Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge

As Mark finished speaking, he caught himself, and his frown faded into a bow. He bent his head low and said, with deliberate humility, “Forgive my earlier conduct, Grandduke Elowen. I acted in a manner unfit for a noble of the Vaelcrest name.”

The Grandduke regarded him for a long, silent moment through the curling veil of silver smoke from her pipe. Her eyes, sly and calculating, shifted just slightly in approval.

“For the help you’ve rendered to my house,” she said, voice smooth and languid, “I shall overlook it—this time.”

Mark straightened slowly, his smile returning with the precision of someone used to long dances of politics and daggers sheathed in silk.

Grandduke Elowen was no child. A woman of her standing, she could tell when someone was trying to use her.

While no one of significant power would like that, she was very curious to see what would unfold as a result of this 'game' Mark was playing.

And if he she saw his motives as threat, she would crush him like the bug she thought he was.

She tapped her pipe lightly against her glass stand. “Then, Mark of Vaelcrest, what is it you desire in return?”

“Cassian Vaelcrest,” Mark said simply, his voice carrying a tinge of venom beneath its calm surface. “I want his fall.”

Elowen said nothing at first. Instead, she turned languidly to her right, exhaling another plume of smoke. The aether-rich mist shimmered unnaturally as it coiled upward—twisting and morphing into the vague, looming shape of a bestial silhouette with wings and blades for limbs.

“Give this,” she said, handing over a folded parchment to the smoke beast, “to our people in the dungeons. They will know what to do.”

The smoke beast bowed and vanished into the shadows.

As the smoke beast above them dissipated into the sky with a low hum of broken wind, Mark’s eyes narrowed.

Only now did he realize—every puff from Elowen’s pipe was not ordinary vapor, but aether condensed Aether Beast, born from her will.

He could not imagine her cultivation rank that made such insane ability possible.

A cruel but quiet chill ran down his spine.

---

Meanwhile, back at the Sigh Mountains…

Oliver’s hand throbbed violently with pain as he pulled himself over the final jagged ledge. His knees gave way and he collapsed onto the top plateau, face-first into the rock, his breath ragged and chest heaving.

But he had made it.

Somehow.

The pressure of the Aether that had crushed others had barely grazed him. His blood burned, but it did not buckle. As soon as he hit the ground, sleep claimed him—dragging him deep into the Night Trial once again, as if it had been waiting for him.

It wasn’t until the dim, humming lights of the warehouse reached his eyes that he awoke. His back screamed, his hand still bore the phantom pain of the climb and 'again' the Trial—but he was alive.

And once again, he had been carried.

He didn’t need to ask who. One glance at Garron’s disheveled figure nearby, sweat-drenched and bruised, and he knew.

Oliver still didn’t like Garron. He never would. But the man was slowly becoming something else—less of a nuisance, and more useful.

Then again, Oliver had long thought of it. He needed someone close that could help him whenever he fell into the night Trial.

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After all, that was when he was most vulnerable.

Trusting Garron was not negotiable. But Oliver needed someone he could rely on.

He knew from his previous life that people were classified into two. The useful and the useless.

Not good or bad. Not friends and others. Only those that could help and those that couldn't.

That was why Oliver swallowed back his disagreement with Garron.

Even though the man had clearly tried to use him to make a name for himself the first time they met.

True to his word, Roderick had honored the climb’s outcome. A small vial of a healing potion and a bowl of white rice were given to Oliver first, as promised.

As he gave Oliver the items, Roderick gave him a particular look. To he more precise, he looked at Oliver’s hair.

"Your hair."

Oliver paused as he turned.

Roderick frowned a bit and then he nodded, "ahhh... so it was blood–stained before."

Oliver sighed in relief in his heart.

For a second there, he thought maybe he might have missed a spot when he dyed his hair, and Roderick took notice.

That would not be good for him. He nodded, as he gave the Slave Salute that had been shown to them when the slave attendants had come.

All eyes in the warehouse followed him as he took the items and silently made his way to his corner.

Of course, Roderick still looked his way as he left. He had a peculiar gaze in his eyes.

A234. B123. Leston. Even the others whose names hadn’t mattered—yet.

They all watched Oliver walk away.

The Ten year old boy that bested all of them.

Although they were all slaves, this still felt like a shame to all of them.

But Oliver, calm as ever, pocketed the potion into his inventory pouch—he didn’t need it. His bloodline had already begun stitching his body back together.

Instead, he walked over and handed the rice to Garron.

The older man blinked, stunned for a moment, before accepting it with a gracious nod and a knowing smile.

This was practically payment for his troubles.

Oliver nodded back. He did not need to tell him. He knew Garron would continue to carry him.

Even though the man was a lot of things, he did always pay back debts.

Also, the rice was better than the 'shit' the others were fed.

Meanwhile, those that were unable to make the climb were punished for it.

Most of them had been those of commoner bloodline. But surprisingly, they were still nobles and some royals in the mix.

No doubt, one needed not just bloodline as an advantage to climb.

People were quite unique in nature. Some had good resilience to pain and pressure, and others did not.

Some nobles had lived a pampered life and as such could barely pull their bodies. Climbing mountains was too much for them.

Meanwhile, many commoners that had lived a hard life, naturally did better.

There was also the fact that some of these slaves, like Garron, already had Awakened bloodlines.

In fact, Oliver could tell that some were already ranked cultivators. But the Slave Sigil sealed their power—allowing for just the bare minimum release of Aether.

This way, the training period was effective for all.

But once they began in the dungeons, things would change. That was why, incredible loyalty had to be achieved during the training period.

So that even with achievements and power, these slaves would forever see themselves beneath the thumb of the Somara Empire.

The box of Blessing encompassed those that had not made the mark, as well as those that had not finished reciting the Imperial Slave Value System for the day.

Their screams would be the lullaby for the night.

And so it continued.

For an entire week, they were brought to the Sigh Mountains each dawn. Their burdens increased—first by handfuls, then in chunks. Stones, iron blocks, aether-infused sand. Still, Oliver always finished first.

And always, he was rewarded. A potion. A bowl of white rice.

And always, he gave the food to Garron.

All the while, Oliver dove into the Night Trial again and again. Each time, he faced the monk.

And each time—he lost.

Though his body grew faster, his strikes more refined, and his instinct sharper, none of it matched the singular technique the monk used to end him every time. One move. A blur. An end.

The frustration grew. Each time Oliver fell back to the waking world, his fists clenched tighter.

'Would I survive the Bottomless-Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpions now?'

That question hung in his heart, stung like salt. Not doubt. Not fear. Hunger. To be better.

He was too obsessed to notice it at first.

But change had crept into the warehouse.

The air. The stares. The groupings.

Factions had begun to form.

Not by race—not truly. Not even by species.

No.

Now, it was bloodlines.

Quality. Power. Potential.

Commoners rolled more with commoners, as nobles with other nobles regardless of race.

The so called familial bonds people were so proud of when they first came were dissolving.

Even the Centaurs were the same. No one wanted to be associated with one that was thought to be weak—the measuring factor, being the trials Roderick gave everyday.

Even the Reptilians began to mix up with the Winged people.

Such a division would have not been so in the wild.

The lines had been drawn—and Oliver was slowly being recognized as something else entirely.

He was the anomaly.

The only person that stayed close to him was Garron, and even he would relate with others from time to time.

The only thing Oliver did was finish the task by Roderick, and sleep.

These slaves could swear that they had never even seen him eat.

And yet, everytime, he would climb—he would finish first.

Certain eyes were now on him. And they were not happy with the way things were going.