Priceless Slave Novel – ARC FATEFUL MEETING – “1508” 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. He held his breath. 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