His whole body ached, especially his right knee, which felt like being stabbed with a knife every second.

It was almost miraculous he could escape in that state.

Now, carrying Naida, he felt no strain. When had he last been able to move freely? He couldn’t remember.

He gently laid Naida on the bed.

As her hair shifted, a few strands of platinum hidden among the black strands became visible.

“A wig?”

He didn’t understand why she had worn a wig in public or why she saved him, a slave.

So many things happened at once that he was confused.

The man, as if hypnotized, looked at Naida. He sensed movement outside and raised his eyes.

His body, ruined from being a slave, had become unnaturally sensitive.

He quickly scanned for a hiding spot and spotted the floor-length curtain.

Just as he hid behind it, the door suddenly swung open.

“What? She’s asleep.”

A young woman’s voice came from the door.

The man frowned instinctively. Her tone was condescending, as if feeling superior to a slave.

He peeked at her through the curtain.

A woman with long, dark blonde hair walked briskly to the bed. She glared at Naida, then suddenly reached out.

As the man tensed, Ariel muttered.

“Ugh, why did the Countess invite such a woman to the tea party? She should have just died then and there.”

Ariel mimed striking Naida’s head and left.

Only then did the man relax and realize what he had almost done. He thought she was trying to strangle Naida and nearly ran out.

Revealing himself like that? A runaway slave shouldn’t act this way. Why did he even try?

He quietly looked at his hands.

These were the hands Naida had held, the hands that had touched her forehead. Was it the warmth he felt then? Or her words?

[Slaves are made by fools who think they’re smart. To me, slaves, nobles, or kings are all the same.]

Perhaps because Naida didn’t see him as a slave, he tried to act as a human receiving help, not a slave.

He clenched his right hand and stepped out from behind the curtain.

The room darkened, but he leaned against the wall, staying awake.

Sleeping a day or two was nothing. He had endured full-day torture and had barely slept while watching other slaves.

In the middle of the night, Naida suddenly sat up and muttered into the air.

Her voice was soft, but waking and mumbling worried him.

“Are you okay now?”

Naida turned at his voice.

“I’m fine. But you’re still here? I thought you’d go elsewhere…”

“I was worried about the situation…”

“Oh my, surprisingly kind.”

Naida pressed her hands together as she spoke, and the man hesitated. He didn’t expect to be praised like this. But the surprises continued.

“You never accepted that you’re a slave. If you had, you wouldn’t have run away. So you don’t need to act deferential toward me, thinking of yourself as a slave.”

He was stunned.

Some pity slaves. None treat them as fully human.

Her words struck deep into his heart.

“…What’s your name?”

He tried casual speech, curious how she would react.

Without a trace of displeasure, she answered naturally.

“Daina. And what’s your name?”

He couldn’t reply.

Slave traders use a drug called Bedman when training slaves. One side effect is memory loss.

He had lost memories of his past because of it. He didn’t know how he had lived or become a slave.

He remembered slave traders forcing him: “Slaves are not human. Obey like a dog.”

At first, others resisted with him, but one by one gave up.

Resisting only made the punishment harsher. If you gave up being human, you wouldn’t be beaten and would get food.

Still, he wanted to remain human. So his memories were all of suffering.

Every so-called “training” involved cruelty.

He clung to vague memories to retain himself, but what came to mind were blurry images.

He remembered being attacked on a carriage. He didn’t recall who was with him, where they were going, or who the attackers were.

He remembered one of the attackers speaking something important—but even that was forgotten.

Desperate to remain human, he was sold to a mysterious woman one day.

She wore a mask and hat, so her face was hidden. But he could see the faces of three young male slaves beside her.

The young male slaves smiled gently, but their eyes were empty.

Seeing them respond monotonously to her, he bit his lip.

He didn’t want to become a broken doll like them. He escaped during delivery to her home.

He didn’t care if he died running away. Then he met Naida.

A strange woman.

She thoughtfully considered a slave’s name, smacked her own stomach to show hunger, and ate greedily without concern for dignity.

Whenever he looked at her curiously, she said,

“Lots happened over the past few days.”

Her eyes had no hypocrisy or lies. Instead, they conveyed a purity not of this world.

So he accepted her words fully, even about things he couldn’t understand, like work or chewing persimmon seeds.

Being with Naida made him forget his ingrained suspicion and caution.

“Roy.”

He whispered the name Naida had given him.

He always felt like he stood on thin ice. If it broke, he would fall into obedient slavery. That fear always lingered deep in his heart.

But whispering “Roy” seemed to thicken the ice beneath him.

He whispered his name again.

“Roy.”

Just as a newborn duck recognizes the first thing it sees as its mother, the girl who named Roy left a special imprint.

And so the man became Roy.