Click.
The iron cage opened.
The old man, Charles, crawled out.
The cage was barely waist-high, so Charles had been hunched over inside it.
But when he crawled out, everyone realized that he was actually quite tall and stood with his back straight.
He had to be at least six foot three.
Yet Charles's graying beard, weathered face, and cloudy eyes all made it clear that he was long past his physical prime.
Perhaps he had been a fine farmhand in his youth.
But in his old age, he was like a rusty robot.
Although he did his utmost to stand straight and make a good impression on his new owner, everyone could see the exhaustion he could not hide.
Number Seven led the group out of Lone Tree Town.
A rugged-looking motorcycle stood on the dilapidated road.
Number Seven swung a leg over the motorcycle and said:
"The Refugee Home is about five kilometers from here. I'll go get a vehicle and bring it back. Come with me!"
Her gaze fell not on Herta, but on Kafka.
The others froze, their expressions turning either nervous or wary.
Kafka, however, smiled and said:
"How did you figure it out?"
"Simple. I've never seen a young lady from the south who needed to consult her slaves about anything." Number Seven shrugged, her golden eyes fixed on Kafka. "If I'm right, you're runaway slaves from the south who kidnapped a manor's young lady."
"You got most of it right," Kafka said.
"Not all of it?" Number Seven frowned. "What did I get wrong?"
"We are runaway slaves, but we didn't kidnap the young lady." Kafka smiled and looked at Herta. "Our young lady's father arranged a marriage for her, and the groom was fat and ugly. She was so furious that she