Chapter 73
He didn’t remember where or how he was born.
His memory began behind cold iron bars.
A dark and damp place where not even a sliver of light entered.
In a cramped cell barely big enough for one adult to lie down, he grew up with five other child slaves.
Food was given once a day—a half-piece of bread, hardened like a stone.
On days when even that wasn’t provided, he survived by eating rats or bugs that crawled through the bars.
If he made a sound, he was beaten. If his breathing was too loud, he was beaten. If they didn’t like the look in his eyes, he was beaten.
One day, he was thrown aside simply because his black hair was deemed disgusting.
But he couldn’t cry. Children who showed signs of pain were taken away and never returned.
Then one day, he was sold to a slave trader.
When he first stepped outside the bars, he came face-to-face with a nobleman.
Shining blond hair, radiant green eyes.
The man looked down at him with a blank expression, as if appraising merchandise.
“This is the young Hakkan boy you requested. He’s small, but he’s tough and has a natural sense for combat. He’ll be useful.”
“Put him in the carriage.”
That was his first meeting with Valdir Richmond.
Leo was thrown into the carriage by rough hands.
The outside world he saw for the first time was so full of colors it hurt his eyes.
To a child who had believed the world was only grey, everything felt alien.
But he didn’t feel happy.
He instinctively knew—he had only moved from one prison to another.
Richmond treated slaves strictly as objects.
He gave them numbers instead of names and ranked them.
Each day was filled with training. If they failed to meet quotas, they were beaten and locked in solitary confinement.
Still, he thought being a slave was better than the cell.
‘At least here, I don’t have to eat rats or bugs.’
That one reason alone was enough.
The first time he killed a person, he was around eight years old.
Richmond ordered him to kill another slave who had attempted to escape.
No one stepped forward easily.
They had formed a certain bond with each other, making it difficult to act.
But Leo was different.
He picked up a blade and, without hesitation, slashed the carotid artery.
Blood gushed out like a fountain.
No crying, no sympathy, no hesitation.
Seeing that, Richmond smiled in satisfaction.
“Not bad. I’ll give you a name.”
“…No need. You can keep calling me by my number.”
For the first time, Richmond laughed heartily.
“You’ve got potential. Fine then, I’ll call you Number Eight.”
And so he became Number Eight—his name replaced by the age he had reached.
After that, his life was filled with nothing but orders.
Training, missions, killing.
Those three things were his entire world.
His emotions had withered long ago. Killing didn’t make him feel anything.
If he didn’t kill, he’d be beaten and starved.
For him, killing was simply a way to survive.
“You did well again. I’ll reward you with something tasty.”
On days he succeeded, Richmond was generous with rewards.
Sometimes he taught him how to read, other times, etiquette for infiltrating noble households.
He was allowed extra food beyond his ration.
In this way, Number Eight became Richmond’s right-hand man.
Like a shadow, he silently executed every order.
He killed, stole information, and operated in the dark to influence the world.
Life as an assassin was dull, familiar, and tolerable.
Then one day, Richmond gave him a mission:
“Steal a blueprint from the imperial archives. But make sure no one realizes it was stolen. If you succeed, I’ll free you from slavery.”
For the first time, Number Eight felt a spark of hope.
A life without slavery.
A concept he’d never even considered. Yet those two words struck a burning chord in his chest.
But the mission was difficult.
Killing someone would have been easier.
The imperial archives were heavily guarded unlike anywhere else. He poured every ounce of skill and ingenuity he had into infiltrating the archives and succeeded in swapping the blueprint and a few documents without being noticed.
It took him a full month to return to Richmond.
On his way back, the weather was oddly pleasant, and the blueprint in his hand felt like a lifeline that might change his fate.
He wanted—genuinely wanted—to please Richmond.
He hoped to be acknowledged by him.
It was strange. Richmond had tortured him, whipped him, and driven him to the brink of death countless times. Yet still, he held a deep-seated loyalty to the man.
‘He’ll be pleased.’
Foolishly, Richmond’s training had worked.
Number Eight still carried emotions a slave was never meant to have.
He quietly headed for Richmond’s office, intending to surprise him.
Not through the door, but through the familiar gap in the ceiling.
He saw Richmond drinking with another nobleman and decided to wait until the alcohol wore off.
Then he heard it.
“Come to think of it, that boy isn’t around. Didn’t you have a Hakkan slave?”
Number Eight froze.
There was no doubt—they were talking about him.
Richmond’s relaxed voice filtered up from below.
“Ah, you mean Number Eight.”
“Number Eight? That’s his name?”
“Yeah. My proudest creation. You could call him my only true success.”
“Haha, sounds like you’re fond of him.”
In that moment, Number Eight’s chest swelled.
He remembered the day Richmond had first given him a name and smiled.
“Proudest creation,” “true success”—those weren’t words one used for people. But he felt happy nonetheless.
But the next words shattered him.
“Duke Zilgurk, do you get attached to the beasts you raise?”
Richmond emptied his glass and continued nonchalantly.
“Beasts?”
“Yes. Creatures that obey when told, bite when ordered, bark on command. What else would you call that but a beast?”
Richmond let out a dry laugh.
“Just because his eyes are similar to mine doesn’t mean I should treat him like a person. That’s how dogs start getting delusions.”
“Delusions?”
“Yes. What do you think happens when a dog starts believing it’s human? It forgets its place and bites its master.”
“Oh? And what would you do then?”
“Simple. When you let go of the leash, you kill it. That’s what beasts are for.”
Number Eight’s entire body went rigid.
Those words came from the very mouth that had once promised him citizenship with a smile.
All that kindness had been a lie.
In that moment, his mind went blank.
So I’m just a beast—killed once I’m no longer useful.
His grip on the blueprint loosened.
Once again, the world began to fade into grey.
That night, Number Eight fled with the blueprint tucked into his chest.
He never gave it to Richmond—a quiet, bitter act of revenge.
At that time, he was only eleven years old.
He had no power to bring down a great system, no courage to strike down his master.
That single piece of paper was all he could do in resistance.
After that, he spent weeks hiding in the mountains.
He approached hikers and travelers quietly, stealing their wallets or food.
With that money, he’d go down to a village to eat, then move to another before anyone could remember his face.
It was the life of a fugitive.
Having grown up only as an assassin, he didn’t know how to live normally or trust others.
By day, he hid in the shade of trees. By night, he chose places where no laughter could be heard to sleep.
Everything that approached him without caution first felt scary—then made him angry.
Crossing mountains and fields again and again, he finally reached the fourth mountain on the southern edge of the empire.
One day, exhausted, he spotted a man collapsed by the roadside.
Hiding in the bushes, Number Eight watched him.
The man had platinum hair and gentle violet eyes. His clothes were neat and refined—clearly of noble status.
A perfect target for theft.
Number Eight intentionally made noise to reveal his presence.
Startled, the man flinched and sat up.
“H-Hey, kid… do you… happen to have water? I must’ve taken the wrong path… I haven’t eaten in over two days. C-Could you help me, just a little?”
His lips were parched.
His voice was faint and trembling. His eyes were swollen from how much he’d cried.
Number Eight stared at him.
If he took the man’s wallet, dagger, and a few accessories, he could survive a few more days.
And yet, instinctively, he knew.
Despite the man’s delicate appearance, his hands and body bore the marks of training.
‘If I attack, it’ll get troublesome.’
Not wanting to fight, Number Eight chose an easier path.
He pulled out a leather canteen from his coat and tossed it at the man’s feet.
The man grabbed it and drank greedily.
“Th-Thank you. Really… thank you.”
After gulping for a long time, he finally caught his breath and smiled brightly.
“My name is Cargo. Cargo Niberius. What’s your name, kid?”
