The Freed Slaves Are Obsessed

Clang! Clang!

"It feels like the world’s going crazy these days."

In a remote mine on the continent, a bearded man, the mine manager, grumbled as sharp sounds of metal clashed chaotically around him.

It was a common complaint anyone might have about the state of the world, and the thin man across from him nodded in agreement.

"Everyone seems to think so."

It had been about a year since strange phenomena began appearing all over the continent.

A count's daughter who had escaped from slavery went missing. A specter appeared, massacring innocent people. A new mage tower master, filling a position that had been vacant for centuries, suddenly emerged. A meteor fell, wiping out an entire trading guild. Elves came out of their forests and started doing business.

If it happened occasionally, it might be understandable, but such sensational events had been occurring all over the continent for the past year, making it impossible not to be concerned.

"Is that all? Recently, a large horde of magical beasts invaded the Beastfolk nation."

"And then a dark veil covered an entire city. It was big enough to be seen even from here, so you know it was serious."

The neighboring kingdoms were in an uproar. They thought a major terror attack had struck Bestia. Fortunately, there hadn’t been any damage.

"But that’s what’s even stranger. People inside don’t remember anything about what happened. Was it some kind of grand spell cast by a powerful mage?"

The thin man shook his head.

"Rumor has it that it was the work of a gumiho."

"A gumiho?"

"One of the magical creatures they call yokai in the East."

In the distant past, when magic was the exclusive domain of a rare few witches, the gumiho was revered in the East as the king and deity of yokai. It was said that wherever a gumiho walked, only dust remained in its wake.

The bearded man sighed heavily and waved his hand dismissively.

"Ah, it's the end times, for sure. A clear sign that the world is about to end."

"I'm not done yet."

"There’s more?"

"Someone analyzed it, and it seems that all these strange events have one thing in common."

The thin man cast a serious look, his expression darkening. The bearded man swallowed nervously.

"And... what is it?"

"The Slave Reaper. That man is connected to all of these events."

"The Slave Reaper?"

He’d heard the name before. A slave trader who doesn’t sell slaves—he only buys them.

The slaves that pass through the Slave Reaper’s hands disappear shortly afterward. When asked where they went, he only looks to the sky and says he sent them to a better place.

"What was that word he always used...?"

"‘Liberation’?"

"Yes, liberation."

Liberation. The word itself has a good meaning.

But coming from a slave trader, it’s one of the most unnatural words imaginable.

Buying and selling people purely for profit—and calling it liberation?

It wasn’t hard for people to catch on to the hidden meaning. They guessed he was purchasing slaves for the thrill of killing them in horrific ways.

And it was always women.

A twisted pastime of the worst kind. Even among slave traders, he was the most loathsome.

"Shouldn’t we catch and punish him, then? Why is he allowed to walk around freely?"

The Slave Reaper seemed to be present in every abnormal event. It was as if he were causing them.

Of course, that was an unrealistic theory.

Though he bore the grand title of the Slave Reaper, he was just a human with strange desires. It was all just a coincidence; nobody seriously thought he was the cause of these events.

But the details didn’t matter.

Even without hard evidence, suspicions alone were enough. The people in power couldn’t tolerate an eyesore like him.

"Shows what you know. He’s a villain to us, sure. But most of the nobility actually likes the Slave Reaper. Seems like birds of a feather really do flock together, as the nobility with twisted personalities somehow find a connection with him."

"It really is the end times."

The bearded man sighed so deeply it seemed to shake the ground. Then, as if noticing something odd, he quickly turned his head.

A dwarf slave had stopped mining.

No wonder the sounds had changed at some point.

"Hey, you there! Are you slacking off?"

"N-no, sir!"

Startled, the dwarf girl began swinging her pickaxe hurriedly.

Clang! Clang!

The sharp sound of metal hitting rock echoed, and beads of sweat flew from her brow.

The dwarf girl's name was Ferka. She had been in the mine for about half a year.

Ferka wanted to go home.

The dwarf girl, Ferka.

To her, the mine was a familiar place.

Most dwarves across the continent made their homes in the underground city of Doomheim, and Ferka’s hometown was also Doomheim.

Just as water and fish are inseparable, so too were dwarves and mines. Minerals were their bones, and veins of ore were their blood.

This underground mine might resemble her hometown environment, but it was far from home.

Even dwarves didn’t spend all day underground—they’d occasionally go above to bask in the sunlight. No dwarf would mine without taking time to eat.

Or would they...?

‘Maybe...?’

Perhaps there were a few.

But that wasn’t important. For Ferka, this place wasn’t a comfortable underground city; it was a dreadful Tartarus.

Although she had spent her childhood surrounded by minerals and enjoyed mining as a hobby, it quickly lost its charm when it became forced labor.

Right now, that was exactly the case.

Her wrists and ankles were bound in cuffs. Her hands gripped a cheap pickaxe. Her clothes, unwashed, smelled foul. Her meals consisted of rock-hard bread and thin, watery soup.

This was the typical life of a slave, but Ferka hadn’t grown up that way. As the daughter of one of the seven master craftsmen in Doomheim, she had been treated like a lady.

She had always been a bit of a tomboy, and people often commented on how she was more like a boy than a girl, but still...

At least she’d had some freedom in her life.

‘I miss my dad...’

He must be so worried by now. If only she’d listened, she wouldn’t be here.

The fear that she might never see her father again, that she might live trapped here forever, overwhelmed her, and tears filled her eyes.

"Sniff..."

Ferka wiped her nose.

Around that time, the mine became noisier.

"Of all the slaves, why take a dwarf? You know there’s no one more efficient at mining than a dwarf."

"What can I do? Orders are orders. If they say to bring her, then I have to bring her."

"Haa... without her, meeting the quota will be tough."

The thin mine overseer, who had been conversing with his superior, scratched his head with a sigh and started walking toward Ferka.

In his hand was a menacing red whip.

If slaves were idle or stopped mining, that whip would crack against their backs.

Rumor had it that the whip had originally been brown but was stained red from the blood of the slaves.

Seeing him approach with the whip, Ferka flinched. Without time to wipe her tears, she hastily swung her pickaxe.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

But the overseer didn’t stop, instead coming to a halt right behind her. Ferka closed her eyes tightly.

"Hey, dwarf."

"Y-yes, sir!"

"Is your name Ferka?"

"Y-yes, sir!"

"Put down your pickaxe and follow me."

The thin man turned and walked away. Not understanding why, Ferka hesitated for a moment, then quickly set down her pickaxe and followed him.

‘W-what’s going on?’

There were usually two reasons a mine overseer would call a slave.

One was to put an unruly slave in solitary confinement—a cramped cell with no room to sit, where they weren’t even fed. Those who returned from solitary were like empty shells.

The other was when a slave had become too weak to work, in which case they were sold elsewhere. Women were sent to pleasure houses, while men became meat shields on battlefields or in hunts for magical beasts.

"Tsk. Poor thing. And where she’s going is even worse..."

The thin overseer muttered to himself as he led her away.

He was the type to whip slaves at every opportunity, venting his frustrations on them. For him to express pity meant...

‘Worse than a pleasure house?!’

Ferka’s vision went dark!

Shaking with fear, Ferka stopped at an office within the mine, a building reserved for staff or for hosting visitors.

The man opened the door.

"Go on in."

Ferka froze.

He was opening the door for her himself? And the look in his eyes, it was like a mother cow watching her calf being led to slaughter.

"Hurry up and go in. There’s an important guest waiting."

She didn’t want to go in.

Ferka hesitantly entered, taking small steps.

Inside, she saw a high-ranking woman supervisor who occasionally visited the mine, as well as a striking man she’d never seen before.

He had rare black hair and eyes, an impeccable appearance that seemed out of place in the grimy mine.

Sipping coffee with a calm demeanor, he was a sight one would never see among dwarves.

"Please verify before purchase. Is this dwarf girl indeed the Ferka that the Reaper requested?"

"Let’s see... Oh, yes, she matches my memory perfectly. Here, as promised."

The man placed a pouch on the table. The clinking sound suggested it contained coins.

The supervisor picked up the pouch, checked the contents, and nodded.

"It matches the agreed amount. I hereby transfer ownership of the slave to you."

The woman handed over Ferka’s ownership to the man.

Ferka felt a sudden tightness.

Her body? Her heart?

She couldn’t quite describe it, but it felt as though her soul were being constrained. The oppressive sensation was anything but pleasant.

Clink.

The man set down his coffee cup and stood up.

"It seems everything is settled, so I’ll take my leave. Let’s go, Miss Ferka."

When Ferka came to her senses, she was already outside.

She shaded her eyes with her hand, looking up at the sky. After half a year, the sunlight was blinding. It had been warm when she’d entered the mine, but now, with winter approaching, the wind was chilly.

‘Is... is this real?’

Was she really getting out this easily?

She’d dreamed about escaping countless times, thinking she’d only leave the mine as a fossil.

It still didn’t feel real.

All because of this mysterious man who had bought her.

He was studying a map.

Who exactly was he?

Why had he rescued her from that dark mine?

Unable to suppress her curiosity, Ferka cautiously spoke up.

"Um, excuse me..."

"Is something the matter?"

"You’re my savior, but I don’t even know your name. May I ask what you do?"

"Oh, forgive me. I forgot to introduce myself."

He smiled apologetically.

Unbelievable.

Someone who spoke politely to a slave and even apologized for something so minor!

‘Could he be a saint?’

This wasn’t just a good person.

Ferka’s heart swelled with hope.

Maybe this person would take her back to her homeland.

But her hopes melted away like molten metal at his next words.

"My name is Karami. I’m a slave trader. Some call me the Slave Reaper."

"W-what?"

What did he just say?

Slave... Reaper?

Karami continued with a good-natured smile.

"We won’t be together for long, but let’s make the most of our time. I’ll be sending you deep underground soon."