He awoke to the echo of a resounding bang. Jolting upright, he found his movements restricted by the ropes binding his wrists. His wrists ached, his hands turned a chilling blue. He must have been suspended by those ropes for quite a while. Straining to adjust his arms, he managed to loosen the bindings slightly, feeling the warm rush of blood returning to his hands. It was soothing yet unsettling, like ants crawling over his palms. Oh, I hate this.

  Surveying his surroundings to trace the source of the sound, he noticed, in the dim sunlight filtering through the ceiling slits of the Slaughterhouse, that the room remained empty. The sole difference was the drying of the dark liquid that had pooled around his feet. He turned to face the door behind him, where a carcass lay sprawled on the floor. It was a pig. As the door swung open, blinding light flooded in, momentarily overwhelming his vision. When it shut with another loud bang, he discerned the silhouettes of two men.

  “Good morning, Sunshine!” one greeted.

  “Good morning, Sunshine!” one greeted.

  It was Baron Bonatelli, removing his sunglasses and tucking them into the lining of a light brown, sleeveless doublet embellished with gems in place of buttons. The woollen tunic beneath extended its white sleeves into black leather gloves. The Baron’s black trousers, more tailored and of superior quality, mirrored those of the other man, who was clad in red garments like the servants, complete with long sleeves ending in brown leather gloves. A leather apron shielded the servant from the waist down. A featureless black mask concealed his face as he carried the pig to the centre of the room. A sense of unease crept over him.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked the Baron.

  He had long abandoned formalities. The Baron merely shook his head.

  “Where I’m from, people return a greeting. But I guess it’s straight to business with you.”

  The servant proceeded to hang the pig by its front legs, positioning its head directly in front of him. Shouldn’t it be hung the other way?

  “Well, my little piggy, I just want to find out the truth,” the Baron said, “And since your Paladin friend in the… let’s say ‘Player Ethics Committee’ has a problem with Players being harmed, we’ll experiment a bit.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Experiment? What does he mean?

  Baron Bonatelli produced a cleaver from beneath his doublet, handing it to the servant.

  “You see, Timmy here wanted to prepare something special for the twins’ birthday tomorrow.”

  The servant reluctantly accepted the cleaver. Beneath the mask, it was unclear whether he feared or revered the Baron.

  “The pig has already been largely bled in the actual slaughterhouse. You’ll notice the hygiene standards here are disgraceful, but they should suffice for the little lords’.”

  “What-,” he asked with a trembling voice, “what does that have to do with me?”

  “Good question, little piggy. Normally, a pig would be slaughtered and eaten on the same day of the feast, unless you want to preserve it somehow,” the Baron explained, “but as you’re questioned today and we’re not inclined toward PvP, I thought we’d try something new. So, I advanced this pig’s slaughter to avoid wasting another. Considerate of me, isn’t it?”

  Timmy rotated the pig, exposing its backside. Then, the servant gently traced the cleaver along its spine, avoiding cutting the flesh.

  “Back in the real world, I saw something on TV,” Baron Bonatelli remarked.

  Real world?

  A cold touch on his back startled him. The Baron was trailing something up and down his spine, mimicking the cleaver’s path.

  “I think it was called the rubber hand illusion or something. I watched a lot of TV as a child, and it’s been years.”

  Gradually, the cleaver’s movements and the sensation on his back began to align. Soon, they synchronized perfectly.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the Baron mused, his words directed more at himself than anyone else. “If this works, we’ll call it the Bonatelli Piggyback Illusion.”

  Though he couldn’t see it, he was certain the Baron was smiling with pride. He didn’t completely grasp the situation, too afraid to inquire further, but he had a vague sense of what was unfolding.

  “Don’t worry, I just need the truth,” the Baron reassured him. “You’ll answer some questions, and if I don’t like the answer then... Timmy!”

  The servant abruptly stopped tracing the cleaver. Instead, he lifted it and struck the pig’s right shoulder. At that instant, he felt an excruciating pain sear through his own shoulder. He screamed in agony, the sound startling Timmy into dropping the cleaver. The room resonated with the metallic clatter and his desperate cries. The Baron laughed maniacally, applauding himself.

  “Splendid!” Bonatelli exclaimed. “How wonderful.”

  How is he enjoying this? What’s wrong with him?

  “You sick bastard!” he shouted.

  “Easy now,” the Baron said, “there’s no need to worry. Just take a look.”

  Glancing at his right shoulder, he realised the Baron had struck him with a harmless stick, leaving no wound. As the shock subsided, so did the pain. How?

  “Timmy, pick up the cleaver!” the Baron commanded. “Let’s get this started!”

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