Ultimately, while the buying and selling of slaves within the Empire was not illegal, the way in which they were exploited had gradually evolved into something far more sinister. While it was considered the fate of slaves to die from overwork, the emergence of professional slave traders was a far more serious matter. The trade increasingly focused on women and children for s*xual exploitation.

After Akan was first enslaved, his ownership changed hands several times. Children born into slavery quickly adapted to their circumstances, but for a child born into nobility and unaccustomed to submission, it was far more difficult to accept the life of a slave. Akan had endured countless humiliating and degrading experiences.

Looking again at the sparse report, Akan finally spoke.

“This is not what you have promised.”

“It is not an easy matter to resolve, as you well know.”

It wasn’t until he met Duke Mos that Akan discovered another force behind the professional slave traders. These were the people who funded the operations, fully aware of the atrocities being committed. The lead that Viscount Ansley had lost was in fact a trail that led directly to them.

Akan began to doubt whether Duke Mos and Viscount Ansley were really doing their best.

“Take the morale of the soldiers into account.”

Duke Mos lowered his head again, a look of guilt on his face. During the preparations for the rebellion, both Akan and Duke Mos had acquired a considerable number of slaves. Many of these were people who carried the stigma of being the descendants of defeated soldiers or rebels – people who were easily drawn to the cause of rebellion.

Most of these slaves became soldiers, while a few, left over from the former Emperor’s regime, remained. These were individuals whose only driving force was a thirst for revenge, having been deprived of any other desire to live. Under Akan’s orders, these individuals were tasked with monitoring and tormenting Robellia. In a way, they were perhaps the people most like Akan himself.

“If this goes on, I’ll have no choice but to change my mind.”

“Please, give us more time. There’s still much to be done.”

Akan rubbed his temples, feeling a sharp, relentless headache begin to take hold.

Any sense of justice had long since been abandoned, leaving only a burning desire for revenge. But even in his quest to punish those who had tormented him, Akan faced an overwhelming problem: there were too many people who had crossed his path, too many whose identities he didn’t know. To strike back, he had begun to target nobles who had owned or exploited slaves conditioned like himself, or those who had bought a single night of their suffering. But the numbers seemed endless.

The monotonous, grinding process wore him down. Sometimes Akan wondered if it would be easier to betray Duke Mos and assume the role of a true tyrant, indiscriminately slaughtering everyone in his path.

“Does it even matter anymore? Honestly, I’m not sure I care anymore.”

He turned his thoughts inward. Lately he had felt his spirit growing weary, as if his soul was slowly disintegrating. Every morning, when he woke from his nightmares, it took him longer and longer to regain his sense of reality. Maybe it would have been better if he had let himself die back then instead of joining forces with Duke Mos.

Or maybe… it wasn’t too late, even now.

These days, Robellia had surrendered completely, moving through life like a living corpse. Akan often wondered if it would not be better to go to the princess’s quarters and end her suffering with his own hands – to wrap his fingers around her neck and put an end to her miserable existence. Deep down, he was sure that Robellia might even be waiting for that.

Leaning his head back against the ornate chair, Akan sighed. All that remained in his hollow chest was anger and a thirst for revenge. If he lost even that, would there be anything left to keep him alive? He closed his eyes and let the darkness take over. As his vision faded, the voices from his dreams echoed once more in his mind.

No matter how many times he thought about it, the conclusion was always the same: there would never be a day when he could forgive Robellia.

—

The mixed aroma of extravagant dishes, prepared for appearance rather than necessity, filled the air, pungent and overwhelming. Akan, half-heartedly picking at his food, finally put down his utensils and glanced towards a corner of the dining hall.

Gagged and utterly silent, Robellia remained motionless, but her very presence grated on Akan’s nerves. In truth, it was inevitable; her very existence was an affront to him.

When Akan awoke from his nightmares, he would instinctively reach for a blade, consumed by the thought of going to the princess’s quarters to kill Robellia. The ritual had repeated itself so many nights that he often had to stop in the morning and remember whether or not he had actually done the deed.

The man holding Robellia’s lower body suddenly withdrew his p*nis, leaving her limp on the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

As Akan put down his glass, having moistened his lips with his post-meal drink, Robellia slowly began to move. Like a dog that had learnt not to be beaten, she gradually rose and crawled towards the table.

Robellia knelt at his feet and looked up at Akan. Her dull, lifeless eyes carried the resignation of one who had surrendered to all. It was as if she had chosen to give up her mind altogether, unable to bear the weight of reality.

Akan lifted her chin with his hand and removed the gag from her mouth. As he raised his other hand, ready to strike her cheek, Robellia closed her eyes in silence. Akan’s gaze swept her from head to toe.

Her dishevelled hair, neglected and tangled, was evidence of hands that had carelessly grasped and discarded it. One cheek was swollen from lingering bruises. Her body, covered in blotches of red and purple, bore the unmistakable marks of past abuse. The evidence of her suffering was vivid and undeniable.

And yet it still wasn’t enough. No matter how much he inflicted, it was never enough. Even her submissive posture, as if accepting her fate, felt like defiance to Akan – a quiet, infuriating arrogance in his eyes.

“Open your eyes.”

As Robellia obeyed, the first thing she saw was the glint of light reflecting off metal. A knife, stained with the juices of carved flesh, floated precisely in line with her eye. Akan, holding the blade, looked down at her with an expression that seemed to be testing her, as if measuring her reaction.

Akan looked into Robellia’s amethyst eyes. Fear flickered faintly in them at first, but quickly faded, swallowed up by resignation. In silence, Robellia looked away, her expression devoid of defiance.

Akan’s brow furrowed. He brushed the back of his knife against the side of her flushed cheek. Robellia showed no reaction – no flicker of fear, no sign of relief.

Thud.

The knife clattered on the carpet as Akan tossed it aside.

For Robellia, the whole ordeal felt pointless. All she wanted was to eat, fill her stomach and return to the bedroom. Whether she was hit, touched or violated, it didn’t matter – she just closed her eyes and waited for it to pass.