Chapter 106

  Written by Bayzo Albion

  As he listed the prices, a sour unease tightened inside me: a hundred gold for a blank slate, five hundred for a clerk, a thousand for a mage.

  I gripped the strap of my pouch instinctively. I had the coin, sure. But snapping up one expert would drain half my reserves in a blink. And slaves weren't just a one-time buy—they needed feeding, clothing, guarding against illness or escape. They'd require shelter, tools, constant oversight. Without it, a slave became a liability, a chain around your own neck.

  My grand visions of "capitalism"—building something vast and self-sustaining—suddenly felt like a child's fantasy. Every new slave meant another hole in my purse, another thread pulling me under. The more I acquired, the faster I'd become enslaved to the system myself.

  The merchant caught my frown, chuckling with guttural delight. His eyes narrowed to slits, lips curling into a greasy smirk.

  "I see the wheels turning," he said, fingers drumming a rhythmic tattoo on the desk, rings clinking like tiny bells. "Smart kid. Most don't think beyond the purchase. Food, roof, watchdogs... it all adds up."

  I stayed silent, my mind racing.

  He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "But... for our first meeting, I'll cut you a deal. Free of charge."

  I arched an eyebrow. "Free?"

  He spread his hands wide, grinning ear to ear. "One slave, no strings. Call it a gift. So you can taste what it's like to have real power at your beck and call."

  Suspicion coiled in my chest like a serpent. In this world, no one handed out slaves like candy. A "gift" from a man like him always hid barbs.

  "Why?" I asked coolly.

  He laughed again, that butcher's chortle, as if he'd just found an extra slab of fat in the meat.

  "Because I see a repeat customer in you," he said. "Today, one. Tomorrow, when you're hooked, you'll come back for ten."

  "I know your type," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Manipulators from a mile away: dangle something free, then show up at the worst moment demanding favors. And buried in the fine print, I'm obligated to pay double."

  He slapped the table, rings jangling, his face splitting into a broader grin. "Oho! Mr. Balthazar, now I get how you pull off those impossible gigs for the Broken Blade Guild. Sharp as a tack for your age. Like you've been swindled by the world's slickest in a past life."

  I smirked, raising a brow. "Oh? So you know who I am?"

  "How could I not?" He threw his arms wide in mock drama. "The pint-sized kid toting an enchanted frying pan on his back, armed with kitchen knives instead of swords. Like you're not an adventurer, but a battle chef frying foes in oil!" His belly jiggled with laughter, like quivering pudding. "And being so small just makes the whole getup unforgettable."

  I crossed my arms. "So you know I'm flush with cash, and that's why—"

  "No, no," he interrupted, wagging a plump finger. "Wrong guess. Truth is, I just want to offload... this particular item. Been gathering dust forever."

  His tone sobered abruptly.

  "That's why it's free. But here's the rub: folks hear 'free' or spot a bargain-basement price, and they smell a trap. They bolt. And they're not wrong."

  I squinted harder. "So there *is* a catch?"

  He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a hush. "No matter the price, no takers. The headaches she's caused! But killing her? Impossible. She's got a boomerang curse—top-tier stuff. Any harm bounces back to the sender. It grants power, sure, but drags endless trouble in its wake."

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  I snorted, tapping my fingers on the desk. "Fine, show me."

  He blinked, caught off guard by my bluntness. "You sure, Mr. Balthazar?" A hint of genuine doubt crept into his voice for the first time.

  "Damn it, yes," I snapped, slamming my palm down. "Enough yapping!"

  He raised his hands in surrender, erupting into that meaty laugh. "Hah! There's the fire! Alright, follow me. I'll introduce you to her..."

  He heaved himself up, the floorboards groaning under his bulk. The crowd parted as he led me deeper into the labyrinthine depths, where the air grew denser and the candlelight dimmer.

  He nodded to a servant, who scampered ahead down a narrow staircase into the sub-basements, footsteps echoing like tolling bells against the stone.

  I steadied my breath. This reeked of a setup—the servant vanishing ahead, the merchant drawing me lower, shadows thickening, air turning stale. My mind flashed through scenarios: sold into slavery myself, handed to guild enemies, or simply gutted for my gold.

  But I masked my wariness, fingers brushing the hidden knife hilts under my clothes as I followed. The merchant strode confidently, every turn etched into his scheming mind.

  We descended further. At last, we reached a solitary cell. He halted, his smug grin returning, and gestured grandly. "Behold. My little 'problem.'"

  The iron grate creaked open. There, on the cold stone floor, sat *her*.

  A stunning girl with ash-gray hair tumbling over her shoulders and chest, her skin glowing ethereally in the gloom. Her figure was a masterpiece of seductive harmony, drawing the eye inexorably. She was utterly nude, enhancing the surreal quality—like a marble statue breathed to life in this forsaken pit.

  The merchant squinted slyly, watching me, anticipating a flush of embarrassment, a greedy leer, or outright flight. His lips twitched, ready to explode into mockery.

  But I ignored her body.

  My gaze locked on her face: delicate, doll-like beauty devoid of fear or submission. Just an icy void, as if she'd surrendered her essence long ago.

  And then my heart stuttered.

  Not from lust. Not from dread. From something I'd buried deep and forgotten.

  Love.

  It crashed over me like a tidal wave, drowning everything else. Desire froze; fear retreated. All that remained was this aching pull—an instant, paralyzing infatuation that stole my breath.

  The merchant stared at me for what felt like an eternity, his pudgy fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the railing. The corners of his mouth twitched, poised for the explosive laughter he so clearly anticipated. But it never came.

  His brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his eyes, as if I'd robbed him of his favorite entertainment. "Hmm..." he drawled, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "I don't get it. Why aren't you running? Any kid your age, seeing something like *that*—" he gestured vaguely at the girl's form behind the bars, "—either turns beet red or keels over in a faint. But you're standing there like a statue."

  I turned my head slowly toward him, forcing my hands to stay steady despite the tremor building inside. A faint smile tugged at my lips. "I've learned to keep my inner demon locked away," I said evenly. "It claws at the surface every time I see something that could break me. But I chain it down."

  The words hung in the air, calm on the surface but weighted with implication—a hint of menace, a veiled secret. He raised his eyebrows, his gaze sliding over me like he was probing for cracks in my facade. I could almost hear the gears turning in his mind: *Small kid with the eyes of a hardened man; either a master liar or hiding something best left untouched.*

  I held his stare, unblinking.

  Inside, a chill seeped through me—my heart pounded like a war drum, my legs threatened to buckle—but I kept up the bluff, my face a mask of unyielding composure.

  "A demon, huh?" he said at last, his smirk returning, though laced with a new wariness. "Well, alright then. Demon it is."

  He spread his hands in a gesture of retreat, stepping back just a fraction, signaling he wouldn't push further.

  My eyes drifted back to the girl behind the grate. Her gaze was as doll-like as the rest of her, but beneath that vacant shell, I sensed something sharp and alive, prickling at the edges.

  "What's her deal?" I asked quietly, my voice barely cutting through the damp silence of the cell.

  The merchant rubbed his hands together with relish, chuckling. "Ah, there's the rub. This little one's got a flaw. Split personality, you see. By day, she's quieter than still water, obedient as a silk puppet. But at night... hah!" He jabbed a finger at his temple. "It's like a beast breaks loose. Different voice, different eyes, a whole different woman. Sweet one minute, demon the next. Folks are scared off, and I'm tired of her antics."

  His laughter echoed off the stone walls, but it barely registered with me.

  The words struck deep, a dagger to the core.

  *Split personality...*

  A painful twist gripped my chest. I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms.

  After all, I was a product of the same fracture. My own "self" had shattered long ago, pieces scattered like broken glass.

  Staring at her, I saw it—for the first time in ages, a true reflection of myself.