No.441 ran.
Not sprinting. Not yet. Just fast enough to move without sound, staying close to the walls, ducking behind crates, slipping through shadows.
The outer halls of the slave compound were quiet — too quiet.
Guards were usually stationed at the main corridors, but here, near the older storage tunnels, he saw no one. Maybe they hadn't noticed yet.
Maybe he still had time.
He crept through a rusted metal doorway into a narrow passage, air thick with dust. This was the part he remembered from watching crates get wheeled in — it led to the back of the compound, where deliveries came through once a week.
'If I can get past the outer gate, I'm gone.'
His heart pounded with every step.
His legs burned. His back ached. But none of it mattered.
He reached a split in the hallway — left led toward the main buildings. Right led to the outer wall.
He turned right.
Footsteps thundered behind him.
Shouts.
"Hey—!!"
He didn't look back.
He bolted.
Pain shot through his side as he ran. Air ripped through his throat, dry and sharp, but he pushed harder.
Boots slammed the floor behind him. He ducked into a side chamber, slipping behind a stack of wooden barrels. Breath locked in his lungs.
Two guards stormed past the doorway, shouting to each other.
"Check the storeroom!"
"He can't be far!"
He waited.
Ten seconds. Twenty.
When the noise faded, he slipped out again, darting for the next corridor. He rounded the bend and—
BOOM.
A roar split the air.
The floor shook.
That was a cultivator.
He felt a weight descend, like the air had grown thicker. He pressed a hand to his chest.
They sent one after me.
His throat tightened.
Why? I'm just a slave. Just a number.
But deep down, he knew why.
She was angry.
And someone like her — someone strong — didn't like being disobeyed.
She'd called someone. Maybe not her. But someone with power.
Now it wasn't just about hiding.
Now if they caught him… there might not be a next time.
He bolted for the outer passage.
No.441's lungs burned as he ran faster than he thought possible. The sound of guards behind him was no longer distant—it was close, angry, desperate.
Every shadow became a potential hiding place. Every corner a chance to disappear.
He darted into an empty storage room, dropping low behind a stack of crates. The air was thick with dust, and he coughed quietly.
Footsteps thundered past, but he didn't move. His heart hammered in his chest like a drum.
He could hear their voices.
"Did you see which way he went?"
"No. But he can't be far."
His fingers tightened into fists.
He needed to keep moving.
He slipped out and sprinted down a narrow corridor. The walls pressed in, the only light coming from small barred windows near the ceiling.
A sharp noise echoed behind him—a shout.
No.441 dove into a narrow alcove, barely fitting his body behind a pile of broken crates.
His breath hitched. His mind raced.
Almost out. Just a little farther.
The pounding boots drew closer.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself invisible.
The footsteps slowed.
Then they passed.
No.441 stayed still for a long moment, waiting for any sign of return.
When silence held, he moved again.
But just as hope began to grow, a sharp boom exploded nearby, shaking the walls and sending dust falling from the ceiling.
The cultivator.
She was close.
He couldn't afford another mistake.
Every step from now on counts.
No.441 forced himself to keep running, every nerve screaming with fear—and a fragile thread of hope.
The ground trembled behind him.
Closer.
No.441's lungs burned, legs screaming with each step. His mind raced. He couldn't outrun a cultivator forever. If he kept going like this, he'd be caught. He needed something—anything—to buy time.
That's when he saw them.
Iron cages. Four of them. Each one holding snarling, pacing creatures—wild astral beasts.
He didn't think.
He veered toward the control panel on the wall, fingers slamming into buttons and levers. He didn't know what he was hitting, didn't care. One by one, the locks clicked.
The first cage burst open.
A jagged-fanged beast lunged out with a roar, its body pulsing faintly with energy. The others followed, screeching, howling, crashing against metal and stone.
No.441 didn't wait to see the damage.
He ran.
The hallway behind him erupted into chaos—growls, screams, weapons clashing.
He kept running.
He didn't know how far he'd gone, only that the walls had ended, and trees had begun.
The forest stretched wide, dark and endless. Roots snatched at his feet. Branches clawed his arms and face. But he didn't stop.
The cold air bit at his skin, but it tasted like freedom.
He ran until the pain in his chest drowned out everything else.
Until his legs gave out beneath him.
He collapsed onto damp earth, vision spinning. Every breath felt like knives scraping down his throat.
But he didn't move.
Didn't cry.
Didn't think.
Just lay there.
For the first time in his life… he was out.
Not safe. Not yet.
But free.