?Chapter 13: Allies and the Vermilion Lineage

  ?The North wind didn't just blow; it cut with the precision of a dull bayonet. For Ren, the cold seeping through the cracks of the wooden cart was an old enemy. In his past life, he had operated in frozen terrains where hypothermia was a silent soldier that killed more than rifles. He knew the science of survival: the human body is a furnace that requires insulation, and there, in that six-year-old body, his furnace was about to go out.

  ?The mana-iron chains weren't just magic inhibitors; they were perfect thermal dissipators. The metal, in direct contact with Ren’s thin wrists, acted as a conductor, stealing heat from his core and venting it into the frigid air. In the 11th Mountain Infantry Battalion in Brazil, instructors hammered it in: "Metal is man's enemy in the ice." Without gloves or insulation, the iron was literally draining Ren’s life. He felt the scar on his leg — the legacy of Zhask’s shot and the rushed magical healing — throb with the relentless dampness of the Imperial lands.

  ?Beside him, the group of twelve slaves was a portrait of human misery. During the thirty-day journey from the auction in Oakhaven, Ren had observed each of them with the clinical eye of a commander assessing casualties. The silence of the cell was now broken only by the rattling of chains and the low sobs of a girl sitting next to him. She had tangled black hair and cat ears that trembled with every jolt. It was Erina, a thirteen-year-old girl whose soul seemed to have shattered the moment the shackles were closed.

  ?"Do you... do you know if where we’re going is safe?" Erina’s voice was thin, almost a whisper lost in the wind. "Do they... do they mistreat us there?"

  ?Ren looked at her. His sergeant’s eyes, devoid of a child’s innocence, evaluated the girl’s extremities. The tips of her ears were turning pale, almost white; the early stage of frostbite.

  ?"Move your fingers, Erina," Ren ordered, his voice sounding steady and authoritative. "Don't stop moving your feet. If your blood stagnates, the cold wins before we even reach the gate. Focus on your breathing, not the fear."

  ?Before she could respond, a seventeen-year-old youth named George, who had watched everything from the opposite corner of the cell, intervened. George had the dull gaze of someone who had been sold too many times to maintain any hope.

  ?"Not to be a pessimist, kid, but we’re headed to the Vermilion manor." George let out a heavy sigh that turned into mist. "I’ve heard from merchants that they’re terrible people. They do everything to ensure things go their way. They don't just hurt you; they humiliate you. They abuse slaves for pure sport."

  ?Erina collapsed into silent weeping. George, though sounding brutal, continued to instruct the "recruits" of that cell on what awaited them.

  ?"When we arrive, we’ll be forced to wear runic collars. Like animals. If we disobey, or if they’re just bored, the magic will fry our nerves. My advice? Do everything they ask. Without a single 'no'. If you want to survive the Vermilions, leave your pride buried in the snow."

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  ?Ren listened with a frigid contempt — not for the slaves, but for the Vermilion power structure. He asked George how he knew so many details.

  ?"I’ve been a slave since I was eight," George replied with dry bitterness. "My family was killed in a village in the Kingdom of Odyssia. I was bought and resold until now. And by reputation, these will be the worst owners on my list."

  ?Ren closed his eyes. He was performing micro-muscular contractions — a metabolic heat production technique the Army taught sentries in extreme climates — keeping his core warm while the others drifted into lethargy. He was in the reconnaissance phase. What George described wasn't the result of war, but of the moral decay of those who never learned the true meaning of command and chivalry.

  ?The Granite Castle and the Tool Owner

  ?The Vermilion Manor rose like a black granite obelisk against the gray Northern sky. As they stepped off the cart, the slaves were lined up. Marth Vermilion, the Duke with the red beard and black armor, walked toward them. He didn't look at Ren like an ally looks at a guest; he looked like an investor assessing expensive cargo.

  ?Marth had paid five hundred large Imperial gold coins. He had no friendship for Zhask; he had an interest in what the mercenary had sold: the wind-piercing technique and the strategic intellect of a Valerius.

  ?"The Valerius rat," Marth growled, stopping before Ren and forcing him to look up. "Zhask assured me every coin was worth it. He said you’re the source of that strength. I paid a fortune so my children could have what your father tried to hide at the borders."

  ?Marth then gestured toward his three children present, the figures who would define Ren’s personal hell for the coming years.

  ?Eduard, the second son, approached with a careless arrogance. He had a predatory look, ignoring Ren and focusing on the three women he selected for his personal servitude. Eduard's smile wasn't that of a warrior, but of a hedonist who used power as a toy. To Ren, he was the definition of an undisciplined soldier, the type a sergeant would love to "correct" on a barracks parade ground under the midday sun.

  ?Julius, the fifteen-year-old third son, was the true intellectual danger. Attending the Imperial Academy, he exhaled an aura of calculated coldness. He didn't want to abuse the slaves; he wanted to extract Ren’s knowledge like someone dissecting a rare specimen. Julius observed Ren with almost scientific curiosity, ignoring the child and focusing on the "magical potential" he carried.

  ?And then there was Ruby, the fourth daughter. While her brothers saw tools or fun, Ruby looked at the line of slaves with deep disgust — not for them, but for the grotesque spectacle her family promoted. Ren noted her gaze: she was the only one who seemed to possess the spark of chivalry that the Duke and his sons had lost.

  ?The Start of Training

  ?The division was made with the coldness of a military inventory. George was sent to heavy labor under the harsh supervision of Marth’s guards. Erina, trembling from cold and terror, was assigned as Ruby’s personal servant — a fate that Ren hoped would be the only safe harbor in that ocean of ice.

  ?"You will teach my sons," Marth sentenced, releasing Ren’s chin. "You will be the 'teacher'. You will show Eduard and Julius how to manipulate magic as you taught that mercenary. If they learn, you’ll have the privilege of continuing to breathe. If you hide secrets or fail... I’ll test the limits of your endurance myself."

  ?Ren was dragged to the underground training rooms, where the air was damp and the stone walls muffled every sound. Marth ordered the mana-iron chains removed, replacing them with the runic punishment collar.

  ?The relief was instant, but dangerous. Without the mana-iron, Ren’s mana began to flow again, warming his body and healing the micro-fissures caused by the cold. However, he now had an "agony brake" around his neck.

  ?On that first night, facing the impatient gaze of Eduard and the cold curiosity of Julius, Sergeant Ren began his greatest sabotage operation.

  ?"They think they bought a master," Ren thought, as the collar gave a small warning pulse against his skin. "But they’ve welcomed a saboteur. I’m going to teach techniques that look powerful but will corrode their mana channels. I’m going to teach the 'chivalry' they despise through a pain they never imagined feeling."

  ?The snow began to fall heavily outside, sealing the castle. To the world, Ren was just a six-year-old slave. To himself, he was a sergeant in enemy territory, and his three-year war against the Vermilion lineage had just begun.