The stench of the slave market assaulted Phyllord's senses, making his eyes water. The skinflint merchants were vampires, unwilling to spend a single copper to wash their wares.
Five or six slaves were crammed into each cramped cage, forced to eat, sleep, and relieve themselves within its confines.
No privacy. No dignity. Raised without even the concept, they lacked the right to end their own suffering.
In the cages displayed openly, many female slaves wore not a shred of cloth, their bodies fully exposed to the gawking crowd – a crude but effective marketing tactic. Toothless old lechers came daily for the spectacle.
"My lord! Slaves for your estate? Hardy workers, all!"
"Rare elf slave! Just one thousand gold!"
"New stock! Step right in, my lord!"
Dressed in a fine black robe, a steel longsword at his hip, with refined features, Phyllord radiated wealth. The slavers' eyes gleamed. Nobility were their favorite customers: deep pockets, unlike the gawking paupers, and astonishingly high turnover. To a noble, a slave was worth less than a hunting hound, easily discarded or destroyed.
Phyllord's gaze swept over the iron cages. The figures inside were hollow-eyed, faces obscured by grime and tangled hair, making gender hard to distinguish. Angry whip scars marred their skin. Occasionally, a slave would meet his eyes, only to flinch away, trembling violently.
"Prices?" Phyllord asked, scanning the cages as the map's green dot pulsed within this wretched group.
"Varies greatly by breed, my lord," wheedled a merchant with a face like a weasel, rubbing his hands. "Goblins, Halflings, Pig-folk: 10 silver each. Beast-kin: 20 silver. Orcs: 60 silver. For… *pleasures*…" He leered, gesturing towards larger cages inside his stall, dominated by the thousand-gold elf. "…well, the sky's the limit."
The elf was stunningly beautiful, clad in revealing gauze that showcased pale skin. But her eyes were vacant, empty.
"This one was broken by goblins. Bore at least twenty-six whelps. Hah! Still a prize, though." The merchant chuckled. "Bound for auction soon – won't go for a mere thousand then. Care to reconsider?"
"Not interested," Phyllord stated flatly. The dot wasn't her, and he lacked the coin for a broken toy. "Human slaves?"
"Humans? Clever, obedient. Males: 40 silver. Females: 25. Good for labor. Though for *fun*…" He winked. "…I still recommend the elf. Even if not for play, their flesh is nourishing, their parts useful for magic. A sound investment."
A wave of revulsion washed over Phyllord. Nobility here weren't the elegant figures of plays; they were feudal monsters. Even proud elves, kin-like to humans, ended up on plates, their blood coveted for its supposed properties.
As the merchant prattled, Phyllord located the dot. His eyes snapped to a cage in the corner. The glowing green marker hovered above it like a quest objective.
Inside was Beast-kin. White Wolf-kin, to be precise. Crimson eyes glowed in the dimness. Wolf-like ears twitched atop her head; a tail lay limp behind her. Clad in rough sacking, she lay motionless on the damp, filthy cage floor. Only her eyes moved, flickering towards the keys at the merchant's belt.
"A rare steppe breed! My slavers paid dearly in blood breaking their stronghold. Damned savages fought like demons," the merchant boasted, relishing the brutality. "If you fancy a Wolf-kin, best bring servants to help. They've a nasty habit of biting off something… vital. You get the idea." He grinned suggestively.
*Beast-eared girl?*
Phyllord's inner Earth otaku surged. Crimson eyes and wolf ears? He had zero resistance.
Almost reflexively, he reached a cautious hand towards the cage, like offering a treat to a wary dog, aiming to gently touch her head.
*"Grrrrrrrr…"*
A deep, threatening growl rumbled in her throat. Her crimson eyes blazed with pure danger.
"Best be cautious, my lord," Steward Cao warned, frowning.
Captain Connor's hand went to his sword hilt. "Lord Phyllord, do *not* touch it. I'd rather we reach Nightfall Territory without incident."
"No need for tension. She's… quite captivating," Phyllord murmured. Wise enough to heed advice, he withdrew his hand. Yet, beneath the fierce glare, he glimpsed something else in the Wolf-kin's eyes: defiance mixed with despair. Adorable, yet…
**Final Translation:**
"No need for such tension. She's rather captivating," Phyllord said. True to his word as someone who heeded good advice, he withdrew his hand. He saw the defiance and despair beneath the surface in the wolf-kin's eyes – pitiable yet endearing. Adjusting his collar, he asked coolly, "Price?"
"A mere three gold pieces!" the merchant declared, sensing desire and inflating the price without batting an eye.
*One gold coin equals one hundred silver, one silver one hundred copper.*
Phyllord's expression hardened, his eyes narrowing to slits. "You claimed Beast-kin cost only twenty silver. Are you mocking a noble?"
"Ah, but she is *special*, is she not? Exquisite! Captured recently, guaranteed untouched, her purity unseen by common eyes. She was destined for auction! Such rare beauty… a pity she's Beast-kin, tainted blood! Were she pure, three hundred gold wouldn't suffice!" the merchant wheedled.
"Fifty silver. Do *not* test my patience." Phyllord crossed his arms, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur laced with promise. "I depart shortly for my new territory. The slaves and… *diversions*… I acquire today are but the first. A single transaction, or a patron for life? I trust you grasp the difference."
The merchant sucked in a sharp breath. The honeyed words struck deep. The struggle was brief – securing the patronage of a landed noble was too valuable to pass up. "Very well," he gritted out. "But the price hinges on the *volume* of your purchase."
Steward Cao shot Phyllord a sideways glance, perplexed. The old Phyllord wouldn't have haggled; he'd have pitied the merchant's 'struggles'.
After meticulous selection, Phyllord purchased one hundred human slaves and one hundred Beast-kin slaves, including one hundred and twenty males. Along with the coveted wolf-kin, the total cost came to fifty-three gold coins.
"My lord, the Soul Contracts," the merchant said, presenting a thick parchment scroll covered in dense script. "Verified by the Chosen Ones themselves."
"Contracts?" Phyllord took the scroll.
"Indeed. Oaths sworn in the slaves' own blood. Defy your will, and divine fire reduces them to ash." The merchant's leer was obscene as he handed over the leashes tethering the newly purchased slaves. "So… enjoy yourself *thoroughly*, my esteemed customer."
"I intend to," Phyllord replied dismissively, waving a hand. "After all, heading to the Cursed Lands. If I don't find some enjoyment soon, corruption will likely kill me anyway."