Dimensional Supermarket - Chapter 75

The warehouse is packed with slaves. They don’t mind the heat and just squeeze together, unwilling to sleep outside under the cooler night sky. Many fall asleep with half-eaten black bread clutched in their arms.

Some even lose their teeth because the bread is too hard. The fallen teeth are trampled by countless feet and end up buried in the dust-covered corners.

Ira curls up in the corner with a piece of bread still in his mouth, chewing even in his sleep.

His body twitches occasionally, and the corners of his mouth sometimes rise, sometimes fall—it’s hard to tell if he’s crying or laughing.

Everyone sleeps soundly. No one worries about what punishment they might face if the lord finds out. They can’t think about what comes after a full belly—death is a smaller threat than hunger.

That night, Ira has a rare dream. He almost never dreams. Other slaves say that slaves don’t have dreams. Only those favored by the gods can dream.

But Ira remembers clearly—when he’s little, he dreamed often. Back then, he fell asleep nestled in his mother’s arms, her scent surrounding him—warm and comforting. He drifts off quickly into beautiful dreams.

In those childhood dreams, the most frequent one is of moving with his mother to a small village. They are free people, with their own tiny wooden house. They work together—fixing the roof, planting flowers and grass.

Later… his mother dies, and the dreams stop.

He is always working. He falls asleep as soon as he closes his eyes. From then on, dreams leave him, and all his beautiful hopes for the future vanish.

Only a few scattered fragments remain, bits he slowly chews on during endless nights.

But that night, he dreams of his mother again.

He’s a child once more, able to sleep only in his mother’s arms, playing alone on the bed, waiting for her to return. Outside, it drizzles, and cold wind blows through the cracks in the wall. Little Ira wraps himself in a quilt like a cocoon, leaving only his head exposed, waiting.

They live in a tiny wooden hut behind the stables. It barely fits a bed and a table, but for slaves, it’s already a luxury.

Most slaves don’t even have a roof to keep out wind and rain. Every winter or rainy season, many of them die from illness.

If a slave dies by another slave’s hand, or a steward’s, the lord might be angry that his property has been damaged. But if a slave dies of sickness, the lord just says it’s bad luck. He never pities them or spares clothes or shelter.

Little Ira thinks he’s the happiest person in the world. He has a mother, a “home,” and food to eat. What more could anyone want?

But just as he’s dozing off while waiting, the wooden door is flung open, and the rain outside somehow grows heavier. Two tall stewards—ones who have always been kind to him and his mother—throw her into the hut roughly, dumping her onto the cold ground.

Back then, Ira didn’t understand what happened.

Her clothes are soaked through, her hair dripping with dirty water, her limbs covered in red marks, her face streaked with blood and mud. Her back is torn, blood leaking from beneath her skirt.

When he grows up, Ira understands.

His father—the great lord—gives his mother to the guests at a banquet as a “present.”

Even though she bears him a child. Even though she works hard and obeys like a puppet.

She’s still just a slave. That’s her fate.

But Ira doesn’t even dare to hate him.

The lord is a great man, blessed by the gods, granted land by the king. He is the only god in this land.

That night, his mother doesn’t say a word. She just lies on the cold ground, growing colder.

Ira crawls into her arms, clinging to her, babbling like always.

But by morning, he’s dragged out of the hut and thrown into the boiler room.

He can only watch as other slaves toss his mother’s body down a hillside.

She doesn’t even have a grave.

Like a piece of broken wood, she rolls down the hill until he can no longer see her.

Ira wakes up.

He looks around blankly. Someone’s leg is pressing on his chest. He pushes it away and feels something sticky on his face.

He wipes at it, and when he looks at his hand, he realizes—he’s crying.

He hasn’t cried in so many years. Not because he doesn’t hurt, but because he doesn’t have the tears left to cry.

The person he loves most is already gone. All the pain after that is just a thin layer of gauze—something that torments his body but never reaches his emotions.

“I had a dream last night,” a nearby slave says as he takes a bite of bread, speaking excitedly to the person next to him. “I dreamed I became a free man!”

“Why didn’t I dream?” someone asks. “Then what happened after you became a free man?”

The first slave’s eyes shine with longing. “I dreamed I was farming land. It was harvest time. The field was full of golden wheat, heavy with grain, and when the wind blew—oh, it made such a beautiful sound.” His voice grows misty, as if he can still hear the rustling wheat.

“Do you think the Moon Goddess really came last night?” an old female slave asks, glancing outside the barn. She doesn’t dare step out, afraid the stewards will find them, beat them, or worse.

“She must’ve come!” someone shouts.

It seems the louder they speak, the more they believe it.

“If the Moon God hadn’t come, we wouldn’t even be in the warehouse!”

With their stomachs full, their minds start to work again.

“The stewards haven’t come after us yet. The Moon Goddess must’ve told them!”

“She’s protecting us.”

Smiles spread across the slaves’ faces.

Yes, the Moon God is protecting them. Protecting these lowly, forgotten people.

“If only Lord Moon God could stay forever.”

“Yes! Let’s build a castle for Lord Moon God!”

“Not a castle—a palace! A huge palace!”

“If we build it, maybe we can stay with him!”

“I can raise horses for the Moon God.”

“I can clean the toilet for him.”

The slaves burst into laughter. “Gods don’t need toilets.”

“Yeah, gods don’t need to eat or drink.”

“Who said that? In the myths, the Moon God’s favorite food is golden apples!”

“…That’s true, but we don’t have golden apples. The Moon God probably can’t eat them here.”

The slaves are immediately touched.

“For us, the Moon God even gives up His favorite golden apples!”

They lower their heads, not knowing what they can possibly offer that would make a god give up something He loves.

They don’t believe they are more important than golden apples—but they wish they have some to offer.

Ye Zhou spends the night in a tent and wakes up feeling miserable. He’s been itching all over since midnight, convinced something has been biting him. The floral insect repellent barely works. He keeps having to get up to swat bugs away.

Because they have to travel light, the tents aren’t from the system but from a regular supermarket. Easy to carry and big enough for two people once set up—but not durable. Holes have already opened up not long after setting them up.

Ye Zhou tugs at his collar and asks Zou Ming beside him, “Check if I’ve got any red bumps.”

Zou Ming glances at him without looking too closely. He gives a slight nod and says, “A little red.”

Ye Zhou groans, “I knew it. I must be allergic to something around here!”

“You can’t sleep outside again tonight.”

Despite his frustration, Ye Zhou has to face reality. He sighs. “Fine, I’ll just apply more repellent before bed tonight.”

The bugs here are vicious—worse than anything in the Daliang Dynasty.

Chen Shu, who has just finished brushing her teeth, comes over and says, “If you’re allergic, sleep inside. The wooden houses the stewards use aren’t bad. Disinfect and deworm before bed and you’ll be fine. Anyway, it’s better than outside.” She scratches her back. “I think I got bit too.”

Only Zou Ming, tough as bronze, apparently escapes the bugs’ attention. He says, “You get allergic easily. I’ll come up with something later.”

Ye Zhou laughs. “Come up with what? I figure we should give them some time to digest all this.”

He’s now pretty experienced at pretending to be divine. Probably more experienced than most shamans—in fact, even professional shamans probably don’t have his level of experience—after all, they only have to perform when customers come, but he has to stay in character constantly, never letting one slip ruin the illusion.

For a shaman, performance just means money. For him, it’s life or death.

“Boss, just leave it to him,” Chen Shu advises. “If you’re going to do everything yourself, what do you need us for? You paying us for nothing?”

Ye Zhou is stunned for a moment, unable to refute that.

“I’m just waiting for the lord here to show up,” he says. “Yesterday’s show was to set up a deal with him.”

He can use defective goods from modern industry to trade for precious things in this era—like land.

Ye Zhou has already made up his mind. He wants to make money and give the slaves a better life.

This time, it’s not just for profit. It’s because he now has the power to help those who suffer.

He isn’t the scared newbie anymore, worrying every day that the locals might kill him.

If he can help, why not? For him, it’s a small gesture. For the slaves, it could change their entire lives.

If he’s going to leave something behind in this world, he wants it to mean something.

Ye Zhou sighs. “I’m such a good person.”

Chen Shu: “…”

Chen Shu glances at Zou Ming and sees that Zou Ming, upon hearing this, actually nods in all seriousness. He looks completely sincere, without the slightest trace of sarcasm.

Ye Zhou turns to look down the mountain.

In that direction lies the master of this land—the master of everyone here except for them.

—But he’s just a man.