The noblewoman was deeply dissatisfied with the scar that had appeared across Aldric's chest. To her, it wasn't just a wound on his body—it was damage to her possession. He had been her toy, her decoration, her private indulgence. Now, with the cross-shaped scar carved across his skin, she saw him as something flawed.
She tried many methods to remove it.
For weeks, Aldric was subjected to all kinds of healing attempts. She summoned healers of different paths, some who specialized in flesh, others who claimed to know rare secret arts. They treated him with potions, ointments, and strange devices that burned with light. They poured their mana into his body, searching for ways to dissolve the stubborn scar tissue.
But every attempt failed.
The wound had been too deep, and the rage behind the nobleman's strikes had left something more than a physical mark. Even when the flesh was knit back together, the scar refused to vanish. It stood boldly on Aldric's chest, an unmovable reminder of his humiliation.
At first, the noblewoman was frustrated. She grew cold toward Aldric, no longer treating him with even the shallow affection she had once shown. She continued to bring in healers, but her patience dwindled with each failure.
It might have seemed as though she cared for him, but Aldric quickly understood the truth. Her efforts had nothing to do with affection or love. It was the same feeling a collector had when a prized vase cracked or when an expensive painting was stained. He was her possession, and his scar was a blemish on her pride.
She poured money into the treatments, but even her willingness had limits.
After all, no matter how "special" Aldric might have been to her, he was still a slave. And slaves, even prized ones, had a price. She would not throw away endless resources just to restore him when she could simply replace him with another.
In the end, her decision was simple.
She gave up.
When the final healer shook his head and admitted defeat, the noblewoman looked at Aldric not with sadness but with disappointment. That very same week, she arranged for him to be sold.
Aldric, still young and carrying the scar on his chest, found himself once again in the hands of a slave trader.
The process was routine. Papers were drawn, money exchanged, and Aldric was handed over like property. It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last. To those involved, it was nothing more than business. To Aldric, it was another reminder of his powerlessness.
His life had become a cruel chain of events. From the moment he was born, the cards had been stacked against him. He had not chosen his parents. He had not chosen the orphanage that sold him. He had not chosen the noblewoman who used him. He had not chosen the nobleman who carved his chest.
And now, once again, he was being shuffled around, played like a card in someone else's game.
It was never his hand. It was always theirs.
For Aldric, this truth sank deeper than any scar. The world was not fair, and morality was nothing more than a word people used to justify their actions. Those with power made the rules. Those without power obeyed them—or were crushed.
At first, Aldric had tried to cling to the ideas he had read in books. Heroes, honor, justice, kindness. He had believed such things existed in the world. He had believed that if he endured long enough, maybe someone would show him mercy.
But reality broke those illusions piece by piece.
The noblewoman's cruelty, the nobleman's violence, the orphanage's betrayal—all of it tore apart whatever simple morality he had once held.
Little by little, his view of the world changed.
If people saw him as property, then he could no longer see them as noble or kind. If people used him as a toy, then he could no longer see them as just or righteous.
Morality, to Aldric, became gray.
He no longer saw things as good or evil, right or wrong. He began to see them as strong or weak, useful or useless. People didn't protect others out of kindness—they did it because they had the power to do so and the desire to maintain what belonged to them.
He stopped expecting fairness.
And in the silence of his thoughts, a seed of something darker began to grow.
Aldric realized that if he ever gained power, he would not waste it trying to uphold ideals that didn't exist. He wouldn't be the fool who played by rules written by the powerful.
Instead, he would make sure no one ever played his cards for him again.
But that realization was far in the future. For now, Aldric remained a slave, scarred and unwanted, waiting for the next hand to claim him.
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