Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 30: The Weight of a Shard

Chapter 30: The Weight of a Shard

Oliver sat quietly, his body rocking slightly with the ship's sway, staring at the strange alert burned into his mind:

[Blood Shard]

Focusing on it, he tried to will it open.

The moment he touched it within his mind, the screen shifted.

[Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpion Blood Shard 1/5]

A flash of memory stirred inside him — the bloody fight in the sands, the first heavy scorpion that had died by mistake while fighting to eat him. Its vile blood dripping and soaking into his body.

That had been when this… thing… appeared.

Oliver's blood Absorption skill was passive in nature. Back then, even when he did not want to, he still absorbed Velma's blood.

Of course, He was yet to explore the full benefits of that ability. But it would seem like getting to touch the blood of a beast gave benefits. This was entirely different from the slight rise in strength he had felt when he touched the blood of that man Garron had beaten.

He frowned. His mind clicked against the shard again. And again.

No use. It remained locked, just silent. There was no explanation, no hint, absolutely nothing.

Oliver leaned back, feeling the hard wall of the ship against his aching spine.

He let the memories come — dusty pages he had once read back in the Somara Empire.

He had never entered the dungeons to fight himself. And all the other times he was pulled along, it was because he was being used as a snack for the road. but he had studied the records, and listened when the elites raided the dungeons.

Maybe not 'Blood Shards.' But 'Shards'. He knew them.

In those accounts, shards were prizes left behind by monsters or hidden deep inside dungeons.

Sometimes, a shard could be something absurd — like a worn shoelace or a stick of chalk.

Other times, they could become swords that cut through a mountain.

Of course, finding one required some luck. And even equipping it required even more luck.

Regardless, not once... not even once... had he read about a shard born from blood.

A chill slipped into his chest.

Was this even a real Shard?

Or was it something twisted by his bloodline?

He had only gotten this bloodline for a few days, but right now, Oliver was certain without a doubt that Asmodeus was a demon with a twisted sense if humor. One that even the bloodline successor could not escape.

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Oliver could bet that when the demon was preparing the bloodline inheritance, it was probably laughing hard.

Oliver looked again and the Bloody Shard.

The words were clear: 1/5.

Which meant — for now — even this blood shard was useless until he found four more.

And even then, there was no guarantee it would be something valuable.

He swallowed hard, his throat was dry.

What if it ended up being something useless?

He had heard stories in his former life.

One poor soul had completed a set of shards and received — laughably — a whistle that allowed him to talk to birds.

Another earned a pair of boots that squeaked endlessly with every step, attracting grasshoppers during mating season.

Oliver pressed his hand against his forehead.

He didn't even have the four others yet.

Worrying about what might come was a luxury he couldn't afford.

But the weight of uncertainty gnawed at him.

He remembered those Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpions vividly.

Thick, armor-plated beasts, their stingers dripping with venom.

Even in memories, they filled him with a quiet dread.

A shudder passed through his body.

With a heavy sigh, Oliver slumped back against the wall again, his head tipping back.

The ship groaned around him, the old wood protesting each lurch.

He was exhausted, but he knew... this journey was only beginning.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Too dry.

He needed water.

Pushing himself upright, he staggered toward the long communal water tray at the far end of the cage.

The ship swayed harder now — a tilt sharper than before — forcing him to grab the cold iron bars for balance.

A storm was brewing.

A real one.

Storms at sea weren't jokes.

They could last for hours. Or days.

And most of the time, slaves like him were the first to die if things went wrong.

Murmurs followed his steps — other slaves whispering under their breath as he passed.

Oliver ignored them.

He bent down at the tray, trying to scoop up water carefully, when he caught movement from the corner of his eye.

A woman was crouched beside a man who was choking violently.

She slapped his back again and again until he retched, vomiting water and... something else.

A dead cockroach — or at least part of one — slid out.

The woman, grim-faced, cursed quietly, warning him to be more careful.

These cockroaches — she explained — had bodies packed with fibrous tissue designed to choke predators who ate them.

This was the survival mechanism the specie was gifted by nature.

She added that It was a small miracle the man had survived at all.

After that, she spat venomously in the direction of the soldiers outside the cage who were passing by.

Oliver didn't linger.

He drank the bulky, dirty water with slow caution, feeling each gulp slide painfully down his throat.

There was no telling what else lurked in it.

Wiping his mouth, he returned to his corner.

Velma's seat was empty.

He scanned the cage and spotted her at the far end, using the crude public toilet.

It was little more than a hole in the floor, shielded by thin cloth on one side.

Velma had learned to wait until most were asleep to keep what dignity she could.

Soon, she returned, sitting quietly beside him.

Oliver didn't speak.

He couldn't.

His mind spun uselessly — over the Blood Shard, the storm, the scorpions, the terrible future laid out before him.

How could he win?

He turned the thought over and over like a stone in his hand, but no answers came.

In time, fatigue naturally claimed him.

His eyes slid closed, his breathing slowed, and the cage around him faded into darkness.

He fell into sleep.

And the nightmare — waiting for him like an old enemy — took hold.

He snapped back into the same dream.

The same horror.

Oliver was pressed beneath the bloated corpse of a Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpion, the air thick with rot and fear.

Above him, the crunching, tearing sounds of the others feeding on their fallen comrade filled the endless desert night.

Each wet rip sent tremors through the body he hid under.

Each shudder made him think: Soon. They'll tear through this corpse... and then they'll find me.

Oliver clenched his fists.

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He had to move.

He had to run.

If he stayed a second longer, he would die.

(Author's note: You, yes you. Just rate the book. Please... I'm literally running over 10 chapters a week.

The encouragement is gold.)