Chapter 110

  Written by Bayzo Albion

  Morning crept in softly. I stirred awake to the prickling sensation of being watched. The candle's warmth had long guttered out, and the room was bathed in the pale, ethereal glow of dawn filtering through the grimy window.

  I turned my head—and froze.

  There she was, lying beside me on the mattress. Not touching, not stirring. Just... there, her eyes fixed on me.

  They were clear, alert, stripped of that doll-like vacancy. But still, not a word. Only that unwavering gaze.

  A strange pang shot through my chest—not fear, not anger. Something unfamiliar, a mix of vulnerability and intrigue that left me unsettled.

  "You... were you staring at me all night?" I asked hoarsely, my voice rough from sleep.

  She didn't blink. Just that piercing stare, cutting right through me.

  I closed my eyes and sighed deeply.

  *Damn it all...*

  I sat up, the fog of slumber still clouding my thoughts. The floorboards were cool beneath my feet as I reached for my boots. But before I could bend down, she moved—silent as a shadow.

  She scooped up the boots from the floor and, without a sound, brought them to me. Then, with calm deliberation, she knelt and began slipping them onto my feet.

  I went rigid, the absurdity of the moment hitting me like a splash of cold water.

  "Hey..." I muttered, my voice still groggy, "I'm not helpless. I can do it myself."

  For a split second, her face flickered. Something alive sparked in her eyes—surprise, a hint of confusion. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, the mask of obedient blankness snapping back into place.

  I pulled away, snatching the boot from her grasp.

  "I said I can manage," I repeated, keeping my tone even.

  Yet as I spoke, my eyes betrayed me, drifting downward to her kneeling form. The way she—beautiful and enigmatic—performed this act of subservience without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  And unexpectedly, a thrill coursed through me. Not from the gesture itself, but from the power it implied. This authority I hadn't sought, now firmly in my grasp.

  I frowned, shoving the thought aside.

  *Damn... I shouldn't enjoy this. But why does it feel so... right?*

  She rose fluidly, anticipating my needs once more. Crossing to the table, she lifted the pitcher of water. With the grace of an ingrained ritual, she returned and offered it to me.

  I drank greedily, the icy liquid soothing my parched throat, awakening me fully.

  Setting the pitcher down, I met her gaze.

  "Tell me," I ventured, "can you fight?"

  No reaction. Not a twitch, not a nod—nothing to suggest the question had even registered.

  I rubbed my temples, a quiet curse escaping my lips.

  "What am I supposed to do with you?" I burst out, frustration bubbling over. "Maybe just set you free? Is that what you want?"

  She remained statue-still, her silence driving me to the edge.

  "I don't even know why I bought you," I confessed, the words tumbling out unbidden. "Honestly, it was a stupid impulse. I planned to buy a few slaves to start building my empire—'Mirai'—out in the woods. But the prices... they shattered everything."

  I stood and stepped closer, craning my neck to look up at her face, the height difference amplifying my awkwardness.

  "Be honest," I said, softening my voice. "What do you want? The best thing might be to just free you."

  No change. The same submissive poise, the same impassive stare.

  I exhaled heavily and reached out. My small fingers brushed her abdomen, right where the slave's magical seal should be etched.

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  "Maybe it's that simple," I murmured. "Remove the seal, and you're gone."

  My palm hovered, inches from her skin. The idea flashed through my mind: one act, and the dilemma resolves itself.

  But in that instant, her fingers closed around my wrist.

  Not harshly, not forcefully—gently, yet with unmistakable resolve. She halted me with a single, deliberate motion.

  I looked up. Our eyes locked. No anger, no panic. Just a crystalline clarity I hadn't anticipated.

  In that moment, it hit me: she didn't want freedom.

  She could have recoiled, shoved my hand away, or turned aside. But no—she held my palm against her, as if emphasizing: the seal stays. I stay.

  I swallowed hard and yanked my hand free, a chill racing across my skin.

  "So... you're choosing this?" I asked quietly.

  She lowered her gaze once more. The doll mask returned, as if the exchange had been a figment of my imagination.

  But I knew better. That was her answer.

  I sighed, pacing the room as my thoughts knotted further. Then I stopped before her again.

  "You get that traveling with me won't be easy?" I said. "I'm not the type to lounge in cities, sipping wine on feather beds. My home is the forest—far from civilization. It's cold, damp, and every day is a fight just to survive."

  I smirked bitterly, the words laced with self-deprecation.

  "I take guild quests. The hard ones—the kind others won't touch. I risk my life constantly. If you come with me... you'll share that existence. No festivals, no luxuries. Just mud, exhaustion, and endless vigilance."

  I studied her closely.

  "Do you understand? This isn't a life for a slave."

  She stood unmoving, as always. Silent. But her quietude struck me harder than any retort, resonating deep within.

  I ran a hand through my hair and added softly:

  "You know, I don't see a slave in you at all. I can't. That kind of beauty... it wasn't made for chains and seals. This whole thing feels like a absurd mistake. I'm used to slaves being broken, faceless shells. But you... you're different."

  The confession spilled out:

  "And it's tearing me apart inside. This dissonance—I don't know who you really are. Slave? Companion? Or something beyond what I can grasp right now...?"

  She lifted her gaze—for a heartbeat, just a flicker. The same frigid doll-like exterior, but beneath it, something stirred, mirroring my own confusion.

  She said nothing. Yet now, I perceived her silence not as emptiness, but as a response.

  Not defiance. Not rejection. Not denial. Simply a quiet, stubborn acceptance.

  I nodded to myself.

  "Fine, then," I declared. "You're coming with me. Not as a slave. As a companion."

  Her expression didn't shift, not a muscle twitched. But that was enough.

  We stepped outside. The morning chill nipped at my skin as the street stirred to life: vendors arranging their stalls with rhythmic clatters, children darting by with baskets of fresh bread, horses snorting plumes of breath near waiting carts. The city buzzed with its routine symphony.

  I strode along the cobblestones, and she matched my pace effortlessly. Not lagging, not surging ahead—like a shadow perfectly attuned to my stride. For the first time, that shadow didn't drag me down; it kept step, a silent harmony.

  "Come on," I said, eyes fixed ahead. "We're heading to the guild."

  We were strolling down the bustling street when a thunderous patter of paws echoed ahead. I looked up—and couldn't help but crack a grin.

  Barreling through the crowd, shoving pedestrians aside with effortless might, was none other than Zeus, the massive Irish wolfhound. His hulking form skimmed low to the ground like a living battering ram, his gray fur rippling with each powerful stride. Strapped to his broad back was a bulging satchel, clearly packed with goods.

  "No way," I breathed, coming to a halt. "Did that mustachioed old coot really pull this off so fast?"

  Zeus trotted up obediently, his intelligent eyes locking onto mine as he sat with a dignified thud. I unfastened the bundle from his back, the fabric neatly tied with a sturdy cord. Tucked on top was a small note, its edges crisp and precise.

  I unfolded it. The handwriting was bold and sweeping, full of flair:

  *Dear Lord Balthazar! May this attire bring you fortune and unyielding strength. You are a man of true character, and you deserve an appearance that mirrors your resolve. As a token of my respect, I've included a small gift—enchanted undergarments. Like the socks, they'll never soil. With deepest regards, your tailor.*

  I blinked, staring at the words.

  "Enchanted... underwear?" I muttered, a chuckle bubbling up despite myself. "Alright, I've officially crossed into absurdity. Even my unmentionables are magical now."

  Without a second thought, I unwrapped the bundle right there on the street. Inside lay the complete set: a sleek black military uniform, devoid of any superfluous buttons or adornments. It was austere, minimalist, and yet strikingly stylish, exuding an air of quiet authority.

  Ignoring the gawking stares of passersby—their whispers and widened eyes brushing past me like fleeting wind—I stripped off my old clothes and donned the new ones amid the open air. What did it matter? This world had written me off long ago; might as well embrace the chaos fully.

  The murmurs grew—snickers from a group of merchants, hushed giggles from a pair of women clutching baskets—but I tuned it out, the city's din fading into a distant hum. I fastened the last button and caught my reflection in a nearby shop window, the glass slightly warped but clear enough to show the transformation.

  "Not bad," I said to myself, a rare spark of satisfaction warming my chest. "Not bad at all."

  The black uniform fit like a second skin, its clean lines hugging my frame without a single wrinkle or sag. No frills, just sharp edges and durable fabric that whispered of power—not the flashy kind from gems and gold, but the raw, unyielding strength born of simplicity.

  I adjusted the collar, feeling a subtle hum of enchantment weave through the threads, and for the first time in what felt like ages, a flicker of confidence steadied my step.

  to be continued...

  You might feel like I’m constantly venting in my author’s notes - and you’d be right.There’s one thought that keeps bothering me: did I actually write a worthy book, or not?These thoughts weigh heavily on me, and this isn’t even about Rayada.

  Let me briefly tell you about Limbiya — a book I wrote without using AI.The story follows a protagonist named Salazar, who is cursed by fate. To break that curse, he must build a perfect society. Only then can he be freed.

  To put it simply: through a series of extremely difficult choices, Salazar manages to end global hunger and a brutal war - but at a terrible cost. I won’t spoil it.

  When I once tried to improve the text with the help of AI, I realized it erased my authorial voice. The story stopped feeling like mine. That’s why I don’t want to translate Limbiya myself — I’d rather leave that to professionals.

  Still, nothing stops me from carrying my ideas over into Rayada.