Chapter 22 : The Fracture Protocol.
Velma held him close, her arms wrapped tight around his small frame, as if she could protect him from everything that had happened—and everything that was still coming. For a moment, everything was still. Then came the sound.
Clang. Clang. Clang. It was an announcement.
The noise echoed through the corridor outside the cages—soldiers marching past, banging on rusted buckets with sticks of iron. It was the signal. Feeding time.
But it wasn't hope that spread across the cages—it was tension.
Each bucket was followed by a thin tray of dry, dark bread—black, almost burnt-looking, and barely the size of a child's palm. If a cage had twelve people, they threw in eight pieces. If there were twenty, they gave fifteen. For thirty, twenty. Always less. Never enough.
This wasn't a mistake. Oliver knew that much. From what he remembered from the future, the slave training had actually began. But none was aware.
This was how they started breaking people.
At first, hunger brought anger. Anger brought fighting. Fighting bred mistrust. And soon, those who had once huddled together in fear would begin seeing each other as rivals, not comrades.
Unity? That was the first thing they wanted to kill.
From the moment they were captured, they'd been treated like livestock. But now, now the real process began—where people turned on each other for a slice of stale bread. Where the so-called strongest rose, not with pride, but with a target on their back.
If a person was strong enough and hoarded food, the others would see him as one to get rid of.
It was all psychological. A long game of division.
A tactic Oliver remembered well—"The Fracture Protocol."
It was one of many techniques introduced by a noble family within the Somara empire that specifically dealt with managing slaves.
Worse techniques to ensure submissiveness were waiting for them at the Somara empire.
Oliver placed a hand on the cold, vibrating floor. From the engine's rhythm and the faint hum of Aether he could now sense, he guessed they were still far from land. Maybe a day had passed since they left the fallen kingdom of Tyrell. At least six, maybe seven more days remained. Enough time to break or at least Fracture even the strongest will using hunger.
By the time they reached the Somara Empire, these people—his people—wouldn't dream of rebellion. They'd be too busy competing and hating each other. Too busy trying to prove their worth to the very monsters who caged them.
And yet, even inside the cages, there were those still clinging to their pride.
Some nobles refused to even touch the bread, turning up their noses like they hadn't lost everything. Oliver didn't blame them—not yet. But hunger… hunger had a way of humbling even the proudest.
Next came the water.
The soldiers dragged in large buckets and poured the contents into shallow metal drains, like they were feeding pigs. The water was murky, foul-smelling. Bits of dirt floated in it—sometimes cockroach shells, too. The commoners didn't care. Thirst made things simple. But the nobles? Their pride made them hesitate, even when their throats burned.
These nobles had always seen commoners as below them. It was only natural. Noble bloodline was superior, not just in name but in ability, and even absorption of aether. However a long life enjoying themselves had dulled their survival senses—senses commoners used on a daily.
But Oliver was different. When the food reached their cage, Oliver gently pulled away from Velma's embrace. And then as fast as he could, he moved. The tray hit the floor with a clatter, and for a second which Oliver took advantage of, no one moved.
Fast.
He grabbed what he could—three pieces of bread, maybe four—and slipped back beside his sister. They were over twenty in this cage, but most hadn't adapted yet. They were still frozen by shock, by disbelief. That wouldn't last. Oliver knew it. Soon, they'd change.
Oliver returned to his sister. But Velma glared at the bread like it was poison.
"We're prisoners of war!" she shouted at the soldiers. "Not animals!"
A few nobles heard her voice, and chimed in, echoing her outrage. But the soldiers? They didn't whip or bark back this time. They just laughed and walked on.
That silence was louder than any blow.
Velma slumped back into their corner, arms crossed tightly. Oliver offered her a piece of bread, but she refused, whispering, "This… trash? I'd rather starve."
Oliver didn't argue. He took a bite himself—dry, bitter, chewy like leather—but swallowed it down, and then went for the water. He'd need the strength. What came next would be worse. Much worse. Especially once they met the noble family of slave traders who'd be waiting for them at the port.
Still, he wrapped the remaining bread in a rag, slipped it under the floor grating, and whispered, "Then hold on to it for me, yeah? Just in case."
Velma didn't answer. She just tightened her grip on his hand.
A few hours later, the corridor echoed again. Heavy boots. A dragging sound.
Then, a man was thrown into their cage like trash.
The soldier barked a curse, cracked his whip to scare everyone back, and slammed the door shut.
The man didn't speak. He just sat there, twitching and muttering, his fingers clawing at his scalp like he was trying to tear something out of his own head. Bits of his hair had fallen out, and his clothes—torn to shreds—were in his mouth. He chewed on them like they were food. His eyes were vacant, bloodshot. The light in them was… gone.
Most people pulled away. Murmured. Afraid.
But Oliver just watched him with a tight chest.
That was the man Lady Seraphina had picked.
That was what being her "toy" did to a person.
Velma didn't look. She just pulled Oliver back into her arms. He didn't resist. Not this time.
Just like that, slowly, the day dragged into night. But Oliver had not notices that a man sitting at the far corner with very sharp eyes, had seen him hide the piece of black bread.
Then it came. Another whisper reached Oliver from the depths of his mind—soft, cold, and familiar.
>< Heeheehee... now, let's have some fun.