The carriage waited outside, black lacquered wood with Saunder's crest on the door. A simple design, nothing like Elrin's ostentatious gold trim.
Saunder walked toward it with long strides, not looking back. John followed at a respectful distance, his mind still reeling from the transaction. He'd been bought. Actually purchased like livestock.
A servant opened the carriage door. Saunder paused at the step.
"Well? Get in."
John froze.
This was a test. Had to be. The same trap Elrin had set. Servants didn't ride in carriages. Servants walked alongside or sat up front with the driver. He'd learned that lesson with boots and fists.
"I..." John's voice caught. "I'll walk, my lord. Or sit with the driver if permitted."
Saunder turned, one foot already on the step. Rain had started, light but cold. "What are you talking about? Get in the carriage before you catch your death."
"It's not..." John's hands trembled. "Servants don't ride inside. I was beaten for trying before. I'll stay outside."
Confusion crossed Saunder's face. Then something darker. Understanding.
"Elrin did that?"
John nodded, not trusting his voice.
Saunder's jaw tightened. "How long were you in his service?"
"Six days, my lord. Seven counting today."
"And in that time he chained you in a kennel, had you beaten unconscious, and trained you to refuse basic shelter from rain."
It wasn't a question but John answered anyway. "Yes, my lord."
Saunder was quiet for a moment. The rain intensified slightly, plastering John's hair to his forehead. He stood there shivering, waiting for whatever came next.
"That man," Saunder said finally, "is going to get himself killed one day by someone who won't tolerate his cruelty. Get. In. The. Carriage."
John's body moved before his brain caught up, old obedience training kicking in. He climbed inside and immediately pressed himself into the far corner, trying to take up as little space as possible.
Saunder entered normally, settled into the seat across from him without ceremony. He knocked twice on the roof and the carriage lurched into motion.
They rode in silence for several minutes. John kept his eyes down, hyperaware of every sound, every movement. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the kindness to reveal itself as another form of torture.
"Look at me."
John's eye flicked up. Met Saunder's gaze and immediately dropped again.
"I said look at me. Properly."
This time John forced himself to maintain eye contact. Saunder's eyes were gray, sharp but not cruel. Analytical.
"I'm not Elrin. I don't derive pleasure from suffering. You're my property now, yes, but property I intend to maintain in working condition. Which means you eat regularly, sleep in an actual bed, and don't get beaten for following direct orders. Understood?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Good. Now sit normally. You look like a whipped dog."
John tried to relax. Failed. His body wouldn't uncurl from its defensive hunch.
Saunder sighed but didn't press the issue.
The ride took maybe an hour. They stopped at a manor house, smaller than Elrin's but well maintained. Efficient rather than ostentatious. Servants met them at the door, took Saunder's cloak, barely glanced at John.
"Marcus," Saunder addressed an older servant. "Prepare the east cell. Clean linens, basic furniture. And have cook send up a meal."
"The east cell, my lord?" Marcus looked puzzled.
"Yes. Our guest will be staying there."
Marcus's expression suggested this was unusual but he bowed and left to arrange it.
Saunder led John through corridors lit with simple oil lamps. No excessive decoration. Everything functional. They climbed two flights of stairs and entered a hallway lined with doors.
"Cells is a misnomer," Saunder explained. "They were used by monks two centuries ago when this was a monastery. Small, austere, but private. I thought you'd prefer your own space."
He opened a door.
The room was maybe ten feet square. A narrow bed, a small table, a chair. A window with actual glass. The walls were bare stone but clean. No straw on the floor, just worn planks. A candle sat on the table.
To John, it looked like paradise.
"Clothes are in the chest at the foot of the bed. Simple stuff but clean. Wash basin in the corner. Meal should arrive shortly."
John stood in the doorway, unable to process. A room. His own room. With a door that closed.
"Thank you, my lord," he managed.
"Get cleaned up. Eat. Rest if you need it. I'll send for you in two hours."
Saunder left, closing the door behind him.
John stood there for a full minute before his legs gave out. He sat on the bed, hands shaking, and tried to convince his body that this wasn't another trick.
The meal arrived as promised. Bread, cheese, some kind of stew with actual vegetables and meat. The servant who brought it was professional, neither kind nor cruel, just efficient.
John ate slowly, his stomach still adjusting to regular food. Everything tasted impossibly good.
The clothes fit reasonably well. Simple undyed fabric, servant quality but whole and clean. After six days in filth, wearing something that didn't smell like kennels felt decadent.
Two hours later, a knock.
"Lord Saunder requests your presence in the study."
John followed the servant through more corridors to a room lined with books. Actual books, hundreds of them, more than John had ever seen in one place. Saunder sat at a desk covered in papers, quill in hand.
"Sit." He gestured to a chair across from him.
John sat, his back straight, hands folded in his lap.
Saunder dipped his quill, positioned a fresh sheet of paper. "Now then. I want you to explain everything. Start from the beginning. This world you claim to be from. Earth, you called it?"
"Yes, my lord."
"Describe it. Geography, politics, technology. Everything."
So John talked.
He explained Japan, Tokyo, modern society. Electricity and cars and the internet. Anime and manga and the entire concept of fictional media. Saunder's quill scratched constantly, taking notes in neat script.
"Fascinating. And this 'isekai' genre. A cultural fixation on escaping to fantasy worlds?"
"Yes. It's extremely popular. Probably hundreds of stories with the same basic premise. Normal person dies or gets summoned and gains special powers in a new world."
"And you believed this happened to you."
"I... yes. I saw the truck. I felt the impact. Then I woke up here."
Saunder's expression was unreadable. "The human mind is remarkable at constructing narratives to explain trauma. You may have experienced a severe head injury. Your memories of this 'Japan' could be elaborate confabulations."
"Maybe," John admitted. His certainty had eroded significantly after six days of brutality.
"Tell me about these tropes you mentioned. Status screens?"
John explained game mechanics, stat points, skill trees. The whole apparatus of RPG systems that isekai stories borrowed wholesale.
Saunder filled page after page.
"And power fantasies. The protagonist always becomes exceptionally strong?"
"Usually. Either through a cheat skill or special knowledge from Earth or unique circumstances. The whole point is wish fulfillment."
"Wish fulfillment for whom?"
"People who feel powerless in their real lives. Who want to imagine being important, being special, being recognized."
Saunder set down his quill and looked at John directly. "And you felt powerless."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"So you constructed an elaborate framework where your suffering has narrative purpose. Where eventually you'll receive validation."
John's throat tightened. Hearing it stated so clinically made it sound pathetic.
"Yes, my lord."
Saunder leaned back. "My little otherworld philosopher. You're quite the curiosity."
The phrase landed wrong. Little. Like a pet. Like something amusing but lesser. The same tone you'd use for a clever dog.
But Saunder's voice held no cruelty. Just academic interest. Clinical detachment.
John sat there, being studied, being documented, being kept like an interesting specimen.
At least he wasn't being beaten.
That thought alone showed how far he'd fallen. Grateful for the absence of violence rather than expecting basic humanity.
"We'll continue tomorrow," Saunder said. "I want to document everything. Your entire delusional framework. It's anthropologically invaluable."
"Yes, my lord."
"You're dismissed. Sleep well."
John returned to his cell. His room. Whatever it was.
He lay on the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling.
Not beaten. Not starved. Not chained.
Just infantilized. Studied. Treated like a fascinating oddity.
He should feel grateful.
He did feel grateful.
And that made him feel worse somehow.