Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 27: In Chains, We Bleed the Same

Chapter 27: In Chains, We Bleed the Same

A few minutes earlier...

While the world outside slumbered beneath a blanket of silence, deep within the cage, most souls had drifted into an uneasy sleep.

Even Oliver, plagued by compulsory nightmares was lost in fighting against the creatures in his dreams of blood—his body still, breath steady, trapped in a torment only he could see.

In the shadows of the cage, a hulking man stirred.

He was massive, nearly rivalling Garron in size. Even though his body bore the grime of captivity, his muscles told tales of hard labour and survival. His clothes, or what was left of them, were once plain and patched—rags of a simple life now torn and filthy. But those who looked closely could tell: this was no noble, no warrior. He was of a common bloodline.

He moved silently through the sleeping bodies, his sight was set on the corner where Oliver lay, curled beside a rotting wooden plank.

With one rough hand, he shoved the boy aside like a sack of grain.

Oliver didn't stir—he couldn't even if he wanted to. The Nightmares were compulsory.

The man crouched, prying open the broken plank with practised fingers. Beneath it, half-hidden by straw and dirt, was a stale, blackened hunk of bread. This was Oliver's hidden stash.

This man had been observing Oliver like a hawk ever since food was brought the first time.

The commoner man reached for it.

A hand stopped him.

Fingers closed around his wrist—firm, unyielding. He turned, eyes narrowing to find Velma glaring at him with her one good eye, sharp as a dagger.

"That's not yours," she said coldly.

Velma might have been pissed at her brother. But that was between both of them. No one was allowed to touch his stuff.

The man sneered. "The runt's been eating more than his share. I'm just taking mine."

He tried to swat her hand away, but Velma didn't flinch. She stood, the chains on her limbs clinking sharply, and in one fluid motion, leapt high—delivering a brutal double-legged kick straight to his face.

She had dealt with men like this before, and in a place like this, violence was the deterring factor.

The commoner staggered back, stunned.

Velma on the other hand landed unsteadily, one hand flying to her head. A pounding headache had returned. It was a deep, gnawing pain from the injury Oliver had given her yesterday. Her vision blurred, but she held her ground.

"Stupid b*tch!" the man roared, wiping blood from his nose.

He charged at her. His fist cracked against her jaw, spinning her to the side.

At such a time, his eyes caught the silk beneath the dirt—her gown. It was torn, but it still bore the fine texture only wealth could buy.

A noble.

Rage lit his face.

"It's you and your kind who ruined us! You look for trouble, and then you highborn pigs feast while we break our backs. And now you wanna hoard bread?!"

He struck her again—twice, hard, brutal punches that sent her crashing into the floor. Her head screamed from both the hits and the climbing headache.

Blood ran from her nose. She gasped, fingers scrabbling against the dirt—until her hand closed around a heavy iron chain not far away.

She whipped it up.

CRACK!

The chain smashed against his temple. The man howled and fell to the side, blood seeping down his face. Velma coughed, wheezing, struggling to rise—only for him to lunge again, fury driving him mad. He landed atop her, hands clamping around her throat.

Now, the other slaves stirred.

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In no time, whispers had spread. After all, the commotion had not been small.

Some watched in silence. Others laughed. A few cheered the attacker on.

"Teach her a lesson."

Any form of distraction in this plain world, that pulled people out of the reminder of their suffering was welcomed.

But one man was silent. It was the man Seraphina had broken. He had always watched, not willing to sleep because of the nightmares that plagued him from both his lover dying, and being abused by Seraphina.

His gaze flicked to Oliver, still unconscious, then to Velma. He clenched his fists as he rushed to defend Velma.

It was at this time that Oliver stirred.

He opened his eyes gently. Unlike the other time, the night trial had ended relatively peacefully.

But then he turned to the commotion.

And then he saw her–Velma, pinned, her face turning pale beneath the man's grip.

And she saw him.

Her single eye locked onto his. In that moment, he saw something in her gaze: fear, disbelief... and the acceptance of death.

Before the thought could form, his body moved.

He kicked off the ground, charging.

What am I doing?

He's stronger. I'm just a child. He'll kill me too.

But none of that mattered.

Oliver leapt onto the man's back, wrapping his arms around his neck, pulling, clawing. The man roared and elbowed back, catching Oliver on the shoulder. Pain exploded through him—his right arm went limp.

Dislocated.

This Commoner had been able to fling the broken man who tried to help. Oliver was only ten. His case would have been worse, but the stats upgrade he got from the night trial helped him with strength beyond his age.

But it wouldn't be enough. This man was at least in his early thirties—One who obviously had a rich history of hard work. Oliver's new found strength would not be enough.

At such a time, something inside him clicked—deep in his blood, cold and crimson. His fingers grasped the man's head and, with instinct alone, he activated his Nightmare Gifter, sending nightmares into the man's head.

A whispering scream erupted. The man froze—his eyes wide as shadows pierced his mind.

He screamed.

He thrashed, then fell backward onto Oliver. The pain from the impact disrupted the connection—but the damage was done. The man was dazed, panting, and bleeding from the nose.

Oliver stood—barely.

His right arm hung limp, but his left raised protectively in front of Velma. She was coughing hard, regaining her breath, her gaze locked on him in disbelief.

The younger brother she knew was more of a coward, always running away—always from danger. But he was now standing to protect her.

He stood.

Weak. Broken. But still stood.

Yet, Oliver knew it wasn't over.

The man would definitely stand again. Not because he really wanted the bread, or even because of revenge against them– Oliver and Velma, but simply because of revenge.

How could a grown man endure the humiliation of being bested by a ten-year-old?

Oliver's mind spun, searching for a way out.

Velma was not weak. He was sure that if she was at her best, she could easily take this man out. But too many things had happened. And Oliver's vicious smacking of her face a day before did not help. It had been so bad that one of her eyes was shut.

He had to figure a way out. Something, anything to stop this man in his tracks.

And then, an idea... he spoke.

"How dare you lay your hands on a princess of the Great Tyrell Kingdom?"

The world went still.

The man froze. The onlookers stared. A ripple of confusion passed through the crowd.

A princess?

On Oliver's face was a stern look, but in his heart was relief.

Oliver had not been sure it would work, but thank the heavens it did.

Many of these slaves, if not all, still had their hearts connected to their country. In fact, many longed for home and therefore had allegiance to it.

Meaning that they still possessed a mentality he could take advantage of.

For a heartbeat, it seemed the air itself had shifted.

Until a figure stepped through the crowd.

Heavy steps. Iron chains dragging. The sea of prisoners parted.

Garron.

The behemoth's voice cut through the silence.

"And so what?"

He glared at Oliver, then at Velma.

"So what if she's royalty? Does that mean we should go hungry? That we should suffer in silence while she lives like a queen? Are we still meant to bow even in chains? Are we still your servants?"

Murmurs of agreement followed. Whispers of anger, old wounds, long-held grudges commoners usually had against their rulers.

'Shit!' Oliver cursed under his breath.

He's ruining everything.