Captive of a Slave Catcher Gang

Ron opened his eyes.

No, he had not opened them—pain had woken him. His wrists felt as though they were on fire. Ron instinctively raised his hand, and the chains clattered, yanking him out of the haze.

The damp stink of mold filled his nostrils, mingled with a rotten, fishy stench. Ron lifted his head, only to strike the wooden post behind him. Squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw torchlight, stone walls, huddled figures—a dungeon.

Ron looked down at his hands. They were not his original hands.

Huge palms, thick knuckles, covered in fine old scars. He raised both hands before his eyes, slowly opening and closing them. That unfamiliar, abundant sense of strength sent a chill down Ron's spine. This was not his body.

The muscle density was wrong. Even his height was completely off.

He bent his knees slightly, and the muscles beneath his tattered trouser legs tensed, stretching the cloth into taut folds. He instinctively straightened his back, only to hit the low beam overhead.

Ron quickly ducked back down. That brief moment standing upright was enough for him to estimate his height at least 2.2 meters. This was the character he had created in the game—the second-playthrough character adjusted to maximum height, with every combat stat grinded past three hundred.

The game's virtual flesh had become reality.

Ron closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Fragments of memory surged up—game, storm, death, logout—but this was not a login screen.

"Friend, don't waste your strength."

A hoarse voice came from across the room.

Ron followed the sound and saw a gaunt man leaning against the opposite wall.

The man's robe was filthy beyond recognition, its original color long gone. Bruises covered his face, and dark red blood had crusted at the corner of his mouth. Yet his eyes remained bright, carrying the unconscious habit of observation and analysis.

"This is the dungeon of a slave catcher camp," the man stated calmly. "Every few days, they drag back a batch of refugees from outside. Once they have enough people, they send them to the mines. Those who can be sold are sold. Those who can't..."

He glanced at Ron with restrained curiosity—the sort of curiosity that said, I know I shouldn't stare, but I can't help it.

"Who are you?" Ron's voice had a metallic quality to it, producing a faint echo off the dungeon's stone walls.

The gaunt man seemed startled by the sound of his voice, but he quickly regained his composure. Straightening up, he spoke with a hint of pride.

"Elwin von Held, lecturer and doctoral scholar in the Department of History at Oxenfurt University. My research focuses on the history of the Northern Wars and the Convergence of Spheres."

He paused and tugged at the corner of his mouth. It seemed to pull at one of his wounds, turning his expression into a grimace.

"I had intended to further my research, to document this war in detail and compile it into a book. Instead, these bastards caught me in Velen.

"My research notes, manuscripts, funding—all gone. Now I'm waiting here to be sold to some damned mine in gods-know-where. If I'm lucky, I'll live a few more months. If I'm not..."

Elwin shrugged.

Ron's heart gave a violent thump. When the words Oxenfurt and Velen hit his ears, it felt as though someone had struck his head with a hammer.

He knew those names. That game called The Witcher. But if this was Velen, if a war was underway here...

"The Third Northern War?" Ron blurted out.

Elwin raised his brows, apparently surprised that Ron knew the term. "You know about it? Those bandits said they found you beside a wrecked ship near the coast. Where are you from?"

Ron opened his mouth but said nothing. He knew the Northern Kingdoms and the Nilfgaardian Empire were at war. Velen was a battlefield. He knew this land was full of monsters, bandits, burned villages, and desperate peasants.

He knew there was a witcher named Geralt, a sorceress named Yennefer, and a princess named Ciri, but it all felt separated from him by a pane of frosted glass.

The Witcher was an old game he had played more than ten years ago. He vaguely remembered the main story, but had forgotten almost all the details...

He had been transported into a world he only half knew.

Ron closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. Elwin thought he was about to pass out and cautiously called out, "Hey?"

"I'm fine." Ron opened his eyes. "Go on. Where are we? I mean the exact location."

Elwin pushed up his glasses, one lens shattered. "The Velen Province of the former Kingdom of Temeria. More specifically, southwestern Velen, near a tributary of the Pontar River.

"This is currently a gray zone between Nilfgaard and scattered irregulars. There's no regular army, no law—only bandits, monsters, and starving peasants."

"How many bandits are there?"

"From what I've observed, around thirty to forty," Elwin said. "The leader's quarters are on the second floor, with guards at his side. There are seven or eight archers and crossbowmen on the perimeter. The rest have uneven equipment, but there are a lot of them."

Ron nodded and said no more. Not because he was tired, but because he sensed something.

An interface appeared.

It was no illusion. A translucent interface floated in the upper-right corner of his vision, just like the one in the game. Ron focused on it, and the panel rippled open like water, revealing more information.

Name: Ron Arenicos

Identity: Crown Prince (Calradic Empire)

Level: Lv. 31 Experience: 12450/19000

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[Attributes]

Strength 10 | Agility 8 | Endurance 7 | Perception 5 | Charm 4 | Intelligence 5

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[Skills]

One-Handed Weapons 325 Two-Handed Weapons 310 Polearms 305

Bows 330 Riding 315 Athletics 78

Crossbows 5 Throwing 30 Smithing 0

Scouting 55 Tactics 85 Charm 42

Leadership 52 Trade 35 Stewardship 50

Medicine 38 Engineering 20

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[Troops]

Imperial Elite Armored Cavalry: 16/16

Fian Champion Archers: 6/6

Troop Strength: 22

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[System Functions]

Unlocked: Battlefield Command, Personal Attributes, Troop Information

Locked: Companion System (requires recruiting a companion) Fief Management (inactive) National Policies (inactive)

Battlefield Command was available.

Fief Management was grayed out.

National Policies were grayed out.

Ron stared at the two gray options for two seconds, then looked away. That was for later—if there was a later.

He turned his attention to the twenty-two halos scattered around the camp. He could sense their condition, their emotions—confusion, unease, and a deeply rooted loyalty.

Then the "memories" behind those emotions flooded into him.

Praven, the imperial capital. The royal banners of the empire fluttered from the palace's stone walls. The empire's first heir, the emperor's eldest son, had led troops toward the Nords. Their flagship encountered a storm at sea, its hull shattered, and the entire ship was swallowed by a massive whirlpool.

Then they had arrived here.

Ron knew these memories were part of the game's plot, the script from the newly released immersive virtual reality game he had played.

But he could feel that, to these soldiers, it was real. The evening breeze that had swept over Praven's walls, the dust kicked up when they clashed with Khuzait cavalry on the grasslands, the fingers frozen stiff in the snow—those were their lives.

"Are you all right?" Elwin's voice came from across the room, carrying a cautious note of concern. "You look... confused?"

"Thank you, I'm fine," Ron said, flexing his wrists as the chains clattered. "Elwin, no matter what happens in a moment, stay where you are and don't move."

The scholar froze. "Huh?"

Ron did not answer. He sank his attention into the Battlefield Command interface.

He issued his first command: the six archers were to move east, take the top floor of the abandoned tower, and seize the high ground; the sixteen others were to spread out along the perimeter and eliminate the enemy's ranged units, then advance in groups of three in shield-wall spear formations.

He could feel twenty-two precise machines awaken at once, then begin moving—silent and swift, seeping through the gaps in the camp like a breeze in the night.

Everything was ready.

Ron returned his attention to his body and looked down at the shackles around his wrists. The chains were as thick as his fingers, the rivets at the joints rusted through, and the wooden post anchoring them had rotted black. He tested it with a pull. The post creaked, and cracks spread outward from the rivet holes.

That would be enough.

Ron did not immediately break free. Instead, he waited quietly as torchlight flickered at the dungeon entrance.

The sound of guards' footsteps came from overhead, followed by shouting—not orders, but curses. The clash of metal rang out in the distance, accompanied by a brief scream.