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墨書 Inktalez
John looked at the soldier shouting at him, clad in leather armor adorned with a grizzly bear pattern, and hurriedly moved his numb legs, fearing he would end up like those who had just been dragged away.
Amidst the pushing and shoving, John merged into the crowd, stumbling into the dilapidated threshing floor. The once spacious center was now filled with people, while around them lay the bodies of those who had been dragged out, their blood long dried.
In the midst of the crowd, having nearly finished the last of the Mai Zhou he had drunk earlier, John felt an emptiness in his stomach and a weakness in his body. He collapsed onto the ground, surrounded by others, staring up at the palm-sized patch of sky above him. Life seemed devoid of hope.
"Where are you from? How did you get caught?" A hoarse voice seemed to address him.
Instinctively, John turned his head to see a boy, around fourteen or fifteen, with short hair mixed with gray mud, though hints of golden strands were still visible. He wore ill-fitting burlap clothes and had his face smeared with grime.
John caught a whiff of the boy's odor; it was far worse than his own unwashed serf's scent.
"And you are?" John asked without further scrutinizing him.
The boy fell silent for a moment before slowly leaning closer. "It seems you don’t understand the situation. I am Gorn Madison. This is the Gray Bear Mercenary Corps, or you could say it's the Bear Mercenary Group."
The mention of a surname indicated that he was at least a free man. Instinctively, John added a surname to his own name.
"Oh, John Stephen," he replied.
The two fell into a heavy silence, resigned to their fate as more people gathered around them.
From atop a platform, a burly man with a thick beard cracked his whip, producing loud cracks as he shouted curses. "Get up, you bunch of Zhu Wo!"
Those still sitting on the ground were whipped into action by his lashings—screams, cries, and curses erupted from them. No one dared to resist; they could only passively endure it like lifeless corpses.
"Shut your mouths, you bunch of Zhu Wo who can’t even understand what I’m saying!"
Once discipline was established, a middle-aged man dressed in noble attire and holding a cane stepped onto the stage. Though he wore a smile, the coldness in his eyes made John realize that this man was truly in charge. Falling into his hands would be far worse than falling into those of the burly man.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began with feigned warmth, "congratulations on surviving the orc attack! You are fortunate to be here with us at the Gray Bear Mercenary Corps."
As John processed this information along with what the man said, he understood why he was there. The original owner of his body—a noble lord who would have split a copper coin into eight pieces—had been torn apart by orcs during their invasion. The entire territory’s defenses had crumbled; some fled while others perished.
Only those without any means to resist—serfs and commoners like John—were left behind to be captured by orcs as potential winter food. The Gray Bear Mercenary Corps happened to pass by, conveniently killing off the orcs and taking these fresh slaves for themselves.
Becoming a slave instead of remaining a serf didn’t seem to make much difference. As for resistance? Looking around at the two or three dozen mercenaries clad in armor wielding weapons like Wu Lan made him reconsider that notion entirely.
To express our gratitude to the Gray Bear Mercenary Corps, I believe you would be willing to become our merchandise. Now, each of you should state your specialties; this will benefit your future.
Everyone, the Captain has spoken! Head to the registration office and speak one by one!
Beside them, a burly man waved a whip to drive the crowd forward, much like herding livestock toward a fire pit.
The crowd, having never learned to queue, formed an orderly line under the education of the whip and fists.
At the front stood a person clad in leather armor, holding a branding iron, ready to begin questioning.
"Do you have any specialties?"
How many among those who could be captured by orcs possess any skills? The serf at the front of the line could only weakly utter a response.
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