Omino’s slaves were not given names, only a number and a date marking when they were ready to be sold.
"Even the snails must laugh waiting for you to walk! Damn you!"
The sound of whipping echoed, but there was no scream.
Blood trickled down from his right shoulder, dripping slowly onto the rough, cold dirt floor. His body shivered—not from the piercing morning air but from the crushing pain. His entire body was bruised, but he didn’t cry. Instead, he tried to walk faster, clutching the basket of bricks in his hands.
"1508!" the trainer shouted in a hoarse voice. "Gosh, what worth are you? You’re eighteen years old, and you can’t even sell your body or do proper work!"
1508 didn’t answer. He pressed his lips tightly together and pushed his trembling body to keep moving. His knees wobbled, and his left leg dragged sluggishly as usual—flawed, frail, broken. His muscles were thin, his skin pale, and his back was covered in old scars that hadn’t healed before new ones appeared.
The other slaves kept their heads down, pretending to sweep or lift baskets. No one dared to look directly at his suffering.
Everyone knew 1508. A weak and sickly slave, he had been limping for years due to frequent torture. They were amazed that he had survived this long.
Slave 1508 had only one dream: to be useful. He wanted a master. But to do so, he had to be eighteen before being sold. Last Sunday, he finally came of age, yet his dream remained unfulfilled.
Last night’s slave market was another failure. It was his third attempt, and all three ended the same way: no one bought him.
No master wanted a lame and weak slave. His face was pleasant, with large, hazel eyes and clear, bright skin, but his body was beyond repair.
Since birth, he had been sick and frail. He couldn’t serve in bed or work hard. He couldn’t obey orders without collapsing. Who would accept such a slave?
1508 knew his fate. All children knew the rules. If he wasn’t sold, he would be taken down.
Omino Village, the remotest and outermost village in Valigria, was infamous as the land of criminals and slave markets. For over a century, it had raised slaves to be sold across the kingdom.
Women were treated well, given a decent livelihood, and tasked with one purpose: to give birth to children who would become the next slaves.
The children were taken away at birth and brought to a special camp. Women never knew which child was theirs. They understood their role.
The children were assigned numbers immediately. They were raised with adequate food, basic education, and slave training until eighteen. Then, they were displayed on the market like goods. If they were sold, they lived free from torture. If not, they would be "taken down."
"Taken down" was a euphemism for execution.
Unsold slaves burdened the system. Resources shouldn’t be wasted on useless slaves. That was the law of Omino. Children were products. Slaves were assets.
That night, 1508 stared at his thin hands, dried blood clinging to his fingers. Disappointment was etched on his face. He wasn’t an asset. He was a failed product. If no one bought him within two weeks, he would be sent to Room Zero—the cold room where unsold slaves met their ends.
Heavy footsteps approached, their rhythm steady. 1508 recognized them instantly. Jero.
Jero stood before him, clearly annoyed. "Listen carefully. You know the rules. If you can’t be useful, you’ll be sent to Room Zero. Two weeks—that’s your final chance. Do you understand?"
1508 understood perfectly, and he accepted his fate. He lowered his head. "Yes, Master."
A harsh slap landed on his cheek. "You speak only when spoken to."
1508 remained silent, his cheek burning. He didn’t dwell on the pain but instead berated himself for forgetting the rules. Was he really that stupid?
If only he were smarter and more capable.
Jero stood up and walked away.
That night, 1508 sat alone in a corner of the slave barracks. His eyes were fixed on the small, barred window, where the moon’s shadow loomed gloomily. Around him, the sounds of heavy breathing and snoring filled the air.
He thought about the takedown.
Was it painful? Was it quick?
No, he couldn’t. Everyone knew there was no escape from Omino. The land was heavily guarded, surrounded by electric fences and dead forests. Slaves caught trying to escape faced unimaginable torture.
He had seen enough. He didn’t dare try.
His hand moved to his wrist, where the number 1508 was branded. He couldn’t forget the scorching pain caused by the hot iron. Another mark was etched on his thigh.
He once asked the kind old guard why they weren’t given names.
"Names give hope," the guard replied. "And slaves are not raised with hope."
1508 finally understood. His dream of becoming a useful slave would never come true. Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on n͟o͟v͟e͟l͟f͟i͟r͟e͟.net
He stared at the moon through the bars, hoping one last time that he would be sold at the next market.
The slave market opened on specific days. When many slaves were ready for sale, auctions might occur three times a week. Otherwise, the market opened every three months.
On each market day, agents arrived to transport slaves to the city. They carried records of slaves and lists of potential buyers.
1508 was returned to the market. He stood still, head down, in the back row, his wrists bound by iron chains. A large nameplate with "1508" hung around his neck. His heart pounded. Today, they would decide his fate.
Buyers came and went. They grabbed his chin, examined his teeth, muscles, chest, and legs. Many people sighed in regret when they saw his lame leg.
"What a pity. His face is handsome, but I’m not sure he’ll be accepted," muttered one man, an agent from the North.
1508 was disappointed but silent. He was exhausted.
Then, someone arrived.
An eerie silence spread as the man stepped into the market hall. Even the trainers looked down. He wore dark clothes, his eyes darker. There was no smile on his face, only an air of authority.
He walked down the slave line until stopping in front of 1508.
1508 bowed, as he was supposed to. He waited for insults.
Instead, a hand rose—hot, large—stopping inches from his face.
1508 hesitated but obeyed.
"You... how old are you?" the man asked.
"Eighteen, Master," 1508 answered quietly.
The man nodded. "Perfect."
1508’s chest tightened with hope. The man was handsome, his clothes expensive. Who was he? He didn’t seem like an agent.
He tried his best to please him. The man seemed satisfied. 1508 dared to hope.
When the man left to speak with an overseer, 1508 overheard whispering around him.
"Isn’t he the earl from Westmere? He came alone?"
1508 didn’t catch the rest of the conversation. Hearing the word ’earl’ made his body tense.
"Come with me," the man said, turning back to him.
1508’s eyes widened in disbelief.
Finally, he had a master?
Without thinking, he stood, his lame leg dragging slightly.
And then he saw it. Instantly, his happiness faded.
"Damn it, I didn’t know he had a limp."
His hopes were shattered. His joy sank into the deepest abyss. He returned to his place, watching as the man chose another slave and walked away.
This meant it was his last day.