The Lord Of Blood Hill-Chapter 5: From Commoner to Slave

Henwell's anger quickly gives way to fear as the grim reality unfolds before him. Soldiers are screening the population, mercilessly killing the elderly, sick, and weak, dragging their bodies to the ruins nearby.
Even the youngest children are not spared, as soldiers use wooden spears to end their lives.
These soldiers, who might have been farmers just a year ago, now show no trace of their former simplicity.
Killing unarmed civilians—people who were once just like them, farmers and commoners—comes without any hesitation or remorse.
Henwell understands that the enemy is selecting viable slaves to transport supplies and perform hard labor, and children like him are clearly not part of their plans.
He surveys the area, noting the patrolling cavalry and armored infantry. Maybe he could launch a surprise attack and take out one of the farmer-soldiers, but then what? Death would still await him in this hellish landscape.
Soon, Henwell's turn comes for registration. The inspecting soldier takes one look at him and waves his hand dismissively, signaling the farmer-soldier to act. Henwell's gaze turns icy as he braces himself for a fight, ready to take one down with him if necessary.
Just then, a cavalry unit passes by, and one of the riders turns his horse around, glancing back before shouting, "Hold on!"
Damn! The feeling of being spared from the blade is intense, isn't it?
Henwell's back is drenched in sweat, and he feels the icy chill of the autumn breeze cutting through him.
The rider calmly approaches Henwell, saying, "Hey, kid, do you remember me?"
Henwell looks up, puzzled, studying the man.
He's got gray hair, yet appears quite young, with a well-proportioned build and a tall, lean stature. His fingers are slender and fair, but they're covered with calluses.
He's wearing intricately patterned leather armor, with a long sword slung across his back, a short sword at his waist, a large bow hanging by the saddle, and two quivers of arrows attached behind it.
This man isn't a regular soldier; his gear is too varied, not the standard issue of the enemy forces. Based on his attire, Henwell recalls a profession from books—a ranger.
That explains it; these are mercenaries recruited by the enemy army. Many skilled mercenaries take on war assignments because they pay well and settle immediately.
Upon realizing this, Henwell nods slightly, "You're the one who captured me."
The gray-haired ranger chuckles, "You've got quite the stamina, kid. You didn't pass out back then, so I thought you might be a noble's child. But when I checked, turns out you weren't. What a letdown. I tossed you into a cage and left you there. I've been busy with missions these past few days and almost forgot about you. I'm surprised you survived in the dungeon."
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He leans down to scrutinize Henwell, a smirk playing at his lips, "So, how's human flesh, kid?"
Henwell shakes his head, "I didn't eat anyone."
"Lying isn't a good trait, especially given your current situation. How about this—if you can convince me you haven't eaten human flesh, I'll let you live. Deal?"
Henwell takes out half a rat from his pocket, "I ate this."
The gray-haired ranger pauses, then bursts into laughter, "Ha. Clever. Show me."
Without hesitation, Henwell takes a bite in front of everyone, chewing slowly and deliberately before swallowing it with difficulty yet determination.
The ranger watches him with interest, "Interesting. Dodging that arrow wasn't just luck, was it? How's the taste of rat?"
Henwell replies, "Compared to dying, it's not so bad. Though, it would be better with some sauce."
"Hahaha... Good. You won't die today. You're my slave now."
Henwell bows respectfully, "Henwell, ready to serve my master at all times."
The gray-haired ranger leads Henwell to the military camp outside, where orderly tents and patrolling soldiers stand in stark contrast to the cannon fodder back in the town. This is the elite fighting force of the enemy, a world apart from the rabble.
The mercenaries here are hired by various noble lords, who use them to minimize their own losses. However, the gray-haired ranger isn't just any mercenary; he's a ranger employed by the enemy's regular army, which is why he has the privilege to be in the camp.
Once they reach his private tent, the ranger gestures outside, "Go take a bath and clean yourself up. Your smell is affecting my appetite. Even though the food here is already as bad as crap, I don't need the experience of eating in a toilet."
Henwell grabs a bucket and heads to the artificial water channel outside the tent. Despite the biting autumn wind, he begins to wash himself.
An hour later, when Henwell returns, dripping wet, the gray-haired ranger comments, "You even washed your clothes?"
"They had a smell. Since you said it shouldn't affect you, I made sure to take care of it."
The gray-haired ranger remains silent for a moment, idly twirling the short sword in his hand.
"Now, you need to convince me not to kill you, kid. Despite your efforts to hide it, I can see a lot of emotions in you. There's hatred in your eyes, which is understandable since we're the ones who brought destruction and death to your people."
"But there's something else I see in your eyes, and something I don't. Do you know what that is?"
Henwell stays silent, choosing not to respond.
The ranger continues unfazed, "You're missing fear, and you have a calmness that most wouldn't possess. That's what worries me, kid. Keeping someone like you around might mean facing your revenge one day. So, convince me why I shouldn't kill you now."
Henwell replies, "I can read and write. I know how to maintain armor and weapons, and I can take care of horses."
The gray-haired ranger suddenly looks up at Henwell, surprised not only by the skills he mentioned but also by his use of the common language of the continent. He scrutinizes Henwell with curiosity.
Henwell is taller and stronger than others his age, showing signs of deliberate training. Literate, fluent in the common language, and possessing those skills—if Henwell is telling the truth, he seems like he should be a noble's child.
Yet, the ranger had checked, and Henwell was indeed just the child of a small merchant.
The ranger continues, "Those are impressive skills, but how do they relate to you staying alive?"
Henwell calmly replies, "It proves I can fetch a decent price, which could compensate for your losses."
The ranger claps gently, "That's a good reason. I agree. However, I want an extra assurance. Be a good slave, don't cause trouble, and don't try anything foolish. If you promise this, I won't go after your family, and they'll be able to survive these tough times in peace. How about that?"