Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge
Chapter 62: Just Beat Respect Out Of Them

On this particular day, the climb had been harsher than usual. The sun, dulled slightly by the thick aetheric mist around the peaks, offered no relief. And now, per Cassian’s command, they carried half their body weight.

Even for Oliver, it was brutal. His muscles ached from the strain, his breathing ragged as he clambered up steep slopes and clung to jagged ledges with vines dug into his palms.

Yet through it all, his lips had no choice but to move with discipline, quietly reciting the Imperial Slave Value System, syllable by syllable, breath by breath.

But his mind wasn’t on the words.

His thoughts churned elsewhere.

The one-inch punch.

This fighting skill had tugged terribly at his heart. It was the reason he had not moved forward in cultivating the Bottomless-Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpions for more power.

He had replayed every moment from his last match against the Monk. Each strike. Each counter. Each time he felt that indescribable pull in his muscles—that slight quiver of power, that nearly-there sensation like something was on the brink of snapping into place. He knew it was close. So close.

But… something was missing. Something subtle. A breath? A pause? A rhythm? He couldn’t yet name it. But he was close enough to taste it.

When he reached the summit ahead of the others—again—he didn’t leap into the Night Trial immediately as he usually did. The slave sigil in his hand blinked, acknowledging completion. The potion and the bowl of rice came as always, offered by one of the waiting slaves under Roderick’s instruction. But today, Oliver took it without ceremony and walked to his usual corner in the warehouse—his strange little sanctuary.

He sat cross-legged. His fingers clenched, flexed. His eyes closed.

Comprehend. Focus. Feel.

Roderick didn’t bother watching anymore. Oliver was always first. The healing potion was practically his right now.

But the peace didn’t last.

Across the warehouse, Leston stepped down from the platform, sweat still clinging to his brow. He had finished shortly after the rest, his breaths still heavy—but his eyes sharp, predatory.

He spotted Oliver. As always, in his damned corner. As always, untouched by fatigue, by bruises, by pain.

Leston clenched his fists.

He hated him.

Hated the fact that this little rat—this nobody who used to sneak through vents and hide at the sight of him—was now outpacing him.

Even though they had been reduced to stock for the Vontell family, it was still a shame he coukd hardly endure.

Him, a royal-blooded heir of the Rich line, with awakened bloodline.

Oliver had no business being better than him. And yet he was.

But Leston wasn't foolish. He had learned a bit cunning from his venomous mother whose tongue once brought three noble houses to shame. The same woman that ensured Velma never found a noble man to rely on.

Surely, he also got her sense for the moment.

He knew what kind of mood was boiling around him.

The stares, the whispers, the resentment.

He could taste it.

So he moved. Casually. Sat beside a large Centaur slave—broad-shouldered, Commoner, and covered in bruises. The creature’s hooves had taken a toll from the climb, and he was using leftover vine to wrap and splint one of his hind legs.

Leston glanced sideways. Voice calm, understanding.

“Ahhh. You got injured too? That climb… it was most brutal today.”

The Centaur snorted. “Almost fell halfway through. My legs weren’t made for this.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Leston chuckled lightly. “I know. You did well. Real well, actually.”

The Centaur blinked, a little surprised. “Thanks… Prince.”

The Centaur was no fool. He knew Leston was royal blood. The title of his slave–given name literally began with an 'A' which everyone knew stood for royal blood. Considering Leston's age, he was definitely not a king, so that only left him to be a prince.

A bit of casual talk. Nothing obvious.

Leston kept the tone light.

And then, casually, he dropped the line.

“You ever wonder… why he gets all the rewards?” He nodded toward Oliver.

The Centaur followed his gaze. “Who? A666?”

“Yeah. Even though we finish too. Always. But only he gets the potions. Always.”

The Centaur grunted. “Not fair. Look at him. He doesn’t even look hurt. Or hungry. Never does. I swear, I never even seen him eat the 'shit' that we do.”

“Exactly,” Leston said, as if surprised to agree. “He doesn’t even need those potions.”

His voice turned just the slightest bit more bitter. “Meanwhile the rest of us are limping.”

The Centaur lowered his head, growling. “I haven’t slept in days. Every time I shut my eyes, I see my mother getting impaled when the Somaran soldiers came for us.” His hands clenched. “But him? He sleeps like this is his father's palace. Like he’s above all this.”

The resentment caught fire. Someone else heard their conversation.

Another Centaur leaned in. Then an elf. A low-blooded one.

Voices started murmuring. The tone shifted.

Leston didn’t say another word. He stood, slowly. Disappearing into the crowd.

He had done enough.

Moments later, Oliver—eyes closed slowly. He was not able to come to a conclusion on what he was missing, but there was only so much time he could dwell on the subject. He needed to go into the night trial.

He sighed.

Just as his mind reached for the Night trial—just as the timer in his peripheral vision counted down—he heard footsteps.

Heavy. Angry.

He opened his eyes.

The two Centaurs towered above him.

Their eyes wild. Their muscles trembling with fury.

One of them cracked his knuckles.

“You think you’re better than the rest of us, human?

---

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long amber shadows through the glass windows above and into the warehouse.

Garron sat just off to the side of the communal eating space, hunched lazily over a wooden bowl of steaming rice—a reward that had been meant for Oliver.

Ever since Oliver had been giving him his reward, he had practically been feeding like a king here. Of course, the meal was nothing compared to what commoners ate back home. But the gaze of the other slaves on him when he ate, made the dish extra delicious.

He ate with slow, thoughtful movements, letting each grain roll on his tongue like a man enjoying the spice of life.

Just then, his eyes moved, observing the trio that had approached Oliver.

He frowned.

He rose to his feet with a theatrical flair, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his robe. A forced smile stretched across his face, more polite than sincere as he approached.

“Well now,” Garron said, voice warm and syrupy. “Brothers, what seems to be the problem on this… good day?”

They glared at him.

The Centaurs—massive and towering, muscles tensed from frustration—shot a look of disgust in his direction. While they had been forced to eat black bread and nutrient paste, Garron had enjoyed fragrant white rice—Oliver’s rice. That alone made him another subject of their hatred.

One of them stepped forward, attempting to shove Garron aside.

But Garron moved like a serpent. He shifted seamlessly, almost as though he had anticipated the move.

His smile remained, but Oliver could see something else in those eyes—calculation, precision, a silent predator measuring the room.

Garron had always been that way. His Bloodline ability, allowed him body language understanding and calculation that was beyond what these people could possibly imagine.

But he still had that smile on his face. "Brothers, if there is a request you have, speaking it will be easier on all of us."

There was this look in his eyes that was settling. But one nodded to another.

The lead Centaur, that same broad-shouldered brute who ha been with leston, turned to Oliver and spoke gruffly, “You received a healing potion. We know you haven’t used it. Hand it over.”

Oliver met his gaze.

He saw the limp in one Centaur’s leg, the blood-matted fur on the side of another. They were wounded, weary, and desperate. But not polite.

He remembered how Roderick had demonstrated the potion’s power on the Centaurs during the first day of trials, using them as living advertisements.

But after that, only the first-place winner received any reward.

No second chances.

It was a mental game. To pit slaves against one another, force them to trample their own for a taste of salvation.

The truth was, Oliver didn’t need the potion. His Deity-ranked bloodline ensured his body regenerated rapidly, though not without time and rest.

He could afford to give it away. What mattered more was the timer ticking in the corner of his vision:

[6 minutes 40 seconds to Night Trial]

Time was more precious than pride right now.

He sighed and waved his hand, tossing the small glass vial to them. “Take it,” he said simply. “Just leave.”

By now everyone's eyes was on this confrontation, especially Leston, A123. And B234.

The Centaurs caught tge potion midair and stared, clearly taken aback. They hadn’t expected compliance. No threats. No resistance. He had just gifted it.

But as their surprise settled, something else took its place—greed.

It shone within their eyes and Garron saw it very clearly.

One of them stepped forward, voice low and slimy. “There are three of us,” he said. “One potion isn’t enough. Give us three.”

Oliver’s expression hardened. He did have more than three potions. But this wasn’t a request anymore—it was extortion.

Still, he glanced again at the timer. 6 minutes, 24 seconds.

He was weighing his options when Garron moved.

With no warning, he smashed the wooden bowl of rice over one Centaur’s head, splinters flying. Without hesitation, he spun and drove a knuckle-heavy fist into the side of another’s face. The crack echoed.

Oliver’s eyes went wide in shock

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