AN: Thanks to FiftyThree for checking my German, and to WitheringApollo for beta-ing this chapter!
hollandia1103: Glad to see you here! For my OCs (which are honestly just an excuse to make up cool names, lmao), I normally tend to take aspects from characters from other media, remix them, and add my own flair to it – And I'm glad to see that you like it. As for those "Copy-Paste fics" you talk about, I think the main problem with those fics is that the author has trouble with the third part – Inspiration from other writing/media is good, but if it's the only thing you put in it, it gets to be samey, causing a game of "fanfic telephone".
The Gamer fic trend (Also, just warning you, This is a Shield Hero fanfic, so JRPG elements are practically unavoidable) you mentioned is a good example of this: The Korean Web Novel comes out and a fanfic author gets inspired to do something similar for their own fandom. Their fic becomes massively popular, and another author gets inspired, and makes a similar fic. Repeat ad nauseam, and you get to the point where all ideas from the original prompt dry up, and you, the reader, get sick of reading the same shit over and over again.
I admit, at first, I had similar problems trying to use my "creative faculties", just like those authors. But, as I came to learn the craft of fanfic writing, I think I found a sort-of solution: Read things outside the fanfic sphere, or at least, outside of what you normally read. If your only source of inspiration is a homogenous pool of similar fics, chances are, your fic is gonna end up just like them. But if you move outside your comfort zone, you'll be hit with different, fresher ideas, and they will (with effort) add to the melting pot in your head, forming the seeds of a much more interesting story. This is why I tend to lurk around r/writingprompts, Alternate History, and other such places.
Tl;dr – The copy-paste fics you read are caused by self-imposed echo-chambers (honestly, a huge problem that's left unaddressed in 99% of fanfic communities), and thank you for the words of encouragement!
ENSLAVEMENT ARC PART II: …Sold!
"I acknowledge no master in human form." – John Brown
Hütte der „Familie Walther", Reichsgau Wartheland – der 3. September 1951
"Walther Family" cabin, Nazi Occupied Greater Poland – September 3rd, 1951
The Polish woods were quiet… eerily so.
The crickets' screeches were markedly absent, the birds failed to chirp at these hours, and even the wind refused to make its presence known. There were only two things that broke the dead silence of the woods: the idling engine of a parked truck, and the striking of fist upon flesh.
Between the trees, in front of a small cabin, a Schutzstaffel officer hammered down on a bleeding, stubborn man, in view of a horrified woman and a small child. The officer didn't care though, that he was doing this in front of the innocent. To him, it was too much of a bother to hide the punishment of such filth.
And what was the bleeding man's crime? Existence.
He was a Pole, a weak subhuman in a world only meant for the strong. Nevermind that he was a loving father and a patriot, a thousand times braver than all the SS officers put together. Nevermind that he, like an anvil, weathered endless strikes without bending or breaking. Nevermind that the woman and child loved him dearly, even if they couldn't express that upon threat of death.
He was a sick dog to be put down, before he spread his disease.
An older officer put a hand on the woman's shoulder, reminding her of the act that she must maintain: of a good German woman who survived a harrowing attack by a rabid partisan.
„Fr. Walther, Sie können sich sicher sein, dass dieser Schmutz deine Familie nie mehr stören wird," The officer assured.
She took in a deep shuddering breath, trying not to rip the man's hand off in disgust. The boy beside her shivered in place, petrified at the men reducing his father to a pulp – No, the man wasn't his father – Konrad's father died bravely in the war…
He couldn't let that mask slip, not here, not while these monsters were still prowling about. His mother said that they could sniff out weakness, so he had to stay strong…
…even when his own father was being dragged out into the dirt.
Luther started to lose control. He wanted to scream! He-
His mother threw him into a tight hug at the last second, right before he finally burst. Like a bomb being carefully defused, his mother's warm embrace soothed his nerves.
„Sch... Sch... Alles wird in Ordnung sein, Kuno,"
Right, the mask. He was Konrad, and Konrad was him, as long as these men were here. He would be strong, stronger than them, so when the promised day came, victory would be his…
Sniff. Sniff…
All he had to do was to hold on, keep the lie alive just a little bit longer. It would be what dad wanted…
Sniff.
Tears ran down his eyes, staining his mother's blouse. Slowly, she rocked back and forth, stroking his hair, and whispering comforting words to his ear.
"We'll get through this, Luther…"
"But-"
He almost said, but his mother covered his mouth again. He forced himself to hold his tongue, lest the veneer shattered like glass. But that didn't stop the anguish from coming out; he endured another fit of crying.
"Remember the promise you made to daddy?" She said, quieter than a mouse
"T-to survive?" He whispered just as silently.
"No, to live,"
He didn't understand the difference.
Didn't "live" and "survive" mean the same thing?.
Clearly, though, his mother thought differently, and her word was law. Letting him go, she stood up straight and fulfilled her end of the performance.
With eyes burning of hellfire and a scowl of righteous fury, a fierce expression fitting only a true German mother, she accusingly pointed at the beaten man.
„Nehmen Sie mir das Ding weg!"
The officers saluted and gave a savage smile.
„Gerne!"
The man, Andrzej, tried to stand up on his own two feet, only to be knocked down, hard.
The stock of the young officer's rifle slammed into his nose, and a crack echoed across the trees. Yet, there was no yelp or groan. Andrzej was too tough to bend like that. Even with a swollen, bleeding face with a punched in nose… Even on his knees, he glared into the other's eyes.
…But there was no soul staring back, only a mocking grin.
„Was sagen Sie? Schuldig oder nicht schuldig?"
The young officer raised his rifle, relishing in the hateful glare of Andrzej, like a cat playing with his food before feasting. A long moment passed with nary a breath…
…Until the older officer lost his patience.
„Untersturmführer Schulze, Sie verschwenden Zeit,"
The elder groaned, tapping his foot. For a split second, the younger officer lost his grin, which elicited a faint chuckle from Andrzej.
Thwack!
It was kindly repaid with yet another strike, this time on the jaw.
Andrzej didn't say a word… he only spat a goblet of blood upon the younger officer's shoes along with a tooth. The now frowning officer clicked his tongue,
„Ach... Na gut... Er bekannte sich schuldig..."
Then, came his last act: It wasn't a great shout of defiance, nor was it a bow of defeat, being crushed upon the Reich's machine.
No. It was only a mournful smile to his wife and only son.
Andrzej Groza né Hordziejewicz, The Terror of the Resistance, mouthed his final words,
„Zawsze będę cię kochać…"
"I will always love you…"
The young officer raised his rifle, and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
7 km from the Auction House, Kingdom of Melromarc – June, 20th 1969; Day 0 (6:31 a.m. local time)
Luther shot up, waking up with a cold sweat, gasping. Panicked, he tried to extend his arms, but the chains locked in place, leaving him stuck. Getting his wits about him and noticing how thick the chains were, he slumped down in defeat; he was captured and there was nothing to pick the lock with.
A chill prickled his skin as a cool gust blew by; he felt cold iron on his wrists and ankles, and heard the idle rattling of chains. Not exactly the most comfortable of positions…
…But hey, if the itchy sensation everywhere was an indication, at least he had clothes of some sort; though that was quite the low bar to pass. But, could they really be called clothes? The "shirt'' was a burlap sack with holes, and the "pants" were little better. At least the Krauts had the decency to give a nice set of striped pajamas to their prisoners.
But who was he to expect anything from the human species? After all, the dumb primates thought it was a good idea to birth out All Stars like Adolf Hitler, Heinrich Himmler, and the rest of the Pinwheel Parade. In all honesty, he was thankful that he wasn't bare ass naked in the elements!
Thump!
A great big bump hit, ever so kindly letting Luther know that whatever he was on was moving, through the gentle reorganization of his vertebrae. Judging by the canvas all around the cages, it was a horse and buggy, Oregon Trail type of deal, and not any form of modern mode of transportation. He was led to this conclusion by his hips attesting to a lack of suspension, and his nose smelling the sweet stench of horse shit and guano.
A ray of light filtered through his bars, hitting his eyes. It came from a tear in the canvas right outside his cage, small enough to be discreet but big enough for him to see through. He crawled on over and peeked, only being able to view thick brush and endless trees.
Tiring of the view after only a few short minutes, he sat back down, taking in his surroundings. He still felt mana in the air, perhaps even more intensely than back home, but strangely, there was something blocking him from using it.
He pulled and pulled upon the strings, but to his frustration, nothing. Yet another setback, as if his life wasn't full enough of them.
To distract himself, he let his eyes wander for the next few moments. All around were other cages just like his – in each and every one of them, there were other people like him in chains, either awake and listless, or sleeping. And the one thing they shared in common, they all had animal features just like him, whether familiar or alien. He wasn't alone in his ordeal.
Wait… What was that thing in the corner-?
…
Groza, Luther P. – 12 – Male
Demihuman Child, Lv N/A
Possessions: Slave's Tunic, Slave's Trousers
Skills: N/A
Magic: Otherworldly Magic
Status Effects: N/A
Help
…
What in great, fiery damnation is that!?
Faster than he could blink, a large gray box popped into existence in front of his face, taking up most of his view. The shock of its appearance almost overwhelmed him, having never seen such a thing. Taking a deep breath and stilling his heart, he didn't let his surprise overtake him.
After calming down, he took another look… and was quite befuddled.
What in the good Lord's name is all this gobbledygook…
The top and top right weren't too hard to figure out, it kind of looked like a little ID card to him. Up in the corner, there was a little white-haired fox-eared face staring back at him, and it took him a little bit to remember that it was him. The top left had his name, face, and sex, and below that was the words "Demihuman Child," which he surmised was whatever hell a fox-person like him was…
LV? LV!? What in the sister-fucking hell is an LV!? And what's with all these N/A's too? Did Jesus forget to fill out his paperwork before kicking my ass here!?... Ugh… Fine, maybe this Help thingamabob might do its job…
He reached out before he could tap it, another gray box appeared before his hand.
…
WARNING:
Due to unresolved conflicts with otherworldly magic, the SMS physics engine was unable to fully connect. Leveling up, Statistics, and the Help Menu will be unavailable, please wait until this is resolved…
…
SMS? Leveling up? Throw me more gibberish why don't you…
For some strange reason, Luther felt extremely old at this moment…
…Bah! I'll figure it out eventually!
And so he tried! He swiped away the warning and tapped the "Magic" section next. Maybe he would figure out why the damn thing wouldn't let him cast his spells.
…
MAGIC – Otherworldly Magic:
[COI Advanced Magecraft Resource]
[ÜNIB Zauberei Lexikon]
[Arlington Academy Book for Beginners]
…
Thank goodness!
He was getting somewhere.
Luther tapped again and-
…
MAGIC – Otherworldly Magic – COI Advanced Magic Resource:
Greater fireball [Locked]
Acid Spit [Locked]
Increase Gravity [Locked]
Decrease Gravity [Locked]
Explosion [Locked]
…
Locked? You Son of a Bitch…
…
Earthquake [Locked]
Heart-Attack [Locked]
Water Jet [Locked]
…
Come on…
…
Radiation Beam [Locked]
Projection [Locked]
Strength Boost [Locked]
…
Come on! Is there anything at all!?
…
…
…
Minor Heal
…
"..."
Luther breathed a long suffering sigh,
"God damn you,"
He muttered under his breath.
"Oh, y' fin'lly woke up, huh?..."
Luther almost jumped… almost. Slowly, he turned to his left, the gray boxes vanishing into thin air meanwhile, and there laid an old man. But he wasn't just any other old geezer, he was one with huge bull horns sticking out of his cranium.
Still not truly believing his eyes after all this time, he squinted.
"Y'know ya don' haf t' glare a' me like da', youngin – I ain' one of dem fellers da' took ya in…"
Unconsciously, Luther raised his ears and tilted his head, both at his odd circumstances and the old man's nearly indecipherable accent.
"Oh… Da's just… Tsk. By de Shiel', youngin, I nevah seen a sour restin' face qui'e like da' befoh.. Y'look like yer watchin' a filolial takin' a big ol' shi' on yer goo' shoes,"
Luther cleared his throat,
"...Did you see…?"
But, at the last second, he trailed off, having been hit with the sudden realization that he shouldn't just disclose his apparent abilities so easily to a stranger.
Damn, my instincts have gone to shit…
"See wha', youngin? Mah eyes ain' wha' dey use' t' be…"
"Nevermind."
The old man snorted,
"Bah! Y'don' haf t' worry 'bou secre's wi' me, youngin. 'S no' like I'm gon' live long 'nough to sprea' dem an'way,"
Luther laid down onto the floor, relaxing a slight bit at the fact that the old man wasn't that much of a threat.
"So, y'got a name? Ih' be awful ru' jus' t' keep callin' ya 'youngin' or 'boy' or any o'der kinda names dat pop up in dis em'ty skull o' mine f' dis whole dog-gone trip… Y'know wha'? I'll star'! M'name's Leslie, wha's yer's?"
Luther paused, warring with himself,
He wondered: did he want to build yet another cover, yet another mask for this new life? Did he want to repurpose Konrad Walther into something better? Should he pretend to be someone else for his own safety… or should he be honest for once?
If he lied about himself, nobody would have probably known – it wasn't like he was someone worth remembering here. He could make up all the lies he wanted and the old man wouldn't know any better…
…But wouldn't that also apply to telling the truth?
Ah… Decisions! Those damn things…
He prayed for something else, an outside force, or anything to help make the decision for him. But alas, there wasn't even a coin to flip – nothing to make it easy. So, as a last resort, he went with his gut.
And somehow, lying to this old geezer felt wrong…
Strange… That never happened before…
Taking a deep breath, he made his choice:
"It's…"
"'S wha', youngin? Y'go'a speak up, use yer wor's n' all da',"
"My name is Luther Groza,"
Goodness, it felt great to finally tell his real name after all these years! Without fear of a horrible death, no less!
"Luther… Luther… can' say I've 'ver hear' dat kin'a name before… bu' den again, y'prob'ly no' even fro' dese par's – Don' really see many kitsune like yersel' 'roun' 'ere… well… 'cep' outsi' de whorehouses…"
Leslie muttered that last part, not thinking Luther would catch on to that little detail. He was dead wrong, but Luther didn't spill. Besides, there was a little more vocabulary for him to study first:
What the devil? Kitsune? Wasn't that the Japs' word for "Fox"?
Then, as if to remind him of his inhuman nature, two great white fluffy tails wrapped around onto his lap. Subconsciously, he put his hand on it…
Huh…
…They were soft, impossibly so. And on second look, they really did look like-
-Fox's tails! I should've realized that a while ago! After chasing all those damn critters out my uncle's pasture, one would've thought I knew damn well what one looked like.
Well, at least he had an idea on what he was…
Leslie continued, unimpeded by the younger's thought process,
"...an' Groza? Y'som sor' o' noble's bastar' or sumtin'? 'S no' often ya see las' names on folk like us, 'specially in dese par's … Hmm.. Yer accen' soun's a bi' like de folks fro' Shiel'freeden – Heh, all work no play dat lo' is… no offense, an' de ale's top qual- Ack, gettin' sidetrack'd! An'way-"
As soon as he deciphered what Leslie meant, Luther suddenly became painfully aware of his accent. Sure, the English language was his native tongue, but being only around non-english speakers for a good portion of his life had a profound effect on his speech.
Most of the time, Luther was able to keep it under wraps, but if he got too distracted or relaxed, a German-Polish tinge was added to his Midwestern American, creating an abomination of a pseudo-accent.
Those slip-ups happened more times than he would have liked to admit…
"-'s got sumtin' else 'n dere too. So, hwere y'from, Luther?"
Oh right…
He reminded himself that this wasn't Earth, so he couldn't just say "America" as if it meant anything to these people.
Hmm… Well, as mama used to say, "When in doubt, plead ignorance."
"I… don't remember."
"Don' remember!?"
The old man squawked incredulously.
Luther, wanting the sell this on-the-fly story of amnesia convincingly, played up the concern on his face for the old man to see. To act and deceive were his most valuable skills throughout his career in intelligence, and in fine tuning his abilities, he learned that everyone did the same at some level. The world was full of actors, and they were all audiences to each other.
The most crucial part of this fact he learned, though, was the suspension of disbelief; scrutiny was the enemy and the actor needed to say the right lines at the right times, with the right faces, otherwise the story would fall apart.
Early in his career, there were a couple of close calls, especially with the Gestapo… but at the last second, he always pulled through by luck and guile. Besides, this was an old man looking at a vulnerable child – it should be easier than taking Manhattan Device codes from a baby.
"..."
"Y'jus'... pop ou' de groun'? Like some sor' o' wee'?... Sur'ly yer fro' somehweah?..."
"I… I just woke up in a mud puddle in the woods. I-I cleaned myself and just wandered around looking for… home? What… Why can't I remember where home is…"
A good way to improve acting was to add a little truth into the mix as well. Which lead him to his next technique: Emotional self-manipulation.
"Y'don ev'n know de name o' yer village? Or yer paren's names?"
"I-I… Uh…"
Tears welled up in Luther's eyes, his breath started hitching, and he was close to breaking out into panicked sobs.
This technique was a step above regular acting. If acting was feigning emotion, then this was truly believing it, albeit in a limited fashion. To make things short, he forced his emotional state into what he wanted, so parts of his brain genuinely felt it.
In a world where mind-scrying spells could read the emotional state of a person in seconds, there was no room for half measures, especially in his line of work. And this technique was how he was able to pass as Dr. Konrad Walther, The Perfect Little German, for so long, even with how paranoid the Jerries were with their supernatural projects.
At some level, as terrifying that thought was, Kuno really was him.
"Shi'... I guess dose Royal Guar' folks mus'ta hi' yer lil' hea' a bi' too har'."
End waterworks, here came the indignation.
"Hey!"
"Hehehe…"
The old man chuckled as Luther scowled. Perhaps on second thought, that indignation might have actually been genuine…
"Alrigh', Alrigh'... continue, youngin. 'Migh' ack'tully jog yer lil' mem'ry…"
"Right… Uh… I w-woke up in the woods, and I couldn't figure out where I was… so I chose a random direction and walked. And then I came across a big field and… and…"
Being in a prepubescent body made the next part so much simpler. He didn't even have to use any Trigger Memories to elicit the reaction, just the trauma of the experience was good enough.
"Th-then the big men in armor chased me and-and they h-held me down and-"
The speech speed up into rambling so fast it was incoherent, and Luther's heart rate naturally accelerated.
There it was… the familiar feeling of adrenaline rushing through his veins. Perhaps he should slow down before it devolved into useless hyperventilating…
"Ey, Luther! Okay, okay! Take a breaf',"
Oh, good… I can calm down now…
The old man tried to comfort him from a distance.
"Da's righ'... 'n an' ou'... 'n an' out… Jus' like da'!"
Breathing exercises… right. Five thing I can see… Uh…
The process took a good bit, but after a few minute, he was back to normal operating parameters…
As he focused once more, he was given a reminder on the unfortunate side effects of crying. If he was consciously aware of this beforehand, he probably wouldn't have started in the first place for the sheer annoyance factor –
Damn stuffy nose and wet cheeks… I want to breathe, damn it!
"Righ'! I reckon I ga' da jis' o' da'... Y'don' nee' t' spill yerself fur'der, Luther,"
"R-Right…"
The old man sighed, exhausted only in a way an elder could understand. Yawning, he stretched as much as the chains would allow; Luther could distinctly hear a few creaks and pop coming from Leslie's back, eliciting a faint cringe.
"Ahh… much be'er…"
The light shining through the tear was a good bit brighter now, and as Luther leaned back, it shone right on his eye. Crawling, he went back to put his face near the canvas and look though. On the other side, there was the sun rising across a clearing, and in the far distance, he saw a ruined wooden village near the coast. Yet another reminder how far he was from home.
This was a different place with different, more "old fashioned", far from the modern era he once resided in. And if the chains hadn't made it obvious, these people still haven't overcome the want for a… peculiar institution – as a few of his morally questionable Southron acquaintances might have called it.
God, I just can't get a break…
It was things like these that made him think there was something inherently evil in the human species… perhaps what the more faithful called the Original Sin…
"...So, Leslie… How did you end up here?"
But, this wasn't the place to have a philosophical discussion with himself; there were things that were much higher on his list of priorities – like escaping.
"Well, y'see, Luther, i' all star's wi' King Aultcray's war…"
And if he wanted get out of these chains, it would be best to squeeze as much information as possible out of this elder, lest he stumble back in like an ignoramus.
If Luther wanted to be free, he'd rather it stay permanent.
Auction House, Former Seaetto Territory, Kingdom of Melromarc – June 21st, 1969; Day 1 (8:26 a.m. local time)
"-And sold! To the gentleman in red at twenty-five silvers!"
Leslie was unceremoniously yanked off the stage by the auctioneer, a chubby little man in what looked like a circus ringmaster's garb. There was a glint in the man's glasses as the old man was barely able to keep up with his own chains.
Off to the side behind the curtains, there was a table manned by various figures in robes. Forcefully, Leslie was thrown onto the table, held down as the auctioneer brought out a set of tools which included a… paintbrush?
The auctioneer proceeded to paint an intricate pattern on the old man's chest, as the buyer walked his way onto the stage. The robed men presented a shallow wooden bowl to the buyer, and he offered his left hand. And then one of the men pricked the man's thumb with a small knife.
Wow, that's a large helping of blood…
The auctioneer took a larger brush, dipped it into the bowl, and painted a rough circle within the intricate crest. For a second, nothing happened, but then…
"Hnngh…"
The old man grimaced, and the crest started glowing, brighter and brighter. Soon, sparks spread out to his chest and he gritted his teeth in pain. But as quickly as it came, it ended, and the old man breathed a long sigh of both relief and exhaustion as his new owner dragged him to the exit.
Meanwhile, a middle-aged man on the corpulent side of the spectrum strode in like he owned the place. Immediately, the atmosphere grew grim. Behind Luther, the other slaves gave a weary glance to the children. Right before he was finally out the door, Leslie gave Luther one last look of pity.
So this man is bad news, huh?...
Without a care in the world, the portly man confidently took his seat on the front row; the announcer gave him a great big grin.
"Ah, Lord Rabier! Fashionably late as always I see!"
He cheered with a demented grin, spinning his cane. Lord Rabier gave a satisfied huff as he leaned back into his seat.
"Mr. Beloukas, you know me so well…"
"Of course I do! If I didn't know my most important customers by name, I would be quite the bad businessman, wouldn't I? Oh-!"
Quickly, the auctioneer pointed his cane to Luther.
"-Bring him on stage! Lord Rabier, you're gonna love this one…"
The fat noble gave a disgusting grin as Luther was yanked into full view of the appraising crowd. He may have been covered up, but he had never felt more naked his whole life. His tail stuck up stiff under the collective gaze.
"...Ladies and Gentlemen! We have a one-of-a-kind over here, the only White Kitsune in the whole kingdom!"
A not-so-quiet cheer erupted from the crowd, especially from the male half disturbingly enough. Luther shivered a slight bit, and it wasn't from the auction house's cool air…
It was at this moment that he inconveniently remembered an offhand comment from Leslie:
"Well… 'cep' outsi' de whorehouses…"
Their stares now felt like worms under his skin.
And then, my already dim prospects go to shit…
He was expecting to be forced into hard labor, but this… this was worse…
"Now, now! I know you all are excited, but this unique specimen is a specialty item. And that comes with a bit of a price tag: Bids start at 80 silver!"
The enthusiasm was dampened a slight bit but remained smoldering; half the room still raised their hands.
"...ninety, can I get a ninety? Ninety-five? Anybody a ninety-five? One gold?..."
The auctioneer soon got into his rhythm as the bid grew taller and taller.
"Two gold fifty? Two gold sixty? How many are still with me at two gold sixty? Two gold seventy?-"
Slowly but surely, hands fell down one by one, but there remained a few stubborn ones weathering the increasingly expensive bids. One of which included a calm Lord Rabier eyeing him like a dog to beef jerky.
"Twelve gold ninety? Who can get me a twelve gold ninety?-"
But then… the last hand fell.
"Thirteen gold! Going Once… Going Twice!"
A demented grin appeard on Lord Rabier's face; Luther couldn't help but sneer in disgust.
"Sold! To Lord Rabier at thirteen gold!"
Just like Leslie before him, Luther was dragged to the table hard enough to almost take him off his feet. His landing on the hard table rattled his bones, and it felt freezing cold to the skin despite being made of wood.
Again he looked at the other yet-to-be-sold demihumans and met more expressions of pity. The crest was painted on his bare chest and the paint stung a bit, like a mild papercut. Lord Rabier then stepped up on the stage and almost giggled in glee as his thumb was cut into a fresh bowl. With one experienced stroke, the auctioneer painted the mark upon the crest.
At first, a tingling sensation could be felt on his chest, not unlike the feeling of ice on bare skin. Then, it grew… and grew… and soon enough it evolved into full-on burning, yet it didn't stop!
The Geezer wasn't exaggerating, it really does hurt like hell!
Luther forced himself to maintain a stony visage – he had some dignity God damn it! He wasn't going to give this freak the satisfaction.
Suddenly, the pain stopped.
Lord Rabier looked initially disappointed at the development, but then a twinkle could be seen in his eyes.
"Oo~ A tough one… I love it when they start out strong…"
He crooned,
"...But one of these days, I will make you scream."
The crest lit up like a firework and it felt like he was shot in the chest with a shotgun.
…
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.
…
Remember your training…
He refused, despite it all. The agony continued unabated, he stumbled into the auctioneer, yet he didn't give in, not for once second.
"Ah… Pity. You really are a hard nut to crack… But I have all the time in the world to break you, even if it isn't today."
Lord Rabier, with a wave of a hand, ended the torture and walked him to the exit.
What he didn't realize though was that Luther also had all the time in the world, and he was going to escape long before this monster could ever break him…
…And it all started with a little paint brush, stolen right from the auctioneer's pocket.
Rabier Manor Dungeon, Rabier Territory, Kingdom of Melromarc – June 21st, 1969; Day 1 (11:02 p.m. local time)
It's over…
That's what Rifana's body screamed to her, seeing as it no longer bothered to make her feel pain anymore. Perhaps it was trying to make her comfortable in her last moments… taking away anything that could make her uncomfortable.
She had once heard tales of people seeing their life flash before their eyes, and so far, she concluded that was a lie. But, who knows what the future could hold, maybe…
Eh…
It was a future she will never know.
And besides, there really was much left to be taken from her. Raphtalia was gone; Master got sick of her, so he sold her back to the short man. Her parents… some foolish part of her hoped they lived happily somewhere, but deep down in her heart, she knew they were gone – buried in a shallow grave near the mines.
Yet, there was one thing she knew for certain was impossible to rob her of: her love.
Rifana loved her friend dearly and she prayed for a better life for her. And that same foolish part regaled her tales of her hopes – that her friend might end up with someone kind, perhaps even the Shield Hero. Maybe they would even fall in-
Ach! There it goes again…
What girly thoughts… Keel might have called her dumb for such thoughts, if he were here, but she just couldn't help. It was just who she was, and like her love, Master couldn't take that away from her.
So there she was, with only a few rags, a toothpick flag, and a bed of hay to her name, yet in the end, she was as happy as can be.
Clang!
"Get in dere, animal!"
Barefoot footsteps.
Thump!
Something hit the straw near her…
Clang!
"That's no way to treat a POW…"
A new, unfamiliar voice muttered quietly, and it was followed up with various indecipherable curses. With great effort, summoning what energy was left within her tired body, she turned her head and peeked upon the new person. Her unfocused eyes only let her see a blur of brown and white, which suddenly shifted.
"Oh, I thought you were dead…"
She wanted so badly to respond, but her dry throat wouldn't let her, only mustering a weak wheeze. Squinting, her eye adjusted to finally give her a clear view of the figure.
It was definitely a boy… a kitsune of some kind… white hair, two tails… and wow that's a scary face!
"Hn… I guess today's your lucky day, little girl…"
Little girl!? No! She was a big girl! She was a whole 10 years old, dang it!
"...the only spell worth a damn right now happens to be a healing one. You're gonna feel a little woozy…"
Spell? He knows magic!?
He cleared his throat,
"[Minor Heal]"
A bright green hit her eyes before the world turned dark.
Kirschenbaum Pasture, near Edwinton, North Dakota [Formerly Bismarck] – May 4, 1958
Luther was a bright boy with a bright future… At least his mama said that.
He was fluent in three languages, near the top of his class in every subject, and he was growing to be the star of the school's baseball team – yet all of that didn't exempt him from helping Uncle Judah out with the farm.
These days, it seemed that the area was a fox magnet for some strange reason, and the poor, poor sheep bore the brunt of that.
"Git! Git!"
He sprayed the red coated animal with a water gun, yet the stubborn tod kept nipping the lamb's heels. He kept chasing after it, yet it refused to run off.
In his frustration, Luther hadn't noticed the strange feeling building up all around his body, he was far too focused on the annoying animal. The boy kept firing until the water gun was almost empty, but it was futile, the poor lamb was still caught in its grasp.
"Leave ya damn varmint!"
He fired one last time, and something was let go…
Suddenly, the water gun exploded in his hands, and a streak of lightning followed the water stream.
Crack!
Barely missing the fox and the lamb, a new burning hole was made in the ground. The fox, spooked, hightailed it out the pasture and the lamb ran back to the flock.
Shocked still, Luther stared at his hands…
"Luther! What in the Sam Hell happened!?"
Then… Luther felt weak and dizzy, as if he just ran a marathon in seconds. He swayed back and forth until he finally tripped. His uncle caught him from behind.
"Are you okay? Luther?"
"I-I… Uh… Lightning…"
"Oh Lord, we gotta get you to your mother."
Uncle Judah said firmly as he picked Luther up like a sack of potatoes. Almost nodding off, Luther groaned,
"Am I… in trouble?"
Uncle Judah didn't get a chance to respond before he fell asleep.
…
Luther stirred in his bed…
"He… He's magical!?"
"I don't know how else to say it, Ruth. I watched him fire lightning with my very own eyes…"
"Shit… They're gonna take him away… They're gonna take my boy…"
"No! The COI ain't gonna put their grubby hands on your boy-"
"-You don't understand, Judah! The krauts are already a decade ahead of us if not more with their magic. Uncle Sam ain't taking no for an answe-Hack! Cough!"
"Ruth… calm down, your health can't take it…"
"Don't tell me what to do! Hack- Cough-Cough-COUGH!"
"..."
"..."
"...Is there anything, anything at all, we can do? I just-"
Luther used pillows to block his ears; it was always like this. The walls between his and mama's room were really thin, and he could hear everything they said.
Too tired to care, and with a bone deep exhaustion plaguing him, he went back to sleep none the wiser…
The next morning, men in suits delivered a letter to his mother and left. Inside was a full scholarship to one of the best boarding schools in the country: Arlington Academy for the Gifted.
Little did he know that was the day that changed Luther's life forever.
AN: Thank's for reading, please leave a review if you think my writing's good or shit. See ya next chapter!