Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 39: Dreamer and the Damned

[Bloodline Integration: 8%]

His brows furrowed. Wait… wasn’t it 7% before?

A sudden ache struck his temples. The world shimmered faintly in red. As he turned his head, he felt it—the faint trace of a gray kind of Aether… coming from Seraphina.

A chilling thought clawed its way into his mind.

'Don’t tell me… that nightmare was her dream.'

He considered reaching out to the Bloodline Will, but of course, it wasn’t present here in the waking world.

Still, it felt too specific to be random. Could she have been dreaming about killing him—and enjoying it?

He shook his head. I thought she’d be dreaming about Richie Von Rich or something.

The image of her smiling in her sleep while butchering him in a dream turned his stomach. Twisted didn’t even begin to describe her.

Oliver wasn’t going to wait for a round two.

Tiptoeing carefully, he made his way to the doors, eased it open, and slipped out.

The two guards stationed outside blinked at him, their expressions stunned.

“She’s asleep,” Oliver said flatly, cutting off whatever they were about to ask.

One peeked inside, confirming his words. Still, both guards stared at Oliver like they’d just witnessed a ghost step out of the dragon’s maw.

One guard nodded at the other, and they ordered a soldier to silently escort him back to the lower decks.

As they walked, other soldiers stared too. Oliver didn’t miss the wide eyes and the half-whispered words. They weren’t expecting him to return whole, physically or mentally. Some probably assumed only his head would emerge from that room.

The foul stench of the cages struck him again, but he was used to it by now.

Inside, he spotted Velma in a corner. Her face lit up in relief as she rushed to embrace him.

He didn’t resist. He never could.

As he leaned against her chest in their corner of the cage, his breathing steadied—and then, with intent this time around, he sank into the realm of blood.

He had questions. And he knew who to ask.

The realm was as crimson and haunting as always.

Above his head, the blood-red skeleton—the Will of the Bloodline—hovered lazily, as if it had been expecting him.

“What was that?” Oliver demanded. “That dream… was it hers?”

The skeleton let out a dry, mocking laugh.

><“Oh, what do you think it was?”

Oliver hesitated. “Her dreams?”

><“Really now... Are you sure?” The Will floated in a lazy circle. “You are now the inheritor of the Demon Deity of blood and nightmares. The blood part is active, sure—but so is the nightmare.”

Oliver’s eyes widened in realization. “Wait… are you saying I projected that dream to her? But I died?”

><“Well… that’s the thing,” it said with a smirk in its voice. “Nightmare to you. Sweet dreams to her. You wanted to survive, didn’t you? You were desperate. Your blood responded in kind.”

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Oliver rubbed his neck. It had only been a dream, but he felt her fingers tear his throat.

He looked up slowly. “So... gifting nightmares is all about perspective?”

><The skull clapped mockingly. “Bravo. You’re starting to get it.”

Oliver sat cross-legged on the floor. All this time, he assumed Gifting Nightmares only worked through touch. But this had been unintentional. He’d been asleep—and yet it worked, perhaps even better.

It would seem that while asleep, the 'Nightmare' part of his inheritance was stronger.

And this had happened at only 8% integration.

He shivered. What will happen when it reaches 100%? Will I be able to project my will into others freely?

As if reading his thoughts, the Bloodline Will floated down, its expression turning serious, perhaps the most serious Oliver had seen.

><“This ability requires a strong will. The stronger your integration, the deeper your influence. But beware—when you try to impose your will in dreams, those with strong minds will resist. And if they’re strong enough, they can impose their will on you, even though you’re the origin.”

Oliver nodded, engraving every word into memory.

Still… a bitter thought rose in his mind.

If I had known earlier, I would’ve tried harder to kill her in the dream. After all, in the realm of blood, dream-death often meant real death. Sir Bolton was an example of this.

The idea made him smile.

But the smile faded quickly. Even if he succeeded, it would bring too much heat. The Vontell family would never forgive him. He had no strength to face them now—not yet.

He clenched his fists.

He needed power, more power.

Because once they reached the Empire… monsters awaited.

Oliver nodded at the hovering skull.

Without another word, he dove headfirst into the night trial.

As always, the blood-soaked world shifted around him.

But this time, he didn’t waste time watching the stats. He already knew they were growing. What he wanted… was a blood shard.

His method was precise. Efficient.

With the poisoned fruits in hand, Oliver danced through the sandy terrain, luring scorpions and hurling his deadly gifts. One fruit per scorpion—usually. Sometimes, the splash hit another nearby, turning one throw into a double kill.

There was even a time when a fruit exploded against a scorpion’s eye. In its panic, the beast spun wildly, stabbing three of its kin before the others put it down.

Oliver didn’t even smile at the chaos. His eyes scanned the bloodied ground, always searching.

But despite his efficiency, the corpses gave him nothing.

He walked through them, dragging his hand along their shells, drawing out what little blood remained.

Still nothing.

Again and again, he searched.

He was just about to call it off when the alert flashed before him:

[Blood Shard 1/3]

His heart leapt.

This one felt different from the previous shard—not just in its requirements, but in its resistance. He killed more scorpions after that. Dozens. Absorbed their blood. But none of them gave another shard.

It was like the shard had to choose to reveal itself.

Still, he pressed on.

He hit 60/100 kills.

Still nothing.

But then—just as fatigue threatened to dull his senses—he took down two more in a single, well-aimed fruit, and then went for their blood.

The announcement rang like thunder:

[Congratulations! Blood Shard 3/3]

[The Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpions can never be satisfied. You have been blessed with a piece of their hunger.]

Oliver straightened.

In front of him, a small pouch shimmered into existence, hovering gently before it dropped into his outstretched hand.

Its exterior was coarse and rugged, stitched together from a material that felt eerily like the armored hide of the scorpions themselves.

A description glowed beside it:

[Ravenous Scorpion Pouch: Bound]

[A cursed container stitched from the hunger of desert predators. This storage artifact can contain anything non-living, regardless of shape or weight. Once bonded, it becomes a seamless extension of the user. Currently capable of storing mass equivalent to a 60m² space (roughly the size of a two-bedroom home).

Note: The pouch is gluttonous—it may grow in capacity as its owner feeds it rare or meaningful loot.]

Oliver’s lips curled into a rare smile.

An inventory.

It was a bag, but also a living extension of himself. Finally, he had something to store gear, loot, even supplies for the future.

If he had this earlier on, he would have stored those black bread pieces, and would not have gotten in a fight with Barka.

But that did not matter anymore.

Oliver tightened his grip on the pouch and whispered, “You’re mine now.”

To say he had not prayed for a weapon he could battle with would be a lie, but this one was also not bad.

——

When Oliver woke up, the first thing he did was head toward the wretched corner of the cage.

The toilet.

It was little more than a pit carved crudely into the ground, surrounded by rotting planks and the faint remains of some long-forgotten fabric meant to give “privacy.” It offered none.

The stench that rose from it was foul enough to sting the eyes. A permanent, lingering mix of piss, shit, vomit, and despair. Flies buzzed thick around its rim, some so bloated with filth they could barely fly.

He didn’t care.

Oliver stood over the pit and relieved himself, the hiss of his piss drowned out by the occasional groan or shuffle from the other slaves trying to ignore the odour.

When he returned to the centre of the cage, he noticed what he’d already grown used to: the other slaves avoiding him.

They still gave him a wide berth, as if his very presence was cursed. Some watched him with silent dread; others simply turned their backs.

Well, who could blame them. This child had killed a grown man. Power was a deterrent in any society, especially in the lowest.

Garron too, hadn’t approached him again, not since that night—but Oliver often caught the man’s eyes on him. Sharp. Studying. Not the look of a coward. Not exactly hate either. It was something else. Something more unsettling.

Oliver didn’t like it.

Still, after the satisfying piss, he walked over to his sister’s side and sat next to her, shielding her with his body like always.

The noble scorns had come.

The same arrogant bastards, with their nice clothes, perfectly polished boots stepping into dirt and blood without shame. They stood behind the bars like butchers at a livestock market, pointing lazily at their “choices.”

Velma, of course, wasn’t touched. Not as long as Oliver had anything to say about it.

He watched silently as a few boys and girls were dragged out. Some cried.

Others were too broken to resist. Overall, most had gotten the gist of it. They—those in power could not be stopped.

Oliver scanned the scorns.

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'Where’s Martin Vontell?'

He wasn’t among them. This was the second time. And now Oliver was starting to get worried about the task he had given Accra.

It was not that he did not believe that it could be achieved, but that he knew the difficulty of it.

The nobles left with their evening entertainment, and the cages settled into a tense silence once more.

Oliver calculated that they were close to the Somara Empire. Maybe one more day at most, and they would be there.

The thought itself was thrilling.

However, peace never lasted long.

A few hours later, the metallic clank of boots echoed through the corridor. A soldier appeared, dragging the cage door open with a rusty creak. He scanned the room with dull, tired eyes, then locked onto Oliver.

“You. Get up.”

Oliver sighed, already annoyed.

What now? Can’t they just let me rot in peace?

He rose slowly, brushing dust from his pants.

Without another word, he followed.

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