The first half of Connie's life had always been painted in shades of gray.
Her mother was a slave, so naturally, she was a slave as well.
As for her father, who knew? No one cared enough to ask.
The endless yellow sands, the day-after-day hunger and thirst, her mother's hollow eyes, the midnight cold, the unceasing wars, and the discrimination and humiliation inflicted by others—Connie had long since grown accustomed to it all.
It was as though the world was simply meant to be this way.
Life was suffering.
That was what her mother used to tell her.
More than once, she had even tried to strangle Connie to death before killing herself.
As if that would allow them to bid farewell to all this pain.
But Connie had still overestimated her own courage. When the agony of suffocation and the unknown of death descended upon her together, she shoved away her mother, who had sunk into despair and madness. Yet her frantic struggle and hysterical screams caught the slave owner's attention.
Her mother was whipped to death alive. The enraged slave owner merely found it somewhat unlucky.
Because in his eyes, compared to her mother, who could already be considered sickly and crippled, Connie, who had grown a little taller, could undoubtedly fetch a better price.
Those nobles always took delight in ravaging fresh, tender flowers.
And so Connie was sold off again. While crossing the barren Karin Desert by way of the Marching Mountains, the slave traders stopped to make camp and told her to dance for everyone.
But she did not know how to dance.
Blankly, Connie was driven off the cart at the point of a sharp blade. Before long, the scorching sand beneath her feet forced her to keep switching from one foot to