Dimensional Supermarket - Chapter 72

The lord rides a white horse, his bloated body appearing particularly grand. The sun illuminates him as though he is clothed in a veil, walking toward the enclosed area surrounded by people. But his face is stern, slightly disinterested.

“I remember that young man—he’s your nephew?” the lord asks, glancing down at his personal attendant walking beside the horse.

The attendant smiles and replies, “Yes, he’s a good boy. He’s been working hard since he was a child, always grateful. He’ll never forget your help, and he’ll do anything for you—even die for you if needed.”

The lord frowns. “What’s his name?”

“His name is Hill,” the attendant answers.

“Hmm? Why do I remember it was someone named Hill who makes one of my slaves jump off a cliff yesterday?”

Before the attendant can respond, another steward approaches. “My lord, it’s him. He doesn’t work well, always letting the slaves fight over food like dogs. He’s not much, and he’s seriously slowing down the land reclamation. If things continue like this, we’ll waste so much money.”

The attendant retorts immediately, “How can this have anything to do with Hill if the slaves don’t work well?”

“If Hill doesn’t treat them so harshly, would they behave like this?” the steward counters.

The lord rubs his temples in frustration. “Enough, enough, stop quarreling. Bring Hill over to talk to me.”

The attendant, clearly excited, waves to Hill.

Understanding what the attendant means, Hill rushes over, bowing respectfully. He lowers his head almost to the ground, his voice filled with awe: “My lord, I am your loyal servant, willing to dedicate everything I have to you, even my life.”

The lord waves his hand. “I’m tired of hearing that. I just want to ask you: I don’t care if you use the slaves for your amusement, but why must you do it while they’re working the fields? That really displeases me.”

Hill’s whole body stiffens, and he stammers, “I-I don’t mean it, sir. I just want them to work harder.”

The lord turns to the attendant with irritation. “Keep him in line. I don’t care how he treats the slaves, but he must not slow down the progress or waste my money.”

The attendant quickly responds, “Of course, my lord, I’ll handle it properly.”

The lord, clearly uninterested in further discussion, turns to the steward. “Don’t keep bringing up these kinds of issues to me again. Solve them yourselves if there’s a problem.”

After they each receive fifty lashes, the lord slowly rides his horse, inspecting his new land.

He speaks to the attendant with a sense of pride, “It won’t be long before we can build a castle here.”

“You’re the only one worthy of a castle, my lord,” the attendant says immediately.

The lord sighs, his voice tinged with sadness. “If only my father could see this. He always dreams of owning a castle when I am young, but those old nobles never sell one. Building a castle requires too much land and money,” the lord continues, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “They always say that my father, being just a viscount, doesn’t deserve one. When he becomes an earl, they still refuse to sell him land or castles,” the lord mutters bitterly. “Is it just because we aren’t hereditary nobles that they think we’re inferior? But our noble title is granted by the king himself—weren’t their ancestors the same?”

The attendant replies, “They’re just jealous of you, my lord!”

The lord’s eyes harden. “That’s why this castle must be as grand and imposing as possible. When it’s done, I’ll invite all those who look down on my family, and show them our wealth!”

Once he vents his frustration, the lord turns and begins to leave the wasteland with his servants and followers. After all, there is nothing of interest left—just a small wooden house to sleep in, hardly a place fit for a lord.

As the attendant leaves, he glares at his nephew and mutters, “Restrain yourself.”

Hill lowers his head, fists clenched, waiting for the lord to leave. As soon as he does, Hill makes his way to the nearest slave.

The slave, realizing Hill’s approach, immediately tries to flee.

A steward nearby scolds, “You’re taking your anger out on the slave again! Why do you always do this?” the steward continues. “Don’t you ever get tired of it? Be careful,” the steward warns. “If this slave dies, the lord will scold you again. Don’t say we don’t warn you.”

Hill glares at the steward, his expression twisted with anger. He grabs the slave’s arm, yanking him off the ground, then grabs his hair and slams his head hard against the tree next to him.

“I don’t care what you think of me, or what you say in front of the lord,” Hill sneers, his lips curling back to reveal sharp teeth. “You want to go run to the lord? Go ahead. Tell him I’m abusing slaves. I won’t stop you.”

The slave struggles weakly at first, but soon goes limp as Hill continues to smash his head against the tree.

No one intervenes. The stewards who mock Hill earlier aren’t about to risk a confrontation with him. They can curse him, but none of them are willing to take on Hill’s strength.

Hill holds the slave by the neck, the man’s body weightless and powerless against Hill’s grip. His eyes, swollen and bruised, turn toward the distant sun, but the sunlight flashes past too quickly. He can’t see clearly. Darkness overtakes his vision once again.

None of his fellow slaves can save him.

They can only wait—wait for Hill’s fury to pass. If they are lucky, maybe the man might survive.

When Hill finally throws the slave to the ground, the man coughs painfully but remains silent, hunching his back to stifle his cries. Blood trickles down his hair, but he makes no sound, too terrified to show any weakness.

“Enough,” Hill’s companion says, placing a hand on his shoulder. “If you keep this up, they won’t treat you kindly.”

Hill kicks the slave again, sending him back into the mud, where the man swallows a mouthful of dirty water.

“I’m not a slave,” Hill suddenly says. “I’m a free man, just like them. Why do they treat me like this? Just because the personal attendant is my uncle, not my father?”

Most of these jobs are hereditary—mother to daughter, father to son, generation after generation, unless dismissed by their masters.

They take pride in serving their noble employers.

For a young man, if he doesn’t want to serve a lord or high noble, he isn’t seen as much of a man at all.

Hill looks down at the man struggling in the mud—he can’t get up anymore.

No one dares to help, and the man’s own strength isn’t enough. He can only flail in place.

If he remains conscious while sinking, he could suffocate.

He glances down at the man struggling in the mud, unable to pull himself free. Hill finds it almost amusing that someone can drown in such a shallow puddle.

With a sense of morbid curiosity, Hill approaches the mud puddle, watching the man’s futile attempts to escape. His hands grasp at the mud, but it is no use. The more he struggles, the more trapped he becomes.

Hill crouches beside the puddle, observing the slave’s face. The man twitches occasionally, as though still clinging to life, but Hill knows it is only a matter of time before he succumbs.

The sight of the man’s desperation excites Hill—what he really enjoys is watching slaves struggle desperately for life, giving everything they have, only to have their hopes crushed in the end. That instant of pain and despair—he finds it thrilling.

It is as if he too has suffered and endured hardship.

But the slave will die, and he will be reborn.

However, the man’s face is hidden beneath the mud, obscuring any expression. Hill sighs, losing interest. He steps on the slave’s back, pushing him further into the mud until the man can no longer struggle.

The stewards, watching from a distance, exchange knowing glances and roll their eyes. With contempt in their expressions, they gossip about the young man. “He thinks he’ll take over his uncle’s role as the lord’s personal attendant? He can’t even read. How’s he supposed to manage accounts, make connections, or handle affairs?”

“His uncle says he can read.”

The stewards laugh in disbelief. One mocks, “He can read? Last time he walks around with a note that says ‘fool’ stuck to his chest.”

“He’s just trying to find some self-worth by beating up slaves.”

“Really, even if slaves are cheap, hitting them for no reason is exhausting. Only he thinks it’s fun.”

The stewards don’t understand Hill—but that doesn’t stop them from ridiculing him.

Suddenly, one of the stewards notices something in the distance. “Is there a light over there?”

The others look toward the source of the light, but before they can make sense of it, the light flashes, temporarily blinding them.

A gunshot rings out, followed by a thud.

Hill collapses to the ground, splashing into the mud.

Behind him, Ye Zhou lowers the sniper rifle, his hands steady. The recoil no longer rattles him. It seems that he is born to hold a gun, to aim it, and to shoot his enemies.

At first, Ye Zhou thinks he might hesitate, that shooting people will be harder than shooting zombies. But when he aims at Hill, he realizes he doesn’t see him as human. He doesn’t even see him as a zombie. After all, zombies don’t enslave their own kind.