The runaway slaves, Carlos among them, stood bound and exposed to the relentless sun. The midday light burned their skin and reflected off the hard-packed earth, creating a heat that shimmered and distorted the air. They had all been dragged in front of the senzala, forced to serve as an example for the other captives who were slowly gathering under the vigilant eyes of the overseers. The plantation master, Jorge, wanted to sear this day into everyone's memory. Even a few free men from the surrounding area clustered in the distance, drawn by the morbid spectacle.

  When the crowd finally quieted, the master stepped forward, his face twisted with hatred.

  "You pack of runaway animals!" he roared, his voice dripping with contempt. "Form a line! I will personally teach you, with the lash, what happens to those who defy me!"

  An overseer handed him a braided leather whip. Another began cutting the ropes and vines binding the men. Slow, heavy movements, weighed down by resignation, formed a silent queue. At the front, Tassi stood erect. Her face showed neither fear nor hatred, but a deep, unsettling serenity that seemed to irritate the master even more. Carlos, positioned in the middle of the line, felt his heart pounding in his chest, but he was surprised by a certain inner calm, a numbness in the face of the horror.

  "So you want to be first, is that it?" Jorge spat, stopping in front of Tassi. "Well, you should know that one of your 'loyal' companions told me everything. You planned to escape in a small group and ask the Jabuticaba Quilombo for help. What a stupid idea! Do you think a bunch of lazy blacks, hiding in the woods, would come save useless wretches like you? Now that the governor has expelled the Dutch, he can focus on exterminating these pests. Soon, that quilombo will be wiped off the map, and every one of those runaways will be dead!"

  Upon hearing the mention of the Dutch, Carlos's thoughts raced. The Dutch? So this confirms we're in colonial Brazil. If the timeline is the same as my world, it must be around 1654-1655, right after their expulsion.

  "Now get over here, you filthy bitch!" the master ordered. "You'll receive two hundred lashes! The rest get one hundred!"

  Tassi walked with dignity to the whipping post—a dark wooden column erected right in front of the slave quarters, crowned by a cross that seemed to mock the faith of her people. The post served as a grim, constant reminder of the price of disobedience.

  Upon reaching it, she turned her back and removed the simple blouse she wore, exposing her back to the executioner. She made no move to cover her breasts, nor did she show shame or remorse. Only a defiant silence, which further inflamed the master's fury.

  The process was long and brutal. The sharp crack of leather against skin echoed in the yard, interspersed with the panting noises of Jorge himself, who soon grew tired. A younger overseer took over the task, but Tassi barely let out a moan. The pain seemed to be absorbed by her stillness, and Carlos felt a deep, painful admiration blossom in his chest.

  When the final lash landed, another overseer approached carrying an iron that glowed with a searing red heat from a portable forge. At its tip, the engraved letter "F" seemed to bleed light. Jorge took the wooden handle, feeling the radiant heat.

  "You think it's over?" he snarled. "Turn around, you whore!"

  She turned, her gaze fixed on the master, while two overseers held her arms. Jorge brought the iron forward with cruel slowness. The contact of the incandescent metal with Tassi's forehead produced a horrible sizzling sound, and a choked gasp finally escaped her lips, much to the torturer's delight. When he pulled the iron away, the smoldering mark of the letter "F" had been seared forever into her skin.

  "An 'F' for Fugitive! So no one ever forgets who you are and what happens to those who challenge me! Now, bring the mask!"

  One of the men brought over a strange metal object. Carlos had never seen anything like it. It was an iron mask, the kind that covered the mouth and was locked at the nape of the neck, preventing speech and eating.

  "You'll wear this for a week. You won't eat, you won't speak. Since your plan failed, you probably want to eat dirt and kill yourself, but don't worry... You'll live a long time yet. I will suck every drop of magical power from your body. You'll only die when you become useless to me."

  His words seemed to shatter and fall before the slave's immovable serenity. Blind fury took hold of Jorge, the veins on his forehead bulging. In a fit of rage, he punched Tassi in the face.

  "You filthy whore! Take her to the senzala! And continue with the others!"

  After the order, he turned and marched toward the main house. Two overseers dragged Tassi away while the others resumed the punishment.

  One by one, the slaves were whipped. Carlos, still stunned, prepared for the worst. At least only Tassi had been branded and condemned to the mask; the others "only" suffered the lashes—a macabre and relative relief.

  What a horrible life. What an inhuman world, Carlos thought, his stomach churning. No wonder they ran. That old man is the embodiment of evil, but in the end, anyone who owns another human being is.

  But I won't accept this. There must be something I can do. A way to escape, to take everyone with me. My knowledge, the magic he mentioned... anything! I won't rest until I succeed. Whatever the cost!

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  As his thoughts raced, his turn came. As he approached the whipping post, a teenage overseer, no more than fifteen, looked at his unusual clothes and whispered to his colleague:

  "Jairo, should we whip this one too? He didn't even run away with the others..."

  Jairo, a tall man nearly two meters high, wearing a dirty shirt of raw cotton, unshaven and with deep bags under his eyes, cast a weary look at the youth.

  "So what?" he replied, his voice hoarse. "He's Black. Around these parts, Black means slave. Must have run away from somewhere else. He needs to learn not to cause trouble."

  The boy still seemed reluctant.

  "But he didn't run from here..."

  For a brief moment, a spark of hope illuminated Carlos, but it was quickly extinguished.

  Jairo, annoyed, snatched the whip from the young man's hand.

  "Ah, give it here! If the master complains, it's on me. But I doubt he'll say anything," he grumbled, spitting on the ground. "They only had the guts to run because I was in the city for my daughter's wedding. You're all useless without me!"

  The overseers tore the shirt from Carlos's back. Trying to mimic Tassi's courage, he fixed his gaze on the horizon, searching for a calm he did not feel. The first lash, however, cut through his skin and his pose. A groan escaped his lips—a sharp, alien pain he had never imagined possible. Instead of breaking him, though, the pain solidified his hatred and his determination.

  After everyone had been punished, Jairo approached Carlos, holding the whip and a pile of old rags.

  "Walk with me."

  They walked to the shade of a solitary tree near a pond. The overseer threw the rags on the ground.

  "Take off those fake clothes and put these on. Now!"

  Carlos, sore and afraid of more violence, obeyed in silence. As he changed, Jairo went through his belongings. He picked up the modern cotton shirt, marveling at the fabric. He examined the jeans, confused by the rough texture and the metal buttons. Must be clothes from Africa, he pondered, trying to rationalize. Rumors said blacks wore strange garments in those lands.

  Rifling through the pockets, he found some papers wrapped in a smooth, cold material—plastic—which he had never seen before. On one of them was a hyper-realistic portrait of Carlos. Jairo had only seen illustrations that perfect in the devil's books the master collected.

  "What strange things..." he murmured. "But the master might like them."

  I figured they'd take my stuff, Carlos thought bitterly. What good is a cell phone in a place with no power, no signal? My wallet, my documents... all useless. Right now, I wish I'd come with a gun. But it seems I only brought what was in my pockets...

  Jairo picked up the cell phone, the smooth black box. He turned it over in his hands, curious, until he accidentally pressed a button and the screen lit up.

  "Whoa!" he exclaimed, surprised. "Look at this thing. It lit up without a magic gem... Master Jorge is gonna love something like this."

  Leaving the objects on the ground, he looked at Carlos, who now wore only a pair of hole-ridden, dirty cotton pants, barefoot and shirtless.

  "But how does a slave get a thing like this, huh? Which master did you steal it from?"

  Carlos's mind raced. What do I say? My back is raw, I don't want to be beaten again... Should I say I'm from another world? That I found it? That I stole it?

  Jairo interpreted his silence as defiance. His face contorted with anger and he grabbed the whip.

  "Answer when you're spoken to! Can't you talk?" he shouted. "A few good lashes should loosen your tongue!"

  Carlos, in a panic, grasped for the first excuse.

  "I... I found it. Near a tree, on the road."

  *CRACK!* The leather cut into his right leg. Carlos gritted his teeth, turning his scream into a snarl of pure hatred.

  "You liar! Tell the truth!"

  I hate this! Why do I have to go through this?

  "It's true!" he insisted, his voice trembling. "I found the clothes and these things. I thought about selling them in the city."

  The answer seemed to irritate Jairo even more, but he didn't hit him again.

  "You think I was born yesterday?" he yelled, grabbing Carlos's wallet and pointing at the ID photo. "This picture looks just like you! Don't tell me you drew it yourself! I'm not an idiot, I know you're lying! Fine, Master Jorge will decide what to do with you!"

  After his outburst, Jairo took a deep breath, trying to calm down. He turned and started walking toward the sugarcane fields.

  "Look, from now on you work in the cane fields. You'll cut cane and load the carts. When one is full, you bring another. And so on, all day. With Tassi back, the cane won't stop growing."

  As he followed the overseer, Carlos's big toe struck a sharp rock. A jolt of pain shot through his body. Don't tell me I have to walk barefoot? But he didn't dare ask. His leg throbbed and his back burned.

  When they reached the cane field, there was no rest. Carlos was forced to dive into work under the scorching sun and the watchful eyes of the overseers. The sedentary life he'd led as a ride-share driver had not prepared him for the brutal effort of cutting cane with a heavy machete and carrying bundles to the carts. His muscles burned in protest, a pain compounded by the gnawing hunger in his belly, as he hadn't eaten all day.

  No one deserves this... Working all day, hungry, in this heat... It's inhuman. The longing for his previous life was a physical weight. I'd give anything to be in my car right now. I'd never complain about a annoying passenger again. I'd clean up drunk vomit with a smile on my face.

  But his prayers went unanswered. He continued working for hours, until the sun finally began to set, staining the sky orange and purple—the sign that the infernal journey was coming to an end.

  Slowly, the slaves finished their tasks and gathered for the march back to the senzala. The overseers watched every move, their faces tenser and more irritable than normal. The previous escape had cost them part of their pay, and vigilance was now doubled.

  Carlos simply let himself be carried along by the mass of exhausted people. He followed the flow, his bare feet dragging in the dirt. And so, his first day of forced labor came to an end, leaving behind nothing but pain, hunger, and the seed of rebellion.