Dimensional Supermarket - Chapter 69

A bird’s cry breaks the stillness of the early morning, and the sun’s rays spread across the earth, casting a golden veil over the buildings and plants.

The shabby wooden door creaks open from the inside.

A red-haired man pushes it open and steps through, carrying a hoe. He sits by the door, tying his trouser legs, waiting for others to pass in front of him before following them unsteadily.

He walks among the crowd, silent, not glancing to either side.

After walking for an unknown length of time, the group finally reaches a half-cleared field.

The manager is already there, enjoying the shade beneath a tree, holding a water cup in his hand. He shouts at the workers, “Hurry up and get to work! You useless slaves! If you dare slack off, I’ll sell you to the sea!”

The slaves scramble down from the ridge of the field, urgently swinging their hoes.

Those overseeing them carry whips, and anyone who dares to be lazy or look around gets struck. Even if no one slacks off, the overseers still lash them when they have nothing else to do.

The red-haired man hunches over. His back has long since lost its ability to straighten. He is no older than sixteen but is already bent with exhaustion.

“You should thank Lord Wells for giving you work and food,” the overseer strolls about leisurely, still holding his cup—despite standing in a field, he wears a proper formal suit, a pristine white collar, and a pair of mustaches on his face.

He looks more like he’s headed to a ball than supervising field labor.

“Lord Wells is kind and generous,” the overseer repeats the same line over and over, dragging out the words, “No other slaves are as lucky as you. You have clothes to wear and food to eat. You should dedicate everything to Lord Wells—otherwise, you’re not even worth livestock!”

The red-haired man listens to the familiar words, his mind wandering, confused. Are they really better off than other slaves? he wonders. Then why am I still hungry, tired, and unable to straighten my back? He longs for one day of rest, just one day. But the master never allows it. They are his property—his cattle and horses—and must give everything for him, even their lives. Yet, the master never bothers to look at them or even learn their names.

“What are you thinking?!” A harsh crack of a whip rings out behind him, striking him before he even has time to react. The overseers often mock them, and whipping is the most common way they do so.

The red-haired man grits his teeth, enduring the pain. He bites his tongue and continues working with his hoe, his back already covered in whip marks. The old scars haven’t even healed before new ones are added.

After working all morning, it is finally time for their meal. The wooden barrels, brought from the foot of the mountain, are placed in front of them. The slaves cup their hands together to form bowls, and the overseers pour the porridge directly into their hands. There are no bowls or spoons.

The red-haired man hunched over, shrinking his neck, and lined up carefully in the group. He didn’t want to draw attention, not wanting another beating.

The red-haired man hunches over, shrinking his neck, and lines up carefully in the group. He doesn’t want to draw attention, not wanting another beating.

Hunger consumes him, leaving only one thought: to eat.

The hot porridge is made from wheat bran and oil-pressed soybean dregs. It is boiled in water until it becomes a soft, mushy mess. No seasoning is added. Cows and horses eat better than they do.

He stands at the front of the line, eagerly watching the porridge in the wooden barrel. This is their only meal of the day.

The steaming porridge is ladled into his hands, scalding his calloused palms until they turn red.

But he doesn’t dare let go. If he drops it, the porridge will spill into the ground, and there will be even less to eat.

He walks slowly under the tree, his hands trembling as he licks the porridge from his wrist.

It is burning hot, but the hunger is worse. He doesn’t even notice as the skin on his lips burns away.

The man serving the slaves smirks and says to his companion, “They’re no different than dogs. They only know how to eat.”

His companion curls his lip in disdain. “They’re worse than dogs. At least dogs are more likable.”

When it comes down to the last three slaves, the man suddenly gets a wicked idea. He scoops up the remaining porridge at the bottom of the bucket and holds the ladle in front of a slave’s face. The slave eagerly reaches out—

The man jerks his arm, splashing the burning porridge onto the slave’s face.

The slave cries out in pain, covering his face and squatting to the ground.

The man speaks to the two remaining slaves. “There’s no more. If you want to eat, go lick the ground.”

The two slaves don’t move. The man cracks his whip, scowling. “I told you to lick it! Can’t you understand human language? Dogs are smarter than you!”

When the whip cracks again, landing on a slave’s ear, he panics and kneels down, sticking out his tongue to lick the porridge from the dirt, swallowing the mud with it.

The man laughs, watching them. He points his whip at them and snickers for a while, then grows bored. “Go away! Don’t come near me!”

The slaves scurry to the other side, hands and feet scrambling to move.

The slave whose face was splashed with porridge is scalded, blisters already forming on his face.

“I should’ve made the porridge hotter,” the man mutters, clearly dissatisfied that the slaves only have their skin burned. “Next time, we’ll have them kneel together, pour the porridge on the ground, and let them lick it all up, just like dogs.”

His companion shrugs. “Aren’t you tired of this yet?”

The man sighs. “I’ve been tired of it for a long time. I don’t know when we’ll get out of here.”

They are sent by the lord to clear the land, but there are no towns or villages nearby. There’s nowhere to visit, no brothels, and no wine to buy. Although the lord occasionally sends food and rations to prevent them from starving, there’s nothing to enjoy.

So they find their own entertainment. And the easiest source of amusement is the slaves.

The lord is incredibly wealthy. Losing a few slaves—or even a dozen—is just normal wear and tear, and he won’t punish anyone for it. Slaves are cheap and disposable.

“Just wait until this land is cleared,” his companion comforts him. “Let them work more, and we can leave sooner.”

The man nods in agreement, but there’s a distant look in his eyes. “Why didn’t you bring a female slave this time?”

His companion laughs. “Didn’t you say you didn’t want one?”

The man spits on the ground. “It’s disgusting. I just find them disgusting because they’re slaves.”

His companion shrugs. “You’ve got issues.”

After dinner, the slaves have no time to rest. They are born to work like cattle and horses, but unlike actual cattle and horses, which are valuable assets and allowed time to rest, the slaves are not given such privileges. They are cheap, easily replaceable. When one dies, another takes its place.

The red-haired man works numbly until the sun sets and night falls. The slaves are only allowed to stop when they can no longer see clearly.

To prevent any of them from escaping, the overseers lock the wooden door from the outside after they return to the thatched house. A dozen slaves are crowded into the narrow space, unable to lie down properly. They have no time to drink water or relieve themselves, as they are hurried into the house like cattle, with no care for their needs.

The red-haired man huddles in a corner, wide awake, staring blankly at the moonlight streaming through the cracks in the straw. The pungent stink of sweat, excrement, body odor, and bad breath lingers in the air, but he seems oblivious to it.

There is no sound from outside. The slaves around him are asleep.

The man carefully stands up, his fists clenched, his breath shallow and quick. He moves toward the door, but just as he reaches it, a hand suddenly grabs his ankle.

Frozen in place, his heart races as cold sweat breaks out on his forehead. He glances down at the person who has grabbed him.

The man’s face is covered in blisters, the largest one glowing painfully in the moonlight.

“Are you going to escape?” the man’s voice is hoarse, strained by pain. “Take me with you. Take me.”

The red-haired man quickly kneels down, covering the man’s mouth. Fortunately, most of the slaves are deeply asleep. Not all of them dream of freedom; many have long since given up any hope of escape. Some are even brainwashed into believing they deserve this life. If someone tries to escape, there’s always the risk of being reported in exchange for a reward. The chance of success is slim, and the price of failure is death.

The red-haired man purses his lips, glancing around the room, then looks back at the man’s blistered face. He whispers, “Don’t sleep. Wait until later.”

He sits down beside him, leaning against the man’s shoulder for support.

The night stretches on endlessly, each minute feeling like an eternity, as the sounds of the other slaves grinding their teeth and muttering in their sleep fill the air.

“I can’t take it anymore,” the man whispers, his voice trembling with both fear and desperation. “If this goes on, I’ll die.”

The red-haired man remains silent, looking down at his own hands, scarred and rough from years of labor. His body is already weakened, the constant pain and dizziness a familiar part of his existence. Lately, he even struggles to breathe. If he continues like this, he won’t survive the year.

“My name is Kane,” the red-haired man suddenly says. “If I’m caught, I won’t give you up. After I die, you can try to build a tombstone for me. It can be made of wood. My name is Kane Ken.”

The man is taken aback. “Ken?”

Kane’s lips tighten. He was once a young master, born to a wealthy family with all the privileges that came with it. He had boots made of calfskin and rode a purebred pony. He knew the comforts of a free man, until everything was torn away. His family was convicted by the King, his parents hanged, and he and his siblings sold into slavery.

Kane hasn’t dared to think of his brothers and sisters for a long time, too afraid of what their fate might have been.

He was not born a slave. He has tasted freedom. And now, he longs to escape, to try for the impossible. Maybe he will die trying, but he can’t bear to remain a slave.

“Just call me Kane,” he says, cutting off any further mention of his last name.

“Okay,” the man replies softly.

They wait in silence, the minutes stretching painfully. The outside world remains still, the only sounds the occasional rustling of leaves in the wind and the distant hum of insects.

Kane stands up, feeling the wall for support, and reaches for the door. The sound of metal clinking against metal echoes in the quiet when he tugs at the chain. He quickly steadies the door frame, preventing any further noise.

“What should we do now?” the man asks, his voice tense with both excitement and fear. He’s afraid someone will wake up and expose them, but the thought of freedom also fills him with anticipation.

Kane whispers, “Do you dare to bet?”

The man looks at him, confused.

Kane explains, “The door is chained, but we can break the doorframe. It’ll be loud, though. We have to run as far as we can before they catch us.”
They have no way to sneak out. The best strategy is to cause chaos, using the other slaves as cover.