AN: Warning, the MC doesn't have a very charitable view towards Japanese people – there's gonna be some language.
Thanks to WitheringApollo for beta-ing this chapter!
Dr. Gale: Thanks! I've never heard of that book before, but I might check it out. Looking forward to seeing you again in the future.
Kvantovy: Thanks for the review! I'm planning on Rifana becoming a main character – as for how that happens, well… read and find out! As for what game engine, it could be all run on a Russian toaster for all I know – I just thought it'd be funny to include that little warning. For Rabier, I have plans(TM)... and finally, all I can say is that Luther ain't gonna be having a good time anytime soon.
ENSLAVEMENT ARC PART III: Sweet Dreams and Gitmo Whips
"Just as man cannot live without dreams, he cannot live without hope. If dreams reflect the past, hope summons the future." – Elie Wiesel
Alston Building Suite 401, Tuscaloosa, Alabama – November 10, 1964 (3:22 p.m. Central Time)
"This, Luther, is where the real magic happens…"
An older man raised his hand. He looked to be in his late thirties – the first flecks of gray on the sideburns, some new wrinkles cut across his, others deepening. He leaned back onto the foldable metal chair as if it were the finest sofa in the neighborhood.
Luther, meanwhile, kept shifting back and forth, trying to dismiss the heat and the sweat as he resisted the urge to pick at his collar. Even in November, Alabama was as humid as even the dampest of jungles. It was suffocating; he was a person naturally built for the bitter cold, as a North Dakotan.
Sure, even up there during the summer, it got hot sometimes, but it was never this insufferably swampy.
Of course, the older man – his mentor – felt right at home in the oppressing heat, being of southron stock himself. Luther could only glare in jealousy as he happily babbled on.
"Out here, where you can feel the wrath of both the Almighty, and us, mere mortal men… where you can taste the blood, sweat, and tears…" A quiet, dignified chuckle. He fiddled with his ring a slight bit as he stared off towards the door, "...it's one hell of an experience."
"Right… s-sir," Luther stammered awkwardly.
"Aww c'mon, call me Jim… at least while our mark's still not here," Jim insisted, "I already get that stick-in-the-ass attitude from up top, I don't need it comin' from your gobbler too."
"Of course, Jim,"
"Great," Jim stretched his arms out and cracked all his knuckles, "Now, as I was saying… They may treat you kids like God's gift to Uncle Sam for your four-point-oh's back at Arlington and The Farm, but when they ship y'all out in the fields, that don't mean nothing. You don't know shit from Shinola when you're in the thick of it – remember that."
"Thank you,"
"Oh, don't thank me. I just don't wanna send you back to your cornfield in a little pine box." Then, Luther's eyes were bathed in a faint green light. Jim lifted his pinky finger, to reveal a tiny glowing circle at the end of it, "Besides, looks like our mark just opened the front door, right on time…"
A small spike of nervousness shot through Luther, which he quickly suppressed. Jim adjusted his tie, and let out a proud huff.
"So sit back, relax, and watch this little play unfold," He waved his hand, the rune disintegrated into sparks, plunging the office into relative darkness, the only light filtered through the thick curtains and a large rebel flag.
Creak… Creak… Creak…
Floor on the hallway outside groaned as footsteps softly approached. Jim gave Luther one last look, putting a hand on his shoulder,
"Showtime." He whispered to the wind.
The knob jiggled, letting the door loose as it shouted an ungreased screech. A man in his mid-thirties poked his head through the entrance and flicked on the light. He looked around and stopped in his tracks…
Blink… Blink…
He jumped slightly, mind finally catching up to him; he gave them one fierce glare, "Now who t' devil 'r you two!? Wha'd'ya doin' in my office!?" He quickly shuffled over beside an old filing cabinet.
"Afta'noon, Mr. Shelton," Jim emphasized his southern drawl. The target relaxed slightly, as they tended to unconsciously do when they feel that they were among their own kind, "We 'ave a few questions for ya. Please…" Jim gestured to a nearby chair, right up against the wall, "...take a seat. The faster we git this done, the faster we're on our way."
Unfortunately, the man proved more unaccommodating than they had thought.
"No! Not 'till ya tell me who in the Sam Hill you think you are!" Spittle flew from his mouth, his face almost red, "I sweah, ya ain't gon' get away with trespassin' – not wit' my boy's–"
"Sir," Jim firmly cut the man off mid-tirade, ""I'm afraid I'm not a' liberty t' be sharin' me or my friend 'ere's identity, since it's all classified. But, if it makes ya comfortable, y'may call me Mr. Wolf, and my colleague, Mr. Fox for the time bein'." He gave the man a shit-eating grin, "To make things simple, we're your friends from the Combined Office of Intelligence."
The man's face went pale…
He immediately snapped into action – reaching behind the large counter. A shot of energy speared through Luther's nerves.
"[Disassemble], [Bind], [Increase Gravity]" Half on instinct, Luther shot off a series of spells through rapid fire muttering. Mana roared through his veins and he could feel it leaving his body, being sucked out like a siphon.
At the same time, Jim gave him a wink of approval for his quick thinking. The man pulled out a large handgun and aimed it right at Jim's chest, but right as he was about to pull the trigger…
Chink, Clink-Clack!
…only for his gun to fall apart like an end-of-war Soviet "tank". Only the grip remained still in his palm, as the barrel, slide, and other such parts fell onto the floor as if they were covered in butter.
Dropping the disassembled gun in shock, the man tried to leap forward, only to find his ankles bound by an ethereal, glowing shackles. He tripped, and the ground met him far too quickly as a harsh force pulled him down, knocking the wind out of him.
"Y'can't do this t' me!" The man hollered between rattling gasps, "I have my rights! I don't see no Goddamned warrant on ya!" Like a rabid dog, he frothed at the mouth, his eyes darting back and forth between the two agents.
A small sprinkle of spittle made the journey across the room, to land on Jim's cheek. With calm confidence, Luther's mentor stepped up, and wiped off the insult, crouching down to be eye to eye.
"Mr. Shelton, I'm afraid you're fundamentally misunderstanding the kind of situation you've just put yourself into," His mentor immediately dropped the charming good ol' boy act, leaning in and getting uncomfortably close to the man's face. The man tried to crawl away, but the gravity kept him pinned in place.
"The very second you took that half-a-million in donations from that lovely gentleman Mr. Günther Kirchner, who by coincidence, happens to be a high level operative of der Sicherheitsdienst, well…" An oppressive aura formed around Jim – the man shivered in place, "...Let's just say those rights don't apply to you no more."
The man looked a half-step from an outright heart attack; he was breathing as fast as a chipmunk high on Pervitin.
"Oh, don't worry, we aren't going after your little Klan… for now at least." The threat wasn't as empty as the man would have liked. Rumor had it that the House Committee of Un-American Activities were sticking their noses in Dixieland, because the sausage getting cooked there was starting to smell a little like Bratwurst, "But if that rebel pie-hole of yours blubbers bullshit instead of the truth, and nothing but the truth…"
A puddle formed and grew around the man's waist… It reeked a thousand times worse than NBC training.
"...Well, I hope you said your prayers, 'cause you're getting a one-way ticket to Mr. Morningstar's doorstep." Jim pulled a small razor out of his pocket, and gently tapped it against the man's neck, nicking it with a few droplets of red.
This business… was a little more messy than Luther had anticipated.
Wait… Why is his face so itchy–
Rabier Manor Dungeon, Rabier Territory, Kingdom of Melromarc – June 22nd, 1969; Day 2 (8:25 p.m. local time)
His cheek pressed against worn stone, deathly cold to the touch; it made his teeth chatter. Some errant straw tickled his nose, coming dangerously close to poking his eye out. He resisted the enraging pressure within his nose, now wasn't the time for any undue noise.
He glanced around and at the corner of his eye, finding only a nearly empty dungeon, and one of his tails peacefully swaying, stirring up the stale but cool air. He perked an ear up,
Drip… drip… drip…
Nothing, except what was to be expected… and a child's faint breathing. Good, it seemed the healing spell worked, at least for now.
All clear, His mind signaled.
He gently pushed himself upright, wiping the built up crust off the corners of his eyes. His muscles felt stiff, and the tiny grate up near the ceiling, his only view to the outside world, showed that it was getting dark.
How long did I sleep for?...
He shook his head, loosening up the cobwebs. A short gust of air blew through the gate, carrying with it the smell of animal waste; he scrunched his nose. There was a slight tremor in every movement of his… the pit in his stomach grew more stabbing by the minute.
He was here before… the enemy was trying to make him weak and compliant… broken… Skin and bones, shivering in the excruciating cold no matter how bright and sunny…
He went on his knees and clasped his hands until his knuckles were white. There was one thing he knew they could never take away,
"O Heavenly Father, Our Lord and Creator, I humbly beseech thee…"
His throat rasped, drier than the wastes of The Negev. Some may have thought him a bad Christian for what he had done…
"I find myself lost in a strange land, far from home, a lamb taken from thy flock,"
…and sure, there were times when he doubted his faith, especially in the darkest of moments, seeing the greatest evils that man could produce in the dark jungle…
"Please, Lord, my shepherd, grant me guidance and show me the path back to your embrace,"
But in the end, it only grew stronger. It was a funny thing, that… How possibly deluding oneself could be the only way to remain sane…
"Please, Lord, All-Knowing, grant me the wisdom to see it through,"
His mother thought so, during the war – thick in those terrifying days of blood and madness. Her work had her see the worst of it up front, and him too, even if for most of it, he was too young to remember…
"Please, Lord, All-Powerful, grant me strength, so that I may break my chains,"
…And through her misery of that time and even on her deathbed, the only time she looked to have any semblance of peace was when she prayed.
"Praise thy name, Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost,"
Also… was not the fact that he was here proof of the Lord's power?
"And deliver me from sin and temptation,"
Was this not another test?
"For I will need thy light the most to guide me in these darkest of times,"
Well, he hoped so… Maybe the world would make more sense then…
"In Jesus' name I pray,"
He desperately needed some certainty in his life right now, even if it was a paradox based on some unproven faith…
"Amen."
Rabier Manor Dungeon, Rabier Territory, Kingdom of Melromarc – June 22nd, 1969; Day 2 (10:10 p.m. local time)
"Ngghhh…." The girl stirred, shrinking into a fetal position as she groaned in pain.
Luther had his back to the eroded brick wall, blankly staring at the half rusted bars ahead. Unconsciously, he hovered a hand over her frail form,
[Minor Heal]
She was enveloped in a faint green glow; the lethargic tossing and turning came to an end… and she opened her eyes.
"..."
"..."
Luther was the first to blink.
"You… called me… little girl…" Her timbre was quite raspy, the words barely managing to escape her mouth in wheezing exhaustion. Though not in such a terrible state as before, she still looked worse than he felt.
"Have I?..." He honestly couldn't remember…
[Minor Heal]
The gleam in her eyes grew just that little bit more… it looked as if she had just drank a small cup of coffee and it was starting to kick in. Conversely, a splash of fatigue pricked at Luther's muscles, adding a drop of molasses on top of every movement of his.
"Yeah…" Her voice's quality improved markedly as she cleared her throat, "Yesterday, before…"
He snorted, "Helluva thanks I get, huh… 'You called me little girl' she says…"
"But I'm a big girl… Mommy and Daddy said so!" Her face twisted to a half pout at his good humor. It reminded him of those times his little cousin came over – "I'm a superhero because I am, duh." and all that jazz…
Most children had a logic system completely alien to the realm of adults, but most of the time, the end results were predictable and obvious, even if it didn't make sense. He knew this by heart and took advantage of it many times – it was mind-boggling how many national secrets were shared at the dinner table… and how you could find a whole hidden research facility and town in the middle of a jungle with nought but a lollipop and a smile.
"Ain't that right…" He replied unenthusiastically.
She was not pleased in the slightest by his lackluster response, if her furrowed brow was any indication. It was jarring to be near such an honest, readable person, after years of constant deception and social engineering.
"I'm a whole ten years old!" She earnestly sold the premise as the end-all be-all of her argument.
Gah! Such magnificent logic – my mind can't take it!
"...huh."
"Hmmph!" Her half-pout graduated to a full scowl, "Well how would you feel if I started calling you little boy?"
"Whoa whoa whoa! Now you're crossing the line, Missy. I am clearly not just some little… boy…" He glanced down, immediately reminded of the current state of his body, a bundle of sticks covered by some pale skin, "... but I'm still older than you!"
But it was too late, she already relished in her victory with a proud smile, having been proven right in the face of objective wrongness. There was no way that Luther could ever recover…
"..."
"..."
The two drifted back to a comfortable silence… at least, as comfort as their current lodgings would allow. Luther went his usual routine of stretches, no good reason to get rid of one of his very few good habits, and she chose a spot to stare at and presumably started daydreaming.
Eventually…
"...thanks."
…A faint mutter from her, barely recognizable as anything but a breath drowned out by the sound of straw getting crushed, even to his new ears. He stopped himself halfway to his toes,
"Whazzat?"
"I… uh…" Her face flushed with embarrassment, she started fidgeting with a tiny makeshift flag – made from a splinter and some cloth – "T-Thanks for saving me…"
He puffed up in pride, "You're very much welcome, Miss…" Right… He bit his lip.
He forgot to ask what her name was.
"Rifana!" She filled in helpfully, as if reading his mind.
"Thank you," Luther groaned as he reached the apex of his movement, his hand a half-foot farther past his toes than it was in his old body. The benefits of being so young, he supposed. Now, if only he could keep it this time…
He let himself back, his hamstrings thoroughly spent and burning; he switched to focusing on his back and arms.
"So… What's your name, little boy?" Rifana asked, a smug expression painted on her face.
Luther tried to suppress his newfound distaste of the moniker, but his twitching eye and straightened tails betrayed his true feelings. He gave her a strained smile as she silently – and most likely intentionally – rained on his parade.
"Luther… Luther Groza," He dropped to a plank, "And I'm twent-'' Damn it! "Twelve, thank you very much!"
"Really, huh?" She tilted her head like a lost puppy, "But you're so short and tiny?"
Ouch! He felt a knife stabbing into his pride.
He couldn't help it – he was always among the shortest in his class growing up. It wasn't until he was fifteen that he grew tall enough– Oh Dear Lord, he had to go through that again…
Lord save my soul…
"...And I'm taller than you, and-"
"Twelve." He growled out, not accepting any argument to the contrary
"Whatever you say, little boy.~"
Grrr…
Luther retaliated by giving her the silent treatment. Sure, it was childish, but he was allowed that, since he was now a child – however many times he had to be reminded of that fact. And besides, he was really good at it, since it was literally part of his job description before he was spirited away. In cold silence, he wrapped up his routine and returned to a criss-cross applesauce position.
"Mmmm… Where ya from?" Rifana broke his precious peace, fidgeting in impatience, "I'm from Lurolona village, near the coast… before…" She trailed off right then and there, eyes staring off in the distance…
Ah… More in common than I'd thought…
"Well…" He started, breaking her fugue. She shook her head and focused on him, "... If you wanna get technical, I was born in a little hamlet called Twardów, in a place called Poland. But a bunch of very mean men called the Nazis came and burned it all down…" And rounded everyone in front of a trench and put bullets in their skulls, "So, me and my mom moved to my Uncle Judah's home near Edwinton, North Dakota – a small town in an endless sea of farms and pastures."
She scratched her chin, little weasel ears fluttering, "I've never heard of those places…"
"M'not surprised," He hummed, "I've traveled a long way, from a land very, very far away…"
"Father than Q'ten Lo?"
Key-Ten-Low? What the devil is that!?... Sounds vaguely Chinese…
"You could say that…" He spoke noncommittally.
"Wow…" Stars appeared in her eyes, blazing in curiosity, "Tell me more!"
Hmm… How do I put it in 'Sword and Sorcery' terms… Quite the pickle…
"I hail from the mighty American Empire, a union of fifty-one kingdoms – of which North Dakota is one – under the rule of two councils, the House and the Senate, and led by a president." He hammed it up and took a few liberties, it wasn't like anyone here could prove him wrong, "But, unlike many other empires, ours is of and by the people, and everyone has a say…"
…Mostly. There were a few exceptions, like convicted felons, but everyone outside of a few backwaters in the deep south had an equal voice in the ballot box. The Civil Rights Act may have been signed back in '58 by President McCarthy – his final act in office before his death– but many counties were slow on the uptake.
"How does that work?" He could practically see the bright glowing question mark above her head; it was frankly adorable.
"Well it's a very complicated process, but to put it simply: every four years, we all choose a President, every six years, who's in the Senate, and every two, who's in the House." He would say more, but to be honest, there was only so much you could explain to a medieval child.
"Sounds weird." She said bluntly.
"It is. But it's far better than filthy Nazi's do."
"And what do they do?" She asked innocently.
"..." He blinked, "...Maybe when you're older."
She gave a fierce pout, but when that didn't work, settled down to an unsatisfied glare. This was one thing Luther wouldn't budge on – not while this girl had some semblance of innocence; Lord knows he didn't have that privilege.
Some things were best kept secret.
The conversation soon turned back to her side. Rifana happily regaled him with tales of her home, about her friends and family – a Raff-something and a Keel; such strange names this world had. There was a sort of sadness in her eyes, as if mourning, but it seemed the warmness of the memories overridden the pain.
But then, when she made a reference to this land's strange idolatrous religion… It was one hell of a revelation…
Shield Hero… Melromarc… THIS IS FROM THAT DAMNED BOOK!
He just barely managed to hold his ever deepening horror back from showing on his face. How could he have missed such obvious clues!? This really put a wrench into that surviving thing he was planning on.
He racked his brain, trying to remember what the hell happened in it, but could only come up with the broader strokes. He didn't go through hell translating it for its admittedly lackluster plot, he was too focused on finding magic spells and ciphers to send back home, which was a futile task in the end.
All he knew was that the King and Princess couldn't be trusted, and that there was going to be a monster apocalypse at an undetermined time in the not-so-distant future. Very helpful!
"-And I hope that I'll meet the Shield Hero one day…"
And there was the Shield Hero himself – chances are, it would be that moody Jap creep. Just his luck that this Iwa-something bastard was the demihuman equivalent to Jesus!
What good was he!?
Getting pulled into court politics and being framed as a rapist?
Perpetuating the demonic practice of slavery by buying that Raff-God-Knows-What girl and using her as a tool? And if life hadn't taught him anything, that Raff-something name couldn't have been a coincidence…
He was perfectly happy just sticking to his Sunday-school Gospel, but he kept his thoughts and opinions to himself, lest he'd upset Rifana.
Eventually, the talk went back to what he did,
"So what was that strange muttering you did earlier? And how did you do that… green-glowy… nngh… thingy?" Rifana slowed down, starting to go a little pale. She grasped her abdomen and tried to rock back and forth; it was clear that pain was quickly coming back, and there was nothing she could do by herself to relieve it…
"Magic." He answered honestly, raising a hand up. Rifana started breaking out into a sweat, shivering.
"You're…nngh–Ow!" She yelped, "You can use magic?"
"[Minor Heal]" He answered her question with a wave of his hand.
Her tired eyes, teared up from the agony, rolled back into her head, and she slumped back into the pile of straw, peacefully asleep.
"Yes… I can" He sighed.
He sat back against the stone wall, and went back to staring at nothing. For the rest of the night, he didn't get a wink of sleep…
Rabier Manor Dungeon, Rabier Territory, Kingdom of Melromarc – June 29nd, 1969; Day 9 (6:58 p.m. local time)
Almost a week has passed now since he got thrown into the dungeon, and a sort of monotony has started to take root. He'd wake up, talk to Rifana, sometimes a guard might feel generous enough to feed them supper that day, and they'd go back to bed. He hadn't seen that fat lord since he was sold.
The girl was currently napping by his side – she was recovering quite well. Lately, she had been far more active and animate, and it seemed that her pain was coming close to going away altogether; the process accelerated thanks to his prolific use of [Minor Heal].
Zzzzzzz…
Of course, there were other minor annoyances…
Zzzzz…. zzzzZZZZT!
…Like this damned fly buzzing around his second ears. No matter how much he flicked the insect off, the little bastard kept on wandering back like a boomerang.
Zzzzzzz…zzzzzzz…zzzzZZZZZT!
It landed on the floor. He struck.
Thwack!
And it landed true, ending the annoyance once and for all…
…
…
…
…That was the most interesting event all day. As it turns out, this body got bored a hell of a lot easier than his old one, which meant some concerning things, especially with his still-developing brain chemistry.
He still had his memories, his training, and his core personality… but there might have been more things different now than he thought, or liked to admit…
This can't be good for my sanity.
…
NOTICE:
The SMS physics engine has been updated to fit the needs of the user. Resolution has been found for the conflict with otherworldly magic and physics. To view the full list of changes, please open the changelog in the [Help] menu.
…
…And speaking of sanity. After a week of radio silence, a new gray box finally appeared.
"What in fiery…" Damnation?…
After carefully reading the words… or more like, taking them in like a starving man to a buffet, he mentally swiped the box away and opened up this "new and improved" menu:
…
Luther Przemysław Groza, Demihuman Child – Kitsune
Age: 12
Level: 1 [2% to Level 2]
Magic Capacity: 56.25 / 56.25 (+0.75/sec)
Health Status: Unusually Healthy [Active Effects: Malnutrition]
[Skills and Stats]
[Spells]
[Possessions]
[Help]
…
Well… At least it made an admirable attempt at plain English this time…
He was able to figure out most of the parts and what they had meant this time, even if a few sections still didn't make a damned lick of sense. He focused on [Skills and Stats] and opened it up.
…
[Skills and Stats]
Languages: Common (Melromarc Dialect), English, Polish, German, Yiddish, Russian, Japanese
Abilities: Espionage (tap to expand…), Torture (tap to expand…), Psychological Warfare…
Buffs: Strong Will (+1.00 BH to CON), Sneaky Fox (+1.00 to AGI, DEX and STL)
Debuffs: Malnutrition (-0.25 BH across all stats)
-.-.-.-.-
Agility [AGI]: 1.75 BH
Constitution [CON]: 1.75 BH
Dexterity [DEX]: 1.75 BH
Magical Ability [MAG]: 0.75 BH
Stealth [STL]: 1.75 BH
Strength [STR]: 0.75 BH
…
BH?...
He flipped over to the now-available [Help] menu, hoping for some answers. After a minute of searching through the long list of terms that didn't make sense, he finally found what he was looking for,
…
[Help – Glossary]
BH (unit): Baseline Human. For this user, every stat is compared to that of a baseline male human at age 25. For example – the user's [STR] is 0.75, meaning that he has 0.75 times the strength of an average male human.
…
Huh…
So that's why Luther felt surprisingly strong and swift for a starving 12 year old… He was literally 75% as strong and 175% as fast a full grown man according to this thing. What sort of demented logic this world ran on, he didn't know, but he hoped to find out.
For the next half hour or so, he filtered through all the menus and checked the references in [Help], trying his damnedest to commit them to memory. The faster he got himself acquainted with this strange world, the better his life would be in the long run.
Unfortunately, magic-wise, it seemed that he was still locked from everything but [Minor Heal]. He hated it – being limited by these damnable gray boxes.
He hoped that they would piss off back to hell from whence they came!
…
…
…But, raging against the world wasn't exactly productive… So, he put himself to other tasks. For instance, carving out practice runes into the ground. He knew them by heart since his time in Arlington, but drawing them down kept his muscle memory sharp–
…
WARNING:
Unknown drain of mana detected.
…
Oh…
One of the runes started glowing green…
Oh!
He cut off the mana flow, it went dark. He started again…
OH!
Well, it appeared that he had found one major loophole. This world didn't recognize COI-standard enchantment runes as actual magic.
That… opened up a whole lot of possibilities…
He needed to investigate this–
Clank! Thud!
His head shot up, just in time to see a guard walk up in front of the cell. He quickly covered up the rune with extra straw.
The guard gave him a tired gaze, "...It's your turn today to meet Lord Rabier, seeing as that girl is dea…" He leaned in, taking a closer look; Rifana was still napping like a log, "...Apparently not… Huh…"
Click. Dink-Dink-Dink-Dink-Dink-Dink-Dink…
The guard unlocked the cell and slid it open, the metal bars bumping into each other along the way. Out of the corner of his eye, Luther looked to where he kept his brush. Still secure under the hay – good.
"No matter." The guard huffed, stepping forward "Lord Rabier has had a long day… and yours is gonna get a helluva lot longer."
Rabier Manor "Privy", Rabier Territory, Kingdom of Melromarc – June 29nd, 1969; Day 9 (7:44 p.m. local time)
Click. Click.
Cold metal had kept Luther's wrists in a vice grip, leaving him to hang like a piece of meat left to dry. At the moment, there was no escape, as he had nothing to pick the lock with, and the cuffs left no wiggle room; he couldn't slip out even if he dislocated every bone in his hand.
Even if he could break out, it would have been a fruitless endeavor – Rifana had revealed to him that their master could outright kill them via the slave crests at any time. If he had slipped out into the surrounding forest, he would have died with a giant hole burnt into his chest the moment he stepped out of Rabier lands.
That put quite the wrench in his plans, and forced him to massively rethink his strategy. He now realized that this exfiltration called for more… subtler methods…
…Luther was so not looking forward to doing that again. His previous experience still haunted him even after all this time… But, it was necessary to put himself in such a vulnerable position, especially if he wanted direct access to a certain person – namely Lord Rabier.
The guard – his face the very picture of "Not giving a damn" – did a once-over of Luther, double checking the bonds, before skedaddling out the door. Luther, taking the chance before interesting things happened, took in this new chamber:
It wasn't too different from the cell he shared with Rifana – the same old masoned brick and mortar, and filthy unwashed floors, but what really struck out to Luther were the various half-rusted implements hung from the wall, and the thick smell of dried blood.
Lord Rabier seems to be of a particular type… He grimaced, And it looks like I might catch tetanus from this because these primitives don't wash their damned tools… How lovely.
Luther looked at each one with a clinical eye, and made a guessing game to himself of which one he might be exposed to first. His bet was on the whip, which was modified with a razor at the end, as it carried his master's distinctive stench the most.
Clank. Thud!
Speaking of him… His master stumbled into the room, disheveled and smelling like a whole winery. As he hobbled along, it seemed he stumbled every which way except forward.
Oh, great… He's gonna be sloppy. Luther rolled his eyes, Showing up on the job drunk? Seriously unprofessional! You bring shame to those good boys at Langley. I'm filing a complaint to the BBB!
The pudgy, drunken lord tilted his eyes, bleary eyes gaining a glow as he seemed to meet the love of his life on the wall – the whip, "Ahh… my sweet. Come to papa…"
Called it.
Waddling along with the grace of an epileptic giraffe with a broken neck, the lord gently placed his hand on the handle of his precious, and plucked it off the wall as if he were carrying a newborn infant. He glanced at Luther, eyeing him up like a starving dog would a t-bone steak, a cruel grin pulling at his generous jowls.
And away we go…
Luther steeled his nerves to the upcoming pain. He knew he would survive this; far smarter and more sadistic men had done far worse to him in the past. Just hold his breath at the right time, and they'll get tired eventually.
But of course, he'll start with a primer first…
"But first… Let's tender you up…" Lord Rabier licked his lips, and a seal on his hands started to glow.
God, this tub of lard is predicab-Ow!
Light lightning, the slave crest flared up and wrought hellfire to his very soul. Luther gritted his teeth.
…
WARNING:
User has been branded with a slave crest. Any violation of Master Idol Rabier's terms will be punished. Please do not violate these terms.
…
Au contraire, this – OW! – is part of his terms… A jolt of agony shot down his spine, Gah! Fuck your mother!
Yet, he did his very best to keep himself still as a wooden board, if only to spitefully deny Lord Rabier his satisfaction. With a stony expression, Luther glared back at his master's increasingly frustrated cast, knowing damn well what sort of pain he was walking into.
Nggh… Perhaps you should try something original, you old sweathog… With every insult, the burning grew more dull.
"Ah… Right… Tough little shit…" Lord Rabier, surprisingly, had come to a realization. A glimmer of sadistic inspiration swiftly followed, "...But how long can you last against this!"
Fwip!
A great sting came from his abdomen, like a large papercut doused in lemon juice and hot sauce. Involuntarily, he clenched up as a red stain appeared in his now cut tunic, dripping down in streaks.
Fwip! Fwip! Fwip!
And more followed. The cuts this time were shallower: one on his legs, one on his pectoral, and just to spook him, one dangerously close to his neck.
However clumsy his master might have been from his inebriated state, all of his strikes hit true… Perhaps the only compliment Luther would ever afford the man. This skill with the whip certainly was a testament to his master's experience with his… hobby.
But, compared to the soul searing pain of the crest, and his resistance training back at Langley, he found these little stings to be rather lackluster. By his scale, it was only at a 'teeth-gritting' level, quite far from a 'willing to give up state secrets'...
Fwip! Fwip! Fwip! Fwip!
Oh, he was really bleeding now, better do something about it…
[Minor Heal].
With a faint green glow, all of his wounds closed up, much to the obvious confusion of the bastard.
Ahh… All better…
Not one to quit halfway it seemed, his master doubled down on the pace.
FwipFwipFwipFwipFwipFwipFwip!
"C'mon!" He hissed, "Scream already! This is no fun!"
That's kind of the point. Luther dryly replied in his head.
Fwip! Fwip! Fwip! Fwip!
Luther drifted zoning out from – believe it or not – boredom, as his master sweated like a politician under oath. He started musing about his current circumstances…
A normal kid this age certainly wouldn't be anywhere near as hardened as him in his position, unless they were fully disassociating. It seemed that in this life, even if his body wasn't physically used to such things, his psychological training was still up to the task.
Not a surprise, considering the main objective of it was to counter the efforts of the sick bastards populating the Abwehr, the Sicherheitsdienst, and the Kempeitai – how could this idiot compare!
Fwip! Fwip… Fwip!
Lord Rabier was now red in the face, panting like a sick dog. His teeth were grinding so hard that Luther was surprised that they didn't crack like delicate china right then and there. Steam was blowing out of his ears like a cartoon, for goodness sake!
Fwip… Fwip…
And speaking of steam, it seemed that it was quickly running out…
Oh wait…
He was bleeding out again, he had almost forgotten.
[Minor Heal]
There we go…
He opened up the menu:
…
Magic Capacity: 52.01 / 56.25 (+0.75/sec)
…
Huh… Not bad…
Lord Rabier kept on going, refusing to recognize the futility of his actions…
Fwip…
Fwip…
Luther, ever the cheeky brat, gave him a serene smile.
I can do this all day, Panie Tłuściochu.
Luther held back laughter as impotent rage flared behind his master's beady eyes. He was now as red as a Briton south of the 40th parallel without sunscreen. That little jaunt into Guyana with that former MI6 agent was a barrel of laughs every time he remembered it.
Fwip! Fwip…
Then, a new box popped up, covering his master's ever weary scowl,
…
NEW SPELL UNLOCKED!
[Disassemble] – A spell that allows the user to deconstruct most man-made objects to their component parts.
…
One of Luther's eyebrows crawled up his forehead, like that character Spock from that new television series: The Final Frontier.
Where the hell were you earlier?
And with that little act, the corpulent lord finally lost his patience…
"Gah! Damn you to four hells!" He hollered and heckled, "You're just like that racoon bitch! Broken and a bore!"
"No…" Luther, against his better judgment, decided to rub salt into the wound, "You're just… hah… bad at torture…"
"Rrraaghhh!" Lord Rabier put his all into one last hit, but Luther was much faster.
[Disassemble]
Right before the whip struck fully, the tip shattered upon impact with his tunish, one piece flying back and nicking the pudgy lord on a cheek. His master squealed like a stuck pig.
The whip itself then unraveled from fall to handle, threads spewing out like elephant's toothpaste, leaving only a useless pile of leather and tangled fuzz…
In explosive fury, the lord, shouting to the high heavens, stomped on the ground like a toddler denied his candy. Luther struggled to hold it together as the man positively jiggled in rage. It reminded him of one of his husky's dramatic temper tantrums… if said husky was instead a fat, balding, middle-aged man hell bent on getting off on the screams of innocent children…
…Perhaps that comparison wasn't the best…
Regardless, though, Luther couldn't exactly say he had much sympathy for the man's plight; not only was he proven to be a sadistic bastard, he was an incompetent one at that.
Finally giving up on trying to find any joy in Luther's suffering, Lord Rabier aggressively threw the whip back on the wall and stumbled out the room much in the same manner he came.
"Damn animal…" He muttered right out the door. He glared down the hallway and shouted, "Guards! Take this thing out of my sight!"
The prodigious gut of the prodigal son set like the sun around the corner marking the official end of the least effective torture session in human history. Presumably, Lord Rabier went off to do whatever lordly things he did… or he was about to take it out on another poor soul.
Luther didn't know, and at the moment, he didn't bother to care.
The same guard from before then walked into the chamber to unlock Luther's bonds, giving him a look of both disdain and… grudging respect?
Huh… Apparently, his master wasn't particularly popular with his own underlings. Luther honestly couldn't fathom why…
But that was non-actionable intelligence for the moment, and he had much more immediate things to celebrate – like the fact that everything was going to plan…
He let a small grin break out when the guard wasn't looking.
Rabier Manor Dungeon, Rabier Territory, Kingdom of Melromarc – June 29nd, 1969; Day 9 (9:26 p.m. local time)
Rifana rubbed her drooping eyes for what seemed like the thousandth time in this forever. The whole world seemed to pass both at a dead sprint, and a snail's pace; forever ago and yesterday, she played with Raphtalia without a care in the world… without monsters or men…
She pushed herself upright, the pain but a gnat to the mammoth it was before, all thanks to that strangely named boy Luther, and his even stranger magic.
Before everything went wrong, she had only heard or seen of magic from tales of heroes of old, or the occasional traveling magician; and even then, it was nothing like how Luther practiced it.
A wave of his hand, and her bruises faded. Just like that – no long incantations! It boggled her mind.
Wait…
Where is he?
A pit formed deep in her gut. Rifana glanced back and forth the cell as her blood ran cold.
She couldn't find him.
He wasn't here!
Is he with…
The thought of that room made her sick, she was too terrified to venture into it, even in her thoughts. She had enough suffering tied to it… and her friend did too, taking the hits meant for her in her place, when she was on the brink of death…
And now… Luther…
Shivering, she clasped her hands together until her knuckles were white, and fervently prayed to the Shield Hero.
Clank. Thud!
She flinched, spine now straight as a rod, and her ears perked up, stopping her prayer halfway…
Clink… Clunk… Clink… Clunk…
Armored footstep… The guard was coming. Her mind honed into the sound, noticing the sound of dragging along with his. Her heart feared the worst.
What if he?…
"I can walk, you know." A mildly peeved voice sounded. Luther's voice!
Huh!?
A spark of hope dared to form in her heart, threatening to drench her in relief. There wasn't even the slightest bit of tiredness or pain in the boy's tone…
"Shaddup!" The guard snapped, now coming into view with a peeved Luther in tow, "Or y'not gettin' supper tonight…"
With the skill and experience of a maestro, the guard unlocked the cell, threw Luther into the nearest pile of straw, and closed it right back up in the matter of two seconds. Rifana rushed to the boy, forgetting herself and her long built fatigue.
At that moment, in a scattered haze, she saw only Raphtalia. Her mind and mouth went a million miles per hour as checked and inspected and overall fretted over the boy. Rifana could only hope that Master or those guards didn't hurt–
"I'm okay! I'm fine!" He roughly pushed her off, dosing her with sober reality, "Jesus… You're like my mother after every lil' nick…"
He's… fine? She blinked.
He was; not a trace of injury despite the bloodstains and the new all over his ragged clothing… somehow.
"...That healing spell works on me too." He followed up with, as if it would make her feel any better. It didn't.
"Oi!" But then the guard had to cut into their candid conversation. He set a tiny bowl onto the ground, filled only halfway with a very thin barley gruel, "'Ere's yer supper. 'Ts all we have. Share it." The guard then spat into the bowl, yet one more insult, and stomped his way out of the dungeon.
"Thank ye very much for the hospitality…" She heard Luther mutter under his breath. He gave her a grimace, and gestured to the bowl, "Well… Ladies first."
B-but, you've just–
"Don't gimme that look – you need it more than I do. You're still a half-fart away from walking the Pearly Gates…"
But I'm better now! You–
"...I ain't taking no for an answer," His tone left no room for rebuttal, so she settled on giving him a worried glare as she reluctantly crawled to the bowl. Her stiff muscles protested, but her stomach sighed in relief, even if it tasted absolutely awful as always.
She stopped when the bowl was halfway empty, and turned back to Luther, seeing him subtly pulling a tiny shard of metal from his frayed sleeve, no bigger than the nail on her thumb. Her nose picked up a faint whiff of blood wafting off it, but it didn't match the overwhelming iron of Luther's, which overpowered everything else in the chamber.
She read his lips, "Ah, good… seems I got the right one – got the Fat Bastard's genetic material on it…"
Rifana had a good idea on who he referred to, but what genetic meant, she hadn't a clue. But from the blood… Did that mean…Luther actually managed to hurt Master!?
Whoa…
Yet another impossible thing from the impossible boy, she was seriously impressed.
He dug around the straw before pulling out a…She squinted – a brush of all things, "Ah… There you are." He turned to her, breaking her from her confused reverie, "You mind handing that bowl over?"
"Oh… Uh…" Hurriedly, she crawled back and slid the bowl over to Luther, to which he took all of it's content in one giant gulp much to her surprise.
"Ahh…" A satisfied smile –he gently placed the bowl down, "Still better than those piss-and-rice field rations. 'Edible for human consumption' my ass…"
They make food out of pee in America? Yuck! She stuck her tongue out, trying not to gag at the thought.
Then, for some strange reason, he picked up sharp metal and gave her an odd look, "You… might wanna look away for this part…"
Why? She instinctively tilted her head.
Her answer came when he suddenly stuck his arm out… and stabbed right into a vein, letting the blood drip out into the bowl.
"W-what are you doing!?" Rifana squeaked at an octave never before reached.
Luther immediately dropped the tiny shard and put a hand over her mouth, "Shh! Shh… Don't attract the guards' attention." Not showing even the faintest hint of experiencing pain when he should have.
When she stopped her shouts, which ended muffled, he let go…
"W-What?... Why!?" She hissed as quietly as the roaring storm of fear, anger, and pure befuddlement would allow out of her, "Are you a maniac!?"
He completely ignored her, instead staring at the bowl, now full with a puddle's worth, as if he were measuring ingredients for a cake.
"Hmm… That should be enough," Satisfied, he waved a hand over the open cut, and with a faint glow, it closed up. "Don't worry, Rifana," He gave her a reassuring – not to her – grin, "This is just a little trick I pulled back in '66. Helped me escape the Nips when they nabbed me in Malacca."
Malacca?... Nips?...
Her eye twitched.
TRICK!? You think cutting yourself and bleeding out is a Shield-damned tick!?
As if reading her mind, "Not this… This is just preparation. You'll see…"
"A-A…Y-y-you… B-b-!" She was thrown around in such a whirlwind of emotion that she couldn't even form coherent words.
"C'mon," Luther flashed her a bright smile, which looked out of place on his naturally miserable-looking face, "When have I ever let you down?"
"I MET YOU YESTERDAY!"
He chuckled, as he cleared out a section, took a brush, and started painting.
Rabier Manor Dungeon, Rabier Territory, Kingdom of Melromarc – June 30th, 1969; Day 10 (1:01 p.m. local time)
A few exceedingly boring, yet curious hours passed, and Rifana had the chance to gather her wits, temper, and nerves. With a few absolutely microscopic strokes on the brush, Luther finished with his strange circle… rune… whatever it was on the ground.
The circle was pretty large, far larger than the slave crests they both shared yet looked nothing like it. Intricate geometric shapes and patterns comprised it, filling every crevice with mathematical precision, and it all flowed towards the center, where it was a lattice of parallel and perpendicular lines. She couldn't hope to even begin understanding what each part meant.
"...Aaaand done." He wiped the sweat off his brow, "Whew…"
He waved a hand over it, and it started glowing a reddish-orange. He scratched a hexagonal pattern in an empty part of the circle using the fragment, before placing it in the center. The color quickly changed to yellow, and the circle burned glowing swirls into the fragment, giving the distinct odor of rotten eggs.
"What…" She massaged her throat, voice hoarse from earlier straining, "What is this supposed to do?…"
"Well… Uh…" He scratched his chin, "If this thing works like it's supposed to, then it should be able to convince Lord Rabier to let us go from 'the goodness of his heart'. Speaking of which – Say… Do you know when he usually goes to bed?"
Her brain, scrambled and exhausted from both Luther's heart-attack inducing actions and her own frail health, failed to fire up a few neurons. She was only able to give a blank stare and a – "...Eh?"
Several seconds later, the circle turned green.
"...I guess that answers that." He hummed.
Rifana started to drift off, her eyes growing heavier by the second. Luther, in response, held his hand right next her her ear and snapped his finger.
"Huh–What!?" She jolted, "I'm awake!"
"Two more things," He huffed, taking off the collection of rags that could generously be called a tunic, "One, I'm a light sleeper, so make sure I don't wake up," He examined the metal fragment in his hand before nodding, "And two…"
He looked her in the eye, "Don't panic."
Suddenly, he stabbed the razor sharp piece of metal right into his chest, dead center on the slave crest. The circle flashed before turning blue – he passed out.
Adrenaline pumping in her veins, heartbeat in her ears, she leaped forward just in time to catch him before his head struck the ground. Her immediate panic faded when her ears caught onto something…
Zzz…Zzz…
…And morphed into exasperation with a tinge of rage. He was peacefully asleep.
There was no good reason to scare her like that! Her poor heart…
As she gently let him down over the circle, she sat, fidgeting with her hands, stewing in her anger and worry.
You better wake up…
He was gonna be in so much trouble when morning came…
Spells:
[Minor Heal]
– Description: A general healing spell used by most magic users under the L-L umbrella. An all rounder, useful for most injuries, with the exception of extreme circumstances like cancer, severe radiation poisoning, or an amputated limb.
[-7 MP minimum, depending on severity of injuries]
– Source: COI Advanced Magic Resource
–
[Disassemble]
– Description: A spell that allows the user to deconstruct most man-made objects to their component parts.
[-(10 + mass of object (kg) * 5) MP]
– Source: COI Advanced Magic Resource
–
[Redacted]
[Redacted]
[-40 MP initial, -10 MP/min. rate]
– Source: Uncategorized, Runic-Enchantment Only
AN: And to think this was supposed to be a short chapter (~3k words). Nope! Apparently, I love filling things with bullshit vocabulary… Well anyway, hope you've enjoyed this chapter – See you on the next one!