Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge
Chapter 69: “The Ear and the Name”

Chapter 69: “The Ear and the Name”

Roderick leaned closer, curiosity overpowering caution.

“The Homunculus is—”

Oliver’s teeth sank into his ear.

It was not just a bite. It was a rip—a vicious, animalistic clamp that tore through cartilage and flesh like parchment soaked in oil. The sound was sickening—crunch, tear, pop—followed by the wet, splattering noise of blood as it erupted in spurts across the floor, painting the grimy concrete in vivid red.

Roderick screamed.

“AARRRGGHHHHH!!”

He reeled back in shock and agony, slamming a hard punch into Oliver’s ribs. The blow was deep and violent—Oliver felt something crack, maybe even snap. A rib. Two. Didn’t matter.

Because he didn’t let go.

He dug in deeper—until with a final gnash of his jaw, the ear ripped free.

Blood sprayed in wild arcs across the warehouse. Slaves ducked. One shrieked. Garron, still hanging by the ankles beside Oliver, froze. His one good eye widened... and then narrowed faintly. There it was—a flash of intrigue, hidden behind a veil of weariness and blood. The kind of smile you only learned to hide in hell.

Roderick stumbled back, clutching the side of his face. His fingers trembled against the mutilated stump where his ear once was. His mind struggled to keep up—between pain and disbelief, rage and humiliation, he didn’t know what to feel first.

“Y-You…” he gasped, blinking against the warm blood trailing into his eye. “You bit me!?”

Oliver spat out the hunk of cartilage onto the ground with a wet thud.

“Disgusting,” he rasped, jaw clenching from pain. “Even your blood tastes rotten.”

The entire warehouse was quiet. Not a breath dared stir.

Oliver’s chest rose and fell rapidly. The agony of hanging upside-down, the hooks digging into his ankles, the bruises, the broken rib—he didn’t care.

His hate had found a voice.

There was no more need to play the meek slave that only wanted to be first during the training. No point pretending anymore. Because no matter what he did, no matter how he begged or obeyed, Roderick would still find pleasure in his pain. That was who he was.

That was what made Roderick dangerous.

All because of his hair, he would suffer like useless fool.

But this life wasn’t like the last. This time, Oliver had an edge. This time, he had power.

And something within him responded to that rage.

His eyes glinted—just barely—with a red hue. It shimmered like a hidden ember behind glass. He didn’t even notice.

But his Nightmare Sigil did.

> [Thirst of Vengeance: Passive] Activated.

Stat boost in the presence of emotional rage.

Status: Dormant → Awakened (Minor Boost).

It was slight. But real.

His blood burned with the beginnings of something more.

This was the first time he’d truly let himself feel all the pain, all the scars Roderick had carved into his body and mind—rooms of rats, rituals of pain, blessings that were curses. All of it. A past life’s nightmares, still vivid in his mind, like deep visceral sword marks on a tree.

And in this moment, something cracked open inside him.

Oliver’s voice was rough, but unshaken. “I took your ear,” he said coldly, “so you would listen clearly.”

He lifted his head—he was still hanging by the ankles but looking right into Roderick’s soul.

“I, Oliver Von Rich, will be the end of you.”

The moment the words left his mouth, the slave sigil on his neck flared.

It exploded with searing force.

The slave brand at the back of his neck lit up like hellfire.

A violent crack of aether surged through him.

The sigil screamed, and so did Oliver—his body convulsing, pain searing into every nerve as the system punished him for daring to speak a name that no longer “belonged” to him.

But his eyes never left Roderick’s.

Not for a second.

And Roderick—he flinched.

The monster flinched.

Fear flickered across his bloodied face. Real fear. A moment of doubt. Of recognition.

As if something—someone—had just spoken a prophecy.

But fear was a fleeting thing.

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Roderick’s expression twisted. He looked around—saw the watching slaves, saw the blood on the floor, saw his own trembling hand.

He snapped.

A wave of madness drowned out all hesitation.

His wand appeared in a flash of white light, and he swung.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The blows were savage. Wild. Wand-strikes like whips, crashing down on Oliver’s little ten year old body in a storm of furious, uncoordinated rage. His arms, chest, face—everywhere he could reach, he struck.

“You dare! YOU DARE!”

Spit flew from Roderick’s mouth. His breath was hot and ragged.

“You filthy maggot! You piece of demon shit! I’ll kill you! I’ll—”

“Roderick!”

A voice called out.

But he didn’t hear it.

“Roderick—!”

Again.

He struck Oliver’s jaw, split his lip.

“I’ll skin you alive—!”

Then—

Snap.

A hand caught his wrist, and the wand stopped mid-air.

Roderick blinked, breathless, rabid.

Thalia.

She stood there, her fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist.

Her expression?

Ice.

“I said stop,” she said flatly. “What... are you doing?”

Her voice wasn’t raised. But it carried.

Roderick’s lips twitched. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m disciplining—”

“Get dressed,” she interrupted, letting go of his hand. “Clean up. Father wants to see us.”

Roderick bristled. “As you can see, I’m busy.”

“He’s not alone,” Thalia said. “Lord Lioren Vontell is with him.”

That stopped him.

Roderick’s breath caught in his throat. His eye twitched. Then he turned back toward Oliver, who now hung with a battered face, swollen jaw, and eyes that—despite it all—had not once looked away from him.

Oliver was.... Unbroken.

And if Roderick had looked closer, he would’ve seen something odd.

There was No blood. Not even a drop.

For all the hits, for all the pain, Oliver hadn’t bled. Not from the wand. Not from the hooks. Not from the punches.

Of course, this was as a result of Oliver’s Deity Bloodline that refused to leave his body.

But Roderick didn’t see it.

Or maybe, he didn’t want to.

Thalia handed him a potion. “You look like shit,” she said simply. “Drink this.”

Roderick snatched it, downed it in a single pull. “Fine,” he muttered. “Fine. I'll go change.”

He turned without another word and stormed out, his robes flapping behind him, boots crunching on broken glass and blood.

Thalia lingered.

Her eyes trailed after her 'brother,' a deep venom flickering behind her composed face.

Then she looked at Oliver.

Her gaze was... odd. Not pity. Not fear. Something quieter. Warmer. Tender. Complicated.

Garron caught sight of it in disbelief.

Then she turned and followed Roderick, vanishing out of the warehouse.

——

Roderick stood in front of the tall mirror, adjusting the new white robes that clung to his skin. The previous ones had been stained with blood—his own.

An offense he could not easily forgive. He dabbed a final bit of salve beneath the bandage where his ear used to be. The pain had dulled becauseof the potion, but the sting to his pride remained sharp.

Then again, the potion could heal wounds but no replace the appendage.

Minutes later, he joined Thalia as they approached the double doors leading to their father’s study.

The towering blackwood doors creaked open.

Inside, the chamber was quiet but weighty—thick with scented oils, aged scrolls, and political secrets.

At the center, a wide circular desk shaped like a war table stood between two powerful men.

Cassian Vaelcrest sat poised in regal calm, clad in spotless white robes that flowed like snowfall down his throne-like chair. His black hair caught the morning light, and the sharpness of his stare could slice steel.

Across from him, stood Lioren Vontell.

Draped in a modest but elegant purple ensemble, Lioren Vontell—the adopted brother of Seraphina.

Of course, unlike Seraphina that was quite bold, Lioren has always been quieter… calculated.

At their entrance, both Thalia and Roderick dropped into formal bows.

“Father. Lord Lioren,” they said in unison.

Lioren offered a soft wave, dismissing the formality. “There’s no need. I’ve come on urgent matters, not ceremony.”

Cassian gave a short nod. “Go on.”

Lioren took one step forward, his expression grim. “We have to move on to the final stages of the training.”

Those words came as a shock to both Thalia and Roderick.

The training was divided into different stages that was spread across three months.

All of which had been critically designed to ensure that slaves became loyal obedient dogs by the end of the three months.

This was a psychological play by the Vaelcrest family.

The way slaves were treated, and how they had to recite the Imperial Slave Value System daily was no coincidence.

The reason was because it took about two weeks of consistency to change or impact a habit, and then three to four weeks to make it a character.

By the third month, it would already have been ingrained permanently into their heads.

All slaves of the empire go through this three months training.

It was no coincidence.

It was the reason orders for slaves to kill themselves could be given. And a slave would obey.

It was just in their nature after the training process.

But this?

This wasn’t even halfway through the first month.

And yet, Lioren had just suggested skipping straight to the end.

Roderick stepped forward, tone sharp with disbelief. “You can’t do that. That’s reckless. We’ll ruin the batch—”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed.

“Roderick,” he said coolly, “you will watch your tongue in the presence of Lord Lioren.”

Thalia sighed and rolled her eyes. She stepped between them and tugged Roderick back by his sleeve before offering a graceful bow.

“What my... idiot brother—” she shot Roderick a glare “—meant to say is... why now? The slaves are nowhere near ready for final training.”

Lioren gave a faint smile. He appreciated decorum. “I understand the concern. But there’s a complication.”

He paused.

“As of this morning, the Vontell family has lost 90% of our Wrapped within the dungeon systems.”

Silence fell.

Even Roderick stopped fuming. The word Wrapped meant something.

The Goal of a Slave, was to feed the empire with the gifts of the dungeons.

However, Wrappeds were elite slaves that were specifically untouched in aether, skill or otherwise, unless a special occasion.

—those who had passed all trials, branded with the Vontell house sigil, combat-trained, skill-enhanced, and psychologically bound for total obedience. They were rare. Expensive. Dangerous.

And just like that, they were gone.

“That’s…” Thalia muttered.

“Impossible,” Roderick said, though his tone now carried more caution than defiance. “Wrappeds don’t just die. They’re... investments. Who did this?”

“We don’t know,” Lioren admitted. “But my father suspects sabotage. A ploy from one of the other inner noble families. That’s why Seraphina has not come to check on this batch's training. She’s been sent to investigate the matter directly.”

Cassian, who had been silent till now, spoke without turning his gaze. “There are only a few families that would dare cross a line with the Vontells.”

He didn’t need to name them. Everyone in the room knew who they were.

Thalia folded her arms. “Even so, this kind of strike wouldn’t have come without a cost. Whoever did this… they bled too.”

Lioren chuckled lightly. “Smart girl.”

The compliment made Roderick’s eye twitch.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Cassian was faster.

“You’ve heard your orders.”

His tone brooked no argument.

“All training from this point forward will revolve around preparing the slaves for immediate dungeon use. Expedite conditioning. Fast-track the violent batches. Weed out the weak. We need warm bodies ready by the end of the week.”

Lioren nodded. “Consider it your personal mission. The Vontell reputation is at stake. The Princess’s Auction Ceremony is fast approaching—and we cannot afford any more humiliation.”

Thalia and Roderick both bowed once again.

“As you command,” they said.

They turned to leave.

But as they walked away, Lioren’s gaze lingered—not on the door, not on Roderick, but on Thalia’s back.

There was a kind of... aura around her.

Cassian noticed the look, but definitely misinterpreted the gaze.

“If you are interested in my daughter, Lord Lioren… it would truly be an honour.”

Lioren’s lips twitched.

He let out a dry laugh. “It’s nothing of the sort, Lord Cassian. Just… a bit of... interest.”

Cassian hummed. “As expected...”