Trevor's eyes twitched upon hearing that Dante was an amnesiac. He was slightly surprised by the response. He couldn't tell whether Dante was lying; his face was already naturally distressed. With a quiet sigh, Trevor decided to "believe it" for now.
Trevor: "Amnesiac, hm?... I see then. Well, if you are an amnesiac, it can't be helped."
His eyes analyzed Dante up and down.
He is too suspicious, Trevor thought. I can't just let him go… But I also can't let him stay freely… I can make him a servant. Yes. That would be perfect.
Trevor grinned.
Dante, clueless about Trevor's internal monologue, felt a slight sense of unease at the grin. Then Trevor spoke.
Trevor: "You will be a servant in my house… Yes, I think that's appropriate. You surely have no objections, right?"
Dante obviously had objections.
A few hours ago, he had just been heading to practice. Then he arrived in this new world and decided it was unfortunate — but also an opportunity.
And now this man wanted to make him a servant?
He could not accept it.
But just like with the hog beast, he was completely powerless.
When he was about to voice his objections, he felt Orshelm's sharp glare. The man's presence was so overwhelming that Dante forgot how to breathe for a second. Remembering his own powerlessness, he lowered his head once again and spoke.
Dante: "Yes… I have no objections."
A huge wave of anger surged inside him — toward both of them.
But the deepest hatred he felt was toward himself.
Toward his powerlessness.
He clenched his fists and waited to see what they had planned for him.
The life of the chosen one in a new world was going to start like this?
It was humbling, to say the least.
Nonetheless, no one cared about his feelings.
With a grin, Trevor casually swayed his hand, dismissing them.
Later
"Salas… Mom… Brother…"
Dante's mind was a mess.
He had been extremely ambitious in this new world — but he was already crumbling after a small inconvenience. He missed the comfort and warmth of the modern world.
The taste of iron in his mouth felt like blood.
The bruises on his hands and face throbbed painfully. Since arriving here, nothing had been comfortable.
And yet… he grinned.
His mental state was clearly deteriorating, though he didn't seem to notice.
Now he stood in the middle of a blacksmith's forge, "learning" how to shape metal under the watch of an old man. The physical labor was taking a toll on him.
Earlier, he had remembered something important.
He came from a modern world.
He could use his knowledge to change everything.
So he tried to explain to the man — his supervisor — how to improve steel production, even though he lacked the proper tools and infrastructure to do so.
Hope blinded his common sense.
The moment he began explaining his "technique," he was punched in the face.
Blood dripped from his mouth. Tears formed in his eyes.
Tyro: "Shut up, brat. The hell are you even talking about?"
Dante opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. His mind, once overflowing with possibilities, was now filled with rage.
He grinned.
I'm better than him. What is this old man doing? I know more than he does. He should lis—
Another punch.
Then another.
Then another.
His rage and superiority quickly dissolved into fear.
It became clear — knowledge meant nothing without status. Here, he was nobody.
Just a slave.
A useless slave.
He lowered his head and returned to work.
The humiliation taught him it wouldn't be easy. He would need to plan.
But he couldn't accept it.
He had to be destined for something.
If there was a price to pay, hadn't he suffered enough already?
I don't need to improve. I just need to show them. I need to crush them. This isn't my fault. I'm destined.
The irony was suffocating.
He thought all of that while injured, crying, and polishing a sword.
Each hardship added another crack to his mind.
As seconds passed, his movements became unstable. His thoughts blurred. But no one cared about the feelings of a slave.
So he endured.
Tyro, his supervisor, was a large, old man with dark skin, sharp eyes, and a powerful build — though he wasn't nearly as imposing as Orshelm.
Dante continued polishing swords with his head lowered. He had a slight talent for it, but no one acknowledged him.
And it destroyed him — someone who was used to praise.
After several hours, he was dismissed for dinner and rest.
With effort, he stood and limped toward his room. He grabbed fresh servant clothes — identical to the others. He hated wearing something that symbolized his new status, even in sleep.
But he had no choice.
In the shared bathroom, servants of all kinds washed in silence — tall, short, scaled, human. No one smiled. No one spoke.
Neither did he.
He washed, changed, and left.
Exhaustion crushed him, despite having worked only half a day.
Back in his room, he pulled out a chair and sat at the table.
The confrontation had taught him something.
He needed reputation first.
Value first.
Only then could he act boldly.
Right now, he had no chance of convincing anyone to support his ideas.
So after long thought, he decided on his first project.
A handgun.
He began sketching.
He knew he lacked resources.
He lacked space.
He lacked allies.
But the idea of holding a weapon… of having something that made others hesitate…
It calmed him.
He drew the weapon carefully.
Then, beside it—
He sketched Tyro with a hole in his head.
His pencil pressed harder and harder into the page.
This was not progress.
He was not moving forward.
After hours of obsessive sketching, Dante finally fell asleep at the table.