Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 28: The Old Ways

Chapter 28 — The Old Ways

In this world, bloodline was everything.

Commoner. Noble. Royalty.

A man's worth was not weighed by his strength, nor his wisdom, but by the blood that flowed through his veins. Not simply by his own accomplishments, no—but those of his ancestors, long ago, in an age when Aether was thick in the air, and colossal beasts ruled the land.

It is said that those who dared to defy fate and rose against the beasts of the world had their bloodlines blessed across generations.

Or so the ancient records claimed.

Since then, the world had remained the same. The superior ruled, the inferior obeyed. Royalty looked down upon nobles. Nobles spat on commoners. Commoners… were simply trash.

Meaning bloodline was not merely judged by status perceived. But bloodline inherited.

That was why, despite being a prince—the son of Prince Richie Von Rich—Oliver, never received proper respect. If someone like him could be treated as a dog, one could only imagine the generational torment others had suffered.

Back then, they couldn't speak. But now? Now, the kingdom had fallen.

And while Oliver had hoped to use their longing for home to restore order, Garron… Garron had turned that very weapon against him.

Not only that, Garron was turning the commoners against the nobles. And it was working.

Many nobles were scattered across the cages. Their Aether had been sealed, their bodies weakened by hunger, and they were vastly outnumbered. Five commoners to one noble. Royalty? Even fewer.

Oliver shifted his gaze, catching glimpses of nobles trapped in nearby cells. Not a single one would lift a finger for him or his sister. His reputation was not a good one to behin with, and while Velma had indeed unlocked a part of her bloodline, her reputation wasn't far off either. Simply put, there were no old loyalties left to call upon.

And then, when Oliver's eyes returned to Garron… he saw it.

That smile.

It was faint, curled in the corner of the man's screwed-up frown.

Sweat trickled down Oliver's temple. He understood. Garron was using him—again—as an example.

Garron had crushed one man before. But this one, oh this one was special.

Crush royalty, and his place in the hearts of these oppressed commoners would be sealed.

And Oliver… he and Velma could suffer a fate worse than death.

As far as he knew, they were the only royals in this particular cage.

Oliver could not help but think that all this had happened because of scraps of black bread.

But Oliver could not lose now. If Garron won against him, then a worse fate awaited him and Velma. Human beings were usually very shallow.

For all he knew, they might slit his throat in his sleep. He couldn't let that happen. His mind raced. He begged himself to think, as a drop of sweat slid down his forehead.

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–Then he spoke.

"If I remember correctly, you were the one who said we are all countrymen… and these are hard times for us," Oliver said, voice steady. "If we are all countrymen, then why deny Kingdom Tyrell this last respect? Or do you no longer respect your homeland, or the ancestors that came before you?"

His words hit like thunder.

Respect for one's homeland was one thing. But respect for one's ancestor was Sacred.

One's ancestors were seen as exalted. After all, Their hardships and suffering had birthed the person. There was a reason, great men like the dead king solomon were still respected. Not just as a result of achievement. But because of their sacrifices. It was culture to respect those sacrifices.

Oliver had turned the debate around.

Garron narrowed his eyes. "This has nothing to do with the ancestors. It has to do with jus—"

"But it does," Oliver cut in sharply. "Everything does. Or are you saying we should forget their sacrifices in the name of some self-proclaimed justice? What justice do we then give them? If our ancestors honored Tyrell… will you spit on their respect simply because we lost the land?"

The murmurs grew louder. Oliver had hit a nerve.

This was a very bold accusation, and if garron did not say something quick, Oliver might not only win this round, but also ruin Garron's reputation.

Garron knew this. He did not think that this ten‐year‐old white haired boy could be so smart.

Oliver did not give him the impression that he was talking to a child but rather to a seasoned politician.

Garron could not help but wonder in his head if all noble and royal brats had a sharp mouth or this one was just special.

But he too was not weak.

He needed to respond. And fast.

So instead of defending himself, he attacked.

He clapped his hands once—loud and commanding. The room silenced.

"Well said," Garron began. "You know, I was just thinking the same. If we are to honor our ancestors, why not do things their way?"

A cold sensation crept down Oliver's back.

He had a feeling that something terrible was about to come out from garron's mouth, and he was right.

"I mean..." Garron's gaze focused, "...Ankara."

The word struck the crowd like lightning.

Murmurs flared across the cages. Whispers. Gasps.

Oliver's face darkened. Ankara.

It was an ancient rite—one that allowed any man, regardless of bloodline, to take justice or honor into his own hands… through combat.

"You're royalty, aren't you?" Garron said, tone thick with mockery. "Surely, you'll honor the old ways of our people."

He deliberately ignored the fact that Oliver was just a boy. Instead, he hammered the title: ROYALTY.

Oliver cursed in his mind. This was a trap. But if he backed down now, he and Velma might not live another day.

What was as worse as death, spitting on one's ancestors.

Oliver's eyes flicked to Velma. She reached for him, pleading silently. But she was weak, her migraine pounding again.

Still, her eyes told him: You don't have to do this.

But he did.

Oliver raised his head and declared, "I accept!"

Gasps rippled. Even Garron paused for a moment, impressed.

But Oliver wasn't done. "But not like this. As you can see, my shoulder is dislocated. Like most of you, I am tired. I need my strength. Surely, the rules of Ankara permit that?"

This was his last attempt at dodging. The old ways permitted 'fair' combat. An opponent without strength, and a dislocated shoulder was not fair.

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Velma tried to stop him again, but he gently swatted her hand away.

But Oliver did not expect Garron's counter.

Garron gave a satisfied nod. "I agree. After the next meal will be fine. Since we're being taken to Somara, I doubt they'll let us starve. Likely within a day, we will get food."

Oliver's eyes narrowed. So he's already calculated the next rations? It was no wonder he was confident enough to give out the one he fought for.

He was sharp—sharper than Oliver had anticipated. A terrifying man, Garron. And if he was this dangerous now… how terrifying would he be when they started exploring dungeons?

Oliver nodded. "We will have our battle then."

But Garron chuckled darkly. "Oh, no. I have no quarrel with you."

He turned and pointed toward the corner of the cell, at a mountain of a man who had once attacked Velma without hesitation.

"You'll fight Barka in 'fair' combat."

A hush fell over the chamber.

Oliver's eyes locked on the beastly man. Barka cracked his knuckles, smiling with broken teeth.

A ten year old boy vs a man in his thirties. There was nothing fair in this match.

Oliver clenched his fists.

He had brought the ancestors into this matter only because he was sure of the advantage it would provide, but this man, Garron was anything but ordinary.

Many commoners without access to knowledge had no choice but live with knowledge of the old ways with nothing but word of mouth.

But Garron dived deep into the subject, and found a way to trap Oliver.

Then again, Oliver might argue that he trapped himself.

If he wanted to survive, if he wanted to protect Velma, he would have to earn his justice the way the ancestors once did.

With blood.