You Were My Sl*ve - Chapter 86

“Who you were in the past does not matter. If you wish to stand in this desert, answer me. Who are you, standing there now?”

Those were the words he had spoken when they first met. The sudden surge of an old memory filled Kazan with an odd sense of stubbornness. Compared to those days, the hardships he faced now were nothing—how laughable it was that he had even entertained the thought of death.

He had survived. Carving his way through the bloodstained history of this desert, he had fought desperately to stay alive.

To become a king.

To become the one who wished for Elona to stand by his side.

To become a king.

*

Five years ago.

The small border town of Parvata was a hub for numerous mercenary groups. A place where countless mercenaries, informants, and wanderers gathered, new rumors were born there every day.

“I heard an incredible guy joined the Padisha Mercenary Corps.”

“Oh, I heard that too. Torthan brought him in, right? He’s young, but his skills are remarkable.”

“Apparently, they originally met as enemies, but Torthan spared his life because it would’ve been a waste to kill him—and recruited him as a mercenary instead. Torthan does have an eye for people.”

“Why is Harnuk always so lucky?”

Among the passing rumors, there were always fragments of truth. For example, the case of Kazan, the skilled warrior newly enlisted in the Padisha Mercenary Corps.

He was twenty-two years old. Ambidextrous, highly trained in swordsmanship, and completely devoid of hesitation when cutting down an enemy.

“How many did you go through this time?”

Irid Padisha, who had followed mercenary Kazan into the forge, spoke playfully. He was sorting out the swords ruined by blood and battle. After every mission, it was common for him to discard at least half a dozen blades.

“Aren’t you overdoing it? You’re cutting down enough enemies for several people. You only need to do as much as you’re paid for.”

“It’s better to finish the job quickly.”

Kazan replied indifferently as he selected a few more swords. Irid watched him with amusement, taking in his serious expression as he inspected new weapons.

Jet-black hair, thick eyebrows, striking red eyes, a sharp and straight nose, and a strong jawline. He was also tall, his physique standing out even among other muscular men, exuding both strength and refinement.

And his character? Unlike other mercenaries, he never wasted time in gambling dens or brothels. Though cold by nature, he had excellent leadership skills and a subtle generosity, making him well-liked even among the roughest of warriors.

‘Does he have no interest in romance?’

That question was not just on Irid’s mind, but on the minds of many other women as well.

However, Kazan had no interest in anything beyond battle. He always fought at the frontlines and slew more enemies than anyone else. As time passed and his name, unbound by any noble lineage, began to spread, people started calling him “The Son of Sindar.”

“So, why are you here? Do you have a message for me?”

Having finished tending to his weapons, Kazan finally turned to Irid. She, looking slightly embarrassed, relayed the reason for her visit.

“My father asked me to bring you. It seems an urgent request just came in.”

Following Irid, Kazan made his way to the quarters of Harnuk, the mercenary leader. The man had just received a commission and, upon seeing Kazan enter, hastily shoved a pouch of gold out of sight.

“You got here quickly. Irid, step outside. We need to plan the operation.”

Even as she closed the door behind her, Irid couldn’t take her eyes off Kazan. Harnuk, watching her, mused that he might soon be gaining a son-in-law. Then, he gestured for Kazan to take a seat. The mission was simple.

“Tonight, Prince Rak is heading to Maldika for negotiations, taking only a handful of close aides. Including his guards, there will be no more than six of them. Our job is to ambush them tonight and capture the prince.”

A kidnapping assignment—almost certainly commissioned by a rival prince’s faction. Kazan, as usual, remained indifferent as he asked,

“How many are we sending?”

“Eight. I’ll be going myself this time.”

The fact that their leader was personally joining meant this was a high-priority job. Without a word, Kazan accepted the mission. Harnuk rambled on about the hefty reward, but Kazan remained silent. The mercenary leader found it curious—despite his exceptional skills, Kazan had no interest in wealth.

‘What a strange guy. A war orphan without a shred of greed. Where did he even come from?’

That question was answered later that night.

As Prince Rak and his retinue made their way to Maldika for the military negotiations, they were ambushed by the Padisha Mercenary Corps. Kazan led the assault, cutting down two men in an instant under the cover of darkness. However, the elite guards protecting the prince were no easy prey.

“Damn it, surround them and attack!”

Harnuk had hoped their superior numbers would decide the battle, but the prince’s guards fought back fiercely against the advancing mercenaries.

Thirty minutes passed as blades clashed, and blood was spilled.

“Hah… hah… this is bad…”

After a brutal fight, Harnuk finally lost his weapon and collapsed among the corpses. A soldier stepped forward, raising his sword to strike him down.

But before the blade could fall—

“Guhh!”

A sword struck from behind, piercing the soldier’s body before swiftly withdrawing. Harnuk barely scrambled away as the soldier fell lifelessly.

Kazan stood behind the fallen man, looking down at Harnuk. He shook the blood from his blade with a flick and spoke in his usual calm tone.

“With this, my debt to you is repaid.”

There was no room for doubt. Still catching his breath, Harnuk clutched his chest, feeling as though he had aged ten years. He quickly got back on his feet, while Kazan wordlessly strode toward where the horses had collapsed.

“Ugh…”

Amidst the battlefield’s wreckage, Prince Rak lay trapped beneath a fallen horse, unable to move. Harnuk’s eyes gleamed as he hurried after Kazan. They were the only three survivors.

“Perfect! Now we just have to take the prince and—”

Harnuk’s joyous laughter was abruptly cut off.

“Rak Mileshatra.”

Kazan knelt on one knee beside the prince. Weaponless and injured, Rak tensed, gazing up at the unfamiliar mercenary. Kazan spoke in a low voice.

“Do you recognize me?”

“What?”

Rak squinted at Kazan’s face in the moonlight, searching for familiarity. But no matter how long he stared, the young man before him was a complete stranger.

“I don’t think… I’ve ever seen you before.”

“…I see.”

Kazan lifted his sword. Unlike his usual composed self, his hand trembled slightly.

“Think of it this way—you died at the hands of an unknown mercenary.”

“Wait, hold—!”

Ignoring Harnuk’s desperate shout, Kazan plunged his blade straight into Prince Rak’s heart. Blood gushed from the prince’s mouth as he collapsed lifelessly.

Harnuk stood frozen, horrified at what had just happened.

“No…! We were supposed to capture him alive! What the hell are you doing?”

Kazan paid him no mind. Instead, he rummaged through the prince’s robes. As he had glimpsed during the fight, a necklace hung around Rak’s neck. Without hesitation, Kazan tore it off.

“Hey! That kind of petty thievery isn’t worth—”

“Harnuk Padisha.”

The unexpected formality made Harnuk flinch. Kazan turned to him, gripping the necklace tightly. Dangling from the chain was a sharp, crimson gemstone—one Harnuk immediately recognized.

The Jahileta, the Gem of Wisdom.

Kazan clenched the blessed red stone of Zahira’s divine power in his bare hand. The pointed edges pierced his palm, and droplets of blood seeped between his fingers.

“Wait… You’re—”

Harnuk’s words faltered as the gem began to glow. The moment Kazan’s blood touched it, the deep red stone radiated a brilliant milky-white light.

No Ashatrain could mistake the significance of that divine glow.

“You’re royalty…?”

Harnuk’s voice shook as he instinctively shifted to a respectful tone. Kazan answered plainly.

“I am the seventh son of Kalima Ilya Mileshatra. Kazan Mileshatra.”

“The Seventh Prince…?”

Harnuk’s mind reeled as he scrambled through his memories.

The Seventh Prince—the child born to the queen of priestly lineage.

‘But both of them were supposed to have died long ago…’