This was worse than I thought.

  No, no. Not the whole…sword thing. I’ll get to that later. But—the place. Korioh Landings. I thought it couldn’t get any worse. I figured, you know, as humans, we’d rule over monster-like creatures.

  Well—let me not say “we.” I don’t even know if these “monsters” have consciousness. If they’re more than just hunger and instinct. The first one I ran into told me a whole lot, but I wouldn’t declare the nature of an entire race from one encounter.

  But this? This, is bad.

  The moment I stepped outside this morning, I got a full view of what I’d walked into. And now, as I stand here, watching, observing, it’s starting to settle in.

  The fields stretch endlessly, golden under the morning sun. Crops swaying gently in the breeze. Peaceful. Picturesque. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a nice place to live.

  But…who I find were the actual slaves were?

  I shake my head. Enough. Just get through it, and focus. Six months of this. Six months to prepare and to find out where to go, and what to do next. It’s only temporary.

  I head back, my boots pressing into the dirt with each step. Behind me, the ranch house looms—a grand structure, sprawling and pristine, built for comfort.

  White wooden fences stretch around the property, polished and maintained, a great contrast to the raw, untamed land beyond. A place for people like me to enter, to lavish in, to call home.

  But that wasn’t the most striking part.

  Beyond the fences, figures move in the fields. Bent over, toiling in the morning sun, their backs glistening with sweat, their hands pulling at the earth. They work in silence, their movements deliberate, practiced.

  Something about the way they move feels… off. Not like farmhands tending to crops, not like workers simply earning their keep.

  I narrow my eyes. There’s something behind it. But I think I already know.

  Something tugs at the back of my mind—a realization forming, slow, heavy.

  These aren’t just laborers.

  And that’s what unsettles me most.

  I open the door to the house, and it’s exquisite. Real exquisite. The kind of place designed to impress—not just to be lived in, but to be admired.

  The wooden floors gleam under the soft glow of morning light filtering through wide, open windows. Every plank polished, every inch untouched by dust or grime. A long, lavish rug stretches across the entryway, deep red with gold embroidery, the kind of pattern you’d see in old noble estates.

  To my right, a grand staircase spirals upward, its railing carved with intricate details—not functional, but decorative, the kind of craftsmanship meant to show wealth rather than provide comfort.

  The scent of aged wood, faint traces of tobacco, and something floral lingers in the air, like someone carefully curated this place to feel both inviting and untouchable. A place for people like me, apparently.

  So, it’s about time where I explain the entire situation.

  I’m a slavemaster, or better yet, a ranchmaster.

  My job is simple. Make sure this quadrant of slaves are doing their job…or force them to do their job. So much for an “intern”. The supervisor that was supposed to come over here and teach me took one glance at my golden pin and said something like…

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  “Oh. I do not doubt that anything you do will fit right in line.”

  This golden insignia has given me more power in this place than ever. But it’s starting to feel like it’s moreso the face that’s wearing it.

  A vast expanse of fields, paddocks, and industrial storage, stretching as far as the eye can see. Korioh Landings. I assume that’s where the name comes from—land cultivated for something greater.

  First, it’s the farming and agriculture quadrant. I’m supposed to watch over this week in, and week out. Unlike a regular job, there are no shifts. This isn’t a typical 9-5. Technically, from today until…six months later.

  I’m in charge of this quadrant. Whatever I says, goes.

  I’ve never been put in position for higher power…much less anything like that. I was more used to being on equal playing grounds and determine the victor from there.

  But now? I feel more like a shift manager than anything, watching over employees.

  Employees who fear me.

  She moves past me without a sound—small, frail, yet impossibly rigid. A maid’s uniform, crisp and neat. Blue hair cascading down to her shoulders, piercing blue eyes that should be striking but instead seem… hollow.

  I barely register the rest at first, but then the details settle in. The gray-tinted skin. The sharp black nails that aren’t painted but natural.

  That single detail rewrites everything I thought I knew about this place, this role, this job.

  These people—they aren’t monsters. They aren’t some feral, mindless creatures that humanity has “domesticated.”

  They’re Oni.

  Real, breathing, thinking Oni. And they’re the ones enslaved here.

  My tongue presses against the roof of my mouth, as if almost to keep quiet and shut up. Is this what this place really is?

  Just one, demoralizing center?

  A sudden crash splits through the air—metal clanging, wire snapping, something collapsing under its own weight. The sound rattles through the walls, sharp enough to shake the stillness of the house.

  The maid stiffens. Her head snaps toward the window, eyes widening.

  A flicker of shock. Then—expectation.

  She turns to me.

  She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to.

  That look alone says everything.

  She’s waiting. Watching. Expecting me to act.

  As quickly as I had entered this regal ranchhouse, it easily takes no less for me to match the time.

  I push past the threshold, crossing the gate with quick, heavy strides. My eyes track the source of the noise—something within the fields, nestled among the endless rows of crops.

  The noise came from somewhere within the fields, buried among the endless rows of crops. I scan the horizon, looking for movement, for anything out of place. Then—

  That’s when I see her.

  She’s frozen, standing amidst a tangled mess of broken equipment, shattered wood, and a long, jagged gash in an irrigation pipe gushing water into the dirt.

  Twisted metal. Broken equipment. Shattered wood. And the worst part? A long, jagged gash in an irrigation pipe, gushing water into the dirt like a wound that won’t close.

  Her hands are raised slightly, fingers curled inwards, like even she can’t believe she just did that.

  The worst part? She’s not looking at me.

  She’s looking past me.

  I hear the crunch of heavy boots against dry soil. The slow, methodical rhythm of someone who’s already decided punishment is in order.

  "That’s twice this month, Red."

  The voice is deep, and authoritative. The kind of voice that doesn’t ask questions—it just makes statements. Cold, factual, final.

  My stomach knots.

  A second set of footsteps joins the first. Two of them. Maybe more. I don’t look yet.

  I watch her, the red oni—who I don’t even know, who I’ve never spoken to—slowly lowers her head. Her shoulders tighten, her fingers clench into fists.

  Her breath is controlled. But she isn’t scared.

  She’s bracing.

  She’s waiting for something to happen.

  And the worst part?

  So is everyone else.

  I could walk away. I could let this play out, let them handle it however they want. It’s not my business. Not my problem.

  But my jaw clenches before I can stop it.

  I don’t know what the hell I’m about to do.

  But whatever it is…

  I hope I don’t regret it.