Help, I'm in Another World and All the Men Are Are So Dangerous! [BL]
Chapter 206: The Chains That Bind the Heart

Chapter 206: The Chains That Bind the Heart

There were times when Ragar found himself wondering—did someone as lowly as a beastman slave like him truly deserve such happiness?

From the moment he was born, he had been nothing more than a filthy "possession."

The same was true for all beastmen.

By the time he was old enough to understand the world, a collar—a mark of his servitude—had already been locked around his neck, and somewhere on his body, a brand had been burned into his flesh.

Each time he was passed to a new master, those marks would be overwritten and replaced with the new ones.

At some point, after the tenth time, he stopped counting.

The repeated branding had left his shoulder raw and ruined, the once-seared flesh now nothing more than a festering wound—an unsightly blemish unworthy of his master’s gaze.

The collar that was mercilessly constricted his throat not only controlling his actions but even limiting his very breath.

A master’s orders were absolute.

He had been warned countless times—if he dared to disobey, the collar would tighten and crush his windpipe.

But in truth, the idea of defiance had never been an option.

He didn’t understand how it worked, but no matter how much he wanted to resist, his body refused to obey him.

The moment a master issued a command with enough force, his limbs would move against his will, as if possessed.

By the time he realized it must have been some form of magic or a curse, the very thought of resisting had already faded from his mind.

Beastmen was just a lowly creatures.

Rebellion and disobedience were things they could never be allowed.

They existed only to obey, to serve, to carry out orders until their masters tired of them.

And when that time came, they would either be discarded or, if unlucky, "disposed of."

That was the natural order of things.

To think otherwise was foolish.

Treated as less than livestock, forced to endure until they withered away and died—that was the fate of all beastmen.

Some of them clung to their own will, nurturing hatred toward their masters deep within their hearts.

But Ragar... he had never been strong like them.

The collar, the brand—he would never be able to defy them.

Not in this lifetime.

And yet...

A small part of him still prayed.

If, by some miracle, he could be freed from these chains...

What kind of world would he see?

If he could live a life free from the chains of pain and suffering...

—Shameful as it was, Ragar had once wished for such a thing.

When had it started?

When had he, despite once longing for freedom more than anything, begun to feel unease at the absence of a collar or brand on his body?

Yes... that feeling had first taken root after meeting someone unlike any of his previous masters.

No—unlike any human he had ever known.

Someone who felt almost otherworldly.

That person...

His master, Rocco Di Malvento, was someone far too radiant.

Born into a mafia family, he had surely seen more than his fair share of darkness, yet he had never lost his brilliant light.

His innocent smile, his candid words, his gentle voice—everything about him was filled with an undeniable warmth.

And in an impossible, absurd act of kindness, Rocco had called him "family."

True to his word, Rocco had never once treated him as a slave.

No collar, no brand.

The only thing Rocco had ever wished for was his freedom.

And the so-called "commands" he gave were things like: "Eat with me." Or, "I’m scared of ghosts, so sleep next to me."

They were so trivial, so harmless, that it almost made him laugh.

In the past, he had always harbored a deep-seated hatred for the orders given by his masters.

But now... now he found himself waiting for Rocco’s next command.

Because every single thing Rocco asked of him somehow filled his heart with warmth.

Sharing a meal with Rocco, no matter how stale the bread or lukewarm the milk, always felt like the greatest feast he ever eat.

Lying beside Rocco, even in the simplest of beds, felt softer and warmer than any luxurious chamber he had ever been forced into before.

And every word Rocco spoke was as pure and clear as the ringing of a bell.

"Ragar, you can’t tell anyone that I had a scary dream and wet the bed, okay? It’s our secret—just between the two of us."

In the middle of the night, when Rocco woke up crying, his small body damp with shame, the sight of his tear-streaked, flushed face filled him with an unbearable sense of adoration.

Every day was a cycle of moments like these—of overwhelming emotion and quiet suffering.

His beloved master.

His one and only savior.

For Rocco’s sake, he would drink mud, throw away his life—do anything, no matter how degrading or painful it was.

Even if it meant enduring the searing agony of a branding once more.

Even if it meant wearing that suffocating collar around his neck again.

No—he wanted it.

A part of him craved for it.

He wanted to be stained in Rocco’s colors, to belong wholly and undeniably to him.

His ownership had never been properly transferred; in the eyes of the world, he still belonged to his previous master.

That fact alone tormented him.

He wished, desperately, for Rocco to take that ownership by force—to claim him.

But how could someone like him, a lowly beast, dare to beg for such a thing?

To kneel before his master and plead, "Make me yours. Brand me. Put a collar on me."

It was unthinkable.

And yet, now, he regretted his silence more than anything.

He had believed the brand was nothing more than a mark, a symbol.

He never imagined it held such overwhelming power—never knew that his very will, his very thoughts, could be shackled by it.

If he had known, he would have prostrated himself before Rocco and begged to him.

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