Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge
Chapter 57: Let’s climb the Sigh Mountains.

Chapter 57: Let's climb the Sigh Mountains.

While Velma went about her Cannibalistic meal...

Oliver was once again, in the night trial. He still had two hours remaining, and had rushed in the moment he finished reciting the Imperial Slave Value System.

The red mist coiled like threads of blood around the stone platform. The Monk sat in his position. Unmoving. In the distance.

Oliver's brows creased with incredible concentration.

The moment his feet touched the surface, he moved. This time, he didn’t hesitate.

He veered right, just as the ground behind him exploded from a shattering impact. Cracks spiderwebbed across the ancient looking tiles where the monk’s fist had landed. Dust and fragments scattered into the air, proof of what would have happened to his ribs had he remained still.

It was just like the last time. The moment he touched the platform, the monk attacked.

“Good,” Oliver whispered. “You're not catching me the same way again.”

The monk seemed to move without sound, feet looking as if they never quite touched the platform.

Its robes fluttered with unnatural grace. The cloth whispered through the air just as its body blurred forward again.

The same technique.

The same stance.

The one-inch punch.

Oliver pivoted on his foot and countered with a sweeping kick aimed at the monk’s midsection. The monk tilted backward, the fabric of its robe rippling like water as it ducked beneath the blow. Then, as if time had stilled, it coiled forward again—silent, poised, deliberate.

It came again.

One inch.

By now, Oliver had caught on. The monk didn’t need variety. No kicks or other kinds of punches. In truth, he doubted it was capable of it.

No matter the move Oliver used, it only used the One-Inch Punch.

As if to say that just this technique was ebough fir all.

Which was ridiculous but it executed it well.

Its mastery of this singular technique was complete. It wasn’t just using the move—it was embodying it.

Then again, Oliver wasn’t the same guy from the last time.

While he had been reciting the Imperial Slave Value System in the outside world, he had been thinking of this battle repeatedly in his head.

Oliver did not have fighting techniques

He twisted mid-motion, caught the monk’s sleeve, and used the momentum to roll forward. His hand extended, fingers curling into a fist. He had studied every twitch of this move. This time, he would return it.

"Got you."

He struck the monk’s chest with the one-inch punch.

There was a moment of triumph. His heart swelled. But then—

Nothing.

The monk took a single step back. No collapse. No recoil.

Its head lifted slowly, turning to face him—eyes devoid of anger, mouth still and unreadable.

Then its hand closed around Oliver’s wrist.

“No—”

Oliver slammed his own palm to his chest, activating his Aether Sense in a desperate defense.

But it wasn’t enough.

The monk’s punch landed like divine retribution—precise, compact, devastating. Oliver’s body hurtled backward, skidding along the stone floor, his vision flaring red from the pain. He coughed, his chest screaming in agony. His right arm felt fractured. Definitely bruised deep into the bone.

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Above them, floating high in the air like a vulture watching prey, the red skull of the Bloodline Will cackled with mirth.

><“Marvelous! The human flies! Should we build wings next, Oliver? No? Still too early? A pity. I had such hopes for your ribs.”

Oliver groaned, clutching his side. The dreamscape trembled, the skies overhead shimmering as the timer counted down.

[Trial Ending in: 0:03… 0:02… 0:01…]

The red light faded. The stone floor dissolved.

Oliver gasped awake.

The pain in his chest throbbed viciously. Sweat soaked his sackcloth shirt, and as he tried to sit upright, a searing pain shot through his right arm. He bit his lip, suppressing a scream.

Looking down, he saw his arm—swollen, red and bruised along the forearm. The monk’s final blow had nearly broken him.

If not that he had defended with his arm, it woukd have been a totally different story.

Oliver knew that his Asmodeus bloodline would heal him. But it would be very slow. The injury this time around was very deep.

If it had hit his chest, he would have died. His past experience was the reason he knew to tilt and block the attack before it would hit.

He knew without a doubt, the Bloodline Will would increase the difficulty again when he went back for the monk.

He really thought he would get it this time. The thought that he had lost, annoyed him.

Oliver tore a strip from the edge of his cloth and wrapped it tightly around his arm. His breathing was shallow—pain controlled the pace now.

If only he had one of the healing potions the Centaurs received from Roderick… but those were locked behind obedience and value.

Last night, after repeating the Imperial Slave Value System to the cold walls a thousand times, he had left them screaming in their pain as he went for his night trial.

His chest still ached, but he sat up and closed his eyes. He played the fight over and over in his mind, dissecting each motion of the one inch punch.

It should’ve worked.

He followed the motions.

He matched the stance.

He’d even understood the flow.

So why had his punch failed?

“There’s something else,” he whispered. “Something I’m missing.”

The monk’s form was too precise. Too… silent. It was not just strength. It was alignment. It struck not with muscle but with truth.

But in this equation, what was truth?

He stood, slowly. Around him, the dormitory was silent. Even Garron lay snoring in the corner.

The other slaves, huddled in clusters, rested in broken dreams and half-healed wounds.

Oliver took out food from his inventory, the same he had stolen from the ship’s storage. He ate in silence, savoring the taste until he was full.

Unlike the others, he woukd be having good food for a very long time.

Good food was important for growth and strength, and oliver was still a growing child.

Also, the food helped dull the edge of pain in his arm.

Then he retrieved two herbs from his inventory —picked during the last Srcond wall trial.

He found a dented metal bowl in a corner, and crushed the herbs together with a flat stone, meshing them into a black paste. His wounded arm flared with agony as he ground the mixture, but he didn’t stop.

Complaining about it would not help.

In truth, during that last attack, he had thought of using his Carcass Mail to protect himself.

But that was one of his Aces. He was only going to use it for emergencies. Or if he knew there was no other way.

The Carcass Mail had a high payment of his Aether, and could only be used once for twenty four hours.

He would not just waste it.

When he finished, he stared at the paste. Then, slowly, he applied it to his snow-white hair. The strands turned black, soaking in the disguise.

He stared at his reflection in a burnished metal plate. A foreign boy stared back—dark-haired, weary-eyed.

Velma would have hated this.

“She always said to be proud,” he whispered. “That it was proof of who we are. Of our blood.”

In his entire Tyrell family, only he and her had the same color of hair. Of course, there was his mother. But counting a dead woman was just dumb.

Oliver missed her. He missed his big sister a lot. He had been pulled from her embrace, barely a day, and his skin already crawled with the need of her comfort.

Oliver wondered if she missed him too.

Yes. She definitely did. Velma would rather hold him and die, than breath air.

Hopefully, he would get to see her again. After all, he did tell her to pick the dungeons.

He knew she was strong enough to finish the training period and make it to the dungeons.

Maybe then, he could wear his white hair with pride.

However, right now, pride couldn’t save him.

If Roderick saw his hair, he would suffer like he did in his past life.

Back then, Roderick said Oliver’s hair reminded him of his childhood crush and tortured him for it.

Again, how the heck was it his fault, that some random little girl somewhere, refused Roderick’s advances?

He sighed at this. Power was such an annoying thing.

Even morality bent to its will.

For now, he had to hide, to endure, and to rise.

Oliver's goal wasn’t just to survive. It was to rise to the top.

To become a Wrapped.

It was a title given to special kind of slave chosen for elite training.

Given opportunity. Given access.

A route to freedom… and then revenge.

After this training by the Vaelcrest to instill obedience was over, next would come the dungeons.

Only a slave with the title of Wrapped would be left untouched—at least for a while. That time period was the window opportunity he was waiting upon.

But before that, he had to show he had the qualities of one, here and now.

Oliver looked to his good hand, folding it into a fist. Before this, he had never trained a day in his life.

But in only about two weeks, he had gotten so much raw power as a result of Asmodeus bloodline and the Nightmare Sigil.

A little more and he would be a rank one Blood warrior.

Just then, the Slave Sigil displayed in blue before his eyes.

---

[Daily Task: Recite the Imperial Slave Value System 1000 times]

Failure: Box of Blessing

[Task of the Day: Climb the ‘Sigh Mountains’]

Failure: Death

---

Before he could react, the sound of a small bell rang through the dormitory.

Not loud. Just once.

But its effect was instant.

Every slave bolted upright. Oliver’s ears rang.

Was it the volume? he was not sure, but it drilled into his bones. Into the blood.

Standing near the entrance, in crisp white robes with a silver clasp at the neck, was Roderick.

He held the bell casually, almost bored.

His smile, however, was anything but casual.

“Wake up, maggots.” Roderick said with cold amusement. “It’s a glorious day for climbing, bleeding… and obedience.”

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