The next morning came too quickly.
Varik woke before the horn, the ache in his back still sharp but stable under the stiff bandages. Rhem was already up. Junia curled on her mat staring at the ceiling, expression unreadable.
Then the waking alarm sounded.
Slavers rushed through the barracks, their boots sharp against the floor.
"Up! Stand! Move to the assembly hall!"
Varik pushed himself upright, wincing as the movement tugged the healing skin across his shoulders. Junia helped him without making a show of it, her hands firm but uncharacteristically gentle.
Rhem fell into step behind them.
They joined the long lines funneling through the corridors. Bodies brushed past each other, whispering anxiously.
"What's happening?"
"Inspection, I think."
"No, all of us? That's never happened—"
"Is he choosing? Is this the buying day?"
"Someone said he's buying everyone."
"Impossible."
They reached the hall.
It was enormous—high ceilings reinforced with steel, old banners torn down long ago, cold lamps casting long shadows. The space smelled of metal, frost, and too many people packed together.
All 137 slaves were herded into rows.
Men. Women. Teenagers.
Even the smallest children sat huddled against the wall, wide-eyed.
Varik stood in the back row with Rhem and Junia.
The room fell silent when the heavy doors opened.
The potential buyer entered.
Fur-lined coat. Silver-streaked hair. Gloves clasped neatly behind his back. The same calm, controlled presence that had stopped an entire barracks with just his footsteps.
Grel followed him closely, trying to look important but only managing to look smaller.
The buyer's gaze swept across the crow.
It was… evaluative.
As if every person in that hall was a piece of unknown machinery, and he was determining which were worth repairing.
He walked the rows.
Slavers lifted chins, straightened postures, forced captives to extend arms or show calluses. The buyer inspected joints, scars, posture, muscle tone. Checked eyes. Asked a question or two only when necessary.
Varik stood rigid as the man approached.
The buyer paused in front of him for a fraction longer than with the others—but did not speak to him. Did not even nod.
He simply looked.
Then moved on.
Junia whispered, almost soundlessly, "What the hell does he want?"
Varik didn't answer.
The inspection lasted nearly an hour.
Finally, the buyer returned to the front of the hall.
Grel cleared his throat loudly.
"Silence! You will listen—and you will not speak."
The buyer stepped forward.
His voice carried easily, without needing to shout.
"You are all probably wondering why both you and I are here."
No one moved.
No one blinked.
All attention was directed to the man. It was as if the air itself gave deemed what he was about to say to be of utmost importance.
He continued, "The government—your government, whether you feel part of it or not—faces a crisis. A potentially severe one."
A low ripple of confusion moved through the hall.
"Dyrheim incursions have risen dramatically in the past two years," he said. "Sightings in the Upper Cities, the Inner Cities… and the Slum Sectors."
People murmured in fear. Even Junia stiffened.
Most didn't truly understand what the man was saying , but even the most uneducated children knew what the Dyrheim were. They knew that it meant monsters—creatures that killed without reason.
The buyer folded his hands behind his back.
"The security forces are stretched. The military is strained. Our manpower is not keeping pace with what threatens us."
A pause.
"And so, I am here."
He let the silence stretch.
Varik felt the tension settle in his shoulders like a shadow.
"As of this morning," the buyer continued, "I intend to purchase every one of you."
The hall erupted in a mix of sharp breaths, mutters, disbelief.
Junia perked up.
Rhem exhaled slowly.
Varik kept calm and watched in anticipation.
The buyer let the noise swell for a moment, then lifted a hand.
Silence returned.
"But not as laborers," he said. "Not as servants. Not as disposable workers."
A longer silence.
"You will be candidates. Soldiers."
Varik felt something cold coil in his stomach.
The buyer's voice echoed:
"You will be trained. Molded. Evaluated for potential entry into the Pathfinder Corps."
Some slaves exchanged blank looks. The name meant nothing to them.
Others—the ones from more refined backgrounds or those who were simply more educated—visibly paled.
The buyer noticed the growing confusion.
He sighed through his nose.
"To put this simply," he said in a clearer, almost patient tone, "what we want from you is to fight for humanity…"
He let the words settle.
"…in exchange for your freedom."
The hall froze.
Silence—pure, stunned silence—fell like a stone.
Even Varik felt his pulse shift.
Slaves didn't get offered freedom.
Not real freedom.
Not from men like him.
The buyer continued speaking, voice steady.
"I do not expect you to understand the details of our crisis. I do not expect you to care about national security. What you need to know is this: Dyrheim threatens the entire human settlement of Acrem Futri. The very home which our forefathers worked tirelessly to forge into humanities last stand. I do not expect most of you to fight for humanity nor do I expect you to care for those who have rejected you from their society. But what I do expect from you is for you to fight for your freedom and your future."
The murmuring grew louder.
He cut through it.
"Before any formal training, there will be a preliminary trial. A test designed to assess survivability and basic instincts. It is dangerous. Some of you— No, most of you may die."
Fear swept the room openly now.
Hands clenched.
Feet shuffled.
A child sobbed quietly until a mother pressed her close.
"But," the buyer said, lifting his chin, "those who pass will be sponsored by the government. You will become citizens. Paid. Housed. Educated if you wish. With the option to choose your own future and repair the past."
The air changed.
Not hope.
Not exactly.
But something close.
Something like yearning.
The once dead eyes of the people within this camp ignited with desire. The desire for something some of them had taken for granted and others never had the privilege of having.
Choice.
Varik, however, felt a different clarity settle in his chest:
"This isn't freedom. We'll just be slaves to a different master. A slave with a fancy chain around his neck is still a slave in the end."
Varik didn't like it.
Yet something inside him also whispered:
"But maybe these new chains could bring him somewhere."
As of right now Varik's goal is to find Lux and this might be his only chance of even getting to start working towards that goal.
The buyer finally added:
"For those who do not wish to participate…"
Every face lifted.
"…you will be resold to wealthy families as household servants. You will not remain here. Some of you who possess the skills might even become lower level civil workers. However do not be fooled, treatment may improve but you will still lose all chances of ever gaining true freedom."
Whispers. Confusion. Relief for some. Fear for others.
Choice.
A concept most of them had forgotten the meaning of.
The buyer stepped back.
"You will have until tomorrow morning to decide."
A slaver shouted, "Dismissed!"
The crowd dispersed slowly, stunned, buzzing with argument and hope and dread.
Varik remained still for a long moment.
Junia was the first to speak.
"That's…" She swallowed. "Insane."
Rhem exhaled. "Maybe this is a chance to finally gain real freedom."
Junia shook her head sharply. "Or death."
Varik said nothing.
He watched the buyer's silhouette leave the hall.
That same sharp aura lingered long after the man disappeared.
Varik didn't know which path he would choose.
But for the first time since falling into this place— no since being born really—
the future wasn't a single, suffocating line.
He had ability to actually choose the path he wanted to walk down on.