The merchant in the fine, velvet-trimmed robes glided across the polished floor of the auditorium, his movements as practiced and artificial as his expression. He approached Azrael with a wide plastic smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Welcome, esteemed customer," the merchant spoke, his voice melodic. "I see you find this particular 'piece' interesting? A man of your refinement has a discerning eye for the rare."
Azrael didn't return the flattery. He merely offered a thin, simple smile and a sharp nod.
The merchant's eyes glowed with the predatory light. "You have truly great taste, sir. This is one of our most exquisite and precious pieces. It has graced our halls for five years, an anchor of our collection. I suppose today was the day it was destined to find a master who truly understands its value."
The man spoke without a flicker of genuine emotion. It was a script, honed by years of selling humanity as possessions.
Azrael didn't beat around the bush. "How much?"
The merchant blinked, the bluntness of the question momentarily throwing off his rhythm. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and assumed the posture of a serious businessman. "Well, as I said, this is a unique possession. For a Tier-3 noble with such… historical texture… the price is 10 Enos crystals."
Azrael just looked at him. He didn't blink; he didn't scowl. He simply stared with an expressionless face. The silence between them grew heavy, stretching until it became a physical pressure in the room.
The merchant, unable to maintain the cold front, was the first to break. "Do you wish to purchase the piece or not, sir?" he asked, a hint of sharp irritation cracking his professional mask.
"Five Enos crystals," Azrael said in a single, flat breath. "That is all I am willing to give. Nothing more."
The merchant gave a dismissive, unapologetic smile. "That is quite impossible, sir. An 'art piece' of this caliber is rarely found in the current age. Just look at the despair of the fallen!" He gestured toward the dais where Rodrick Hawl sat like a statue of meat and bone. "This is one of the rare 'unbroken' spirits. You will have a magnificent time unpacking the layers of this man's pride."
"Don't try to oversell a liability," Azrael countered immediately. His voice was cold, "I know the story. I know he was a Baron destroyed by Marquis Vance. The fact that he has been here for five years isn't a testament to his value, but proof that no one wants him. The average nobles fear offending the Marquis by harboring his 'treasure.' Any buyer takes on a political target."
The merchant's smile faltered.
"Me showing interest already offends the higher powers of Sylvanus," Azrael continued, stepping closer. "Give me the right price, or this 'piece' will rot in this place for another five years."
The merchant's face contorted. Azrael had struck the exact nerve of the business. The Baron was a "prestige" item that had become a "stagnant" asset.
"Seven Enos crystals, good sir," the merchant muttered, his voice dropping the theatricality. "I cannot go lower. The maintenance of his suppression shackles alone costs a fortune."
"Six crystals," Azrael replied, his tone monotonous and final. "And you have a deal. Right now."
The merchant opened his mouth to object, looked at the empty hall, and then at the broken man on the dais. He sighed, a sound of defeated greed. "Agreed. Six crystals."
The transaction was swift. Azrael handed over the crystals, the blue light reflecting in the merchant's greedy eyes. A servant was summoned, and within minutes, an ancient-looking scroll made of human skin and silver ink was brought forward.
"The enslavement scroll," the merchant explained, handing it over with a bow. "A drop of your blood and a drop of his. The contract will be absolute. Where shall we deliver him?"
"Send the "package" to the GoldenToad Inn," Azrael said, storing the scroll in his "space ring". "Deliver him tomorrow morning."
Azrael left the slave market as the sun began to dip behind the peak of the World's Spine. He made his way to the GoldenToad Inn, which he discovered this afternoon while exploring the city. A sprawling, luxurious complex that the three Aethel brothers had established in addition to the merchant shop. Because he already had experience with their quality of business. He decided to choose their inn, without wasting time looking for other options.
As he crossed the threshold of the lobby, he unexpectedly met Marcus, the "Dangerous Money" brother he had dealt with earlier.
"What brings you here, esteemed customer?" Marcus asked with a polite, curious amusement.
"I require a room for two days. One with maximum privacy," Azrael answered.
"Consider it done. We shall arrange our finest suite for you," Marcus said, signaling a servant. When Azrael reached for his pouch to pay, Marcus held up a hand. "It is on the house, sir. A VIP of your caliber... what is two days of accommodation to a treasury like ours? It is a gesture of goodwill."
Azrael wasn't one to refuse free luxury. He nodded his thanks. "One more thing. A package will be delivered tomorrow morning. Bring it straight to my room."
"Of course, Sir. I will tell the servants to immediately notify you and bring the package to your room." Marcus replied, his eyes sharp. He likely knew what kind of "package" came from the lower tiers, but he was too professional to care.
Azrael reached his room. A suite of white marble and silk. Despite the luxury, he felt a strange weight. Witnessing the systematic commodification of humans in the market had taken a mental toll he hadn't expected. He lay on the bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning,
The "package" arrived. Two burly porters carried the "art piece" into the room and left without a word.
Azrael sat on the edge of the bed. Beside him, the translucent form of Master White materialized, visible only to him. On the floor, kneeling in the center of the room, was Rodrick Hawl. He looked slightly better than he had in the auditorium; the merchant had clearly used a low-tier healing potion to make the "merchandise" presentable.
Azrael watched him for a long minute. The Baron's head was bowed, his long, graying hair obscuring his face.
"Drink this," Azrael ordered. He raised his hand and conjured a vial of shimmering, silver-white water.. the {Stream of Life}.
For the first time, the Baron raised his head. His eyes were hollow, and he looked at his new master.
He saw a youth, but he wasn't sure of the age. All he saw was a cold and detached face which carried no emotions.
Rodrick hesitated, then reached out with trembling hands. He drank.
The effect was instantaneous. The silver water surged through his system, knitting together torn muscles, fading the burns on his skin, and clearing the infection in his lungs. Within minutes, his physical form was restored, though his spirit remained in the dirt. He didn't say or question anything.
Seeing his condition, Azrael decided to rile him up.
"Hero Baron, Rodrick Hawl," Azrael began, his voice cutting through the silence. "I've heard your story. The treasure, the fat Viscount, the Marquis who burned your world while you watched. A tragic tale."
Rodrick didn't flinch. He remained silent, a shell of a man.
"But I don't feel sad for you," Azrael continued, his voice devoid of pity. "You were a man in power. So, you understand the game of politics and plunder, which you lost. Because you were on the losing side, you feel wrong. To feel 'wronged' by plunder is shortsighted. It is the way of the world."
The Baron's jaw tightened. A spark of something.. anger, perhaps flickered in his eyes.
"But... I do pity your wife and child," Azrael said, leaning in.
Rodrick's head snapped up.
"I heard they were stabbed multiple times. I heard the Marquis made you watch as your four-year-old son, who had just started running, was pinned to the earth by spears. I am also pretty sure that your wife wasn't granted the mercy of a quick death. I bet the soldiers—"
"STOP!" Rodrick roared, his voice a ragged, guttural scream.
Tears of blood leaked from his eyes. "Stop, you bastard! What do you want?! Why are you doing this to me?!"
The air in the room suddenly dropped degrees. Azrael didn't move. He didn't even blink at the Baron's fury.
"I want you to be my slave," Azrael said, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm register. "A slave who submits wholeheartedly, for time unknown."
"You already have the contract!" Rodrick spat, his chest heaving. "You own my body! Isn't that enough for you monsters?!"
Azrael reached into his "space ring" and pulled out the enslavement scroll. With a casual, almost bored motion, he tore the human-skin parchment into a dozen pieces and let them flutter to the floor.
Rodrick froze. He had expected many things after being bought as a slave. He had resigned himself to torture, ridicule and for experiencing many unspeakable things. But now as he stared at the shredded contract, the absolute legal proof of his slavery, lying in the dust. He felt something stir inside, something which was denied to him, something he had forgotten, something he feared. And after many years he felt it again. He felt Hope!
For five years, that scroll had been his death warrant. Now, it was gone.
But before the hope could take root, Azrael extinguished it.
Azrael seated on the bed, released a small amount of his "Aura of Death."
The room turned gray. The light from the windows seemed to pull away, leaving a void centered on Azrael. Rodrick, a former high-tier cultivator, felt it more keenly than any common man. It was a dark energy devoid of any substance. It was an energy that seeped into the very soul, and whispered a false peace.
Then he looked at Azrael sitting on the bed leisurely. Seeing his calm demeanor, there was more than just despair in Rodrick's eyes. There was horror. He had seen war, he had seen massacre, but he had never seen something like this. He had been close to death before, but only as a concept. Never did he actually experience or feel death in a living form. Which even saying as a sentence feels absurd.
How can death be living? Who is this man infront of me? Were the only questions in the Baron's mind right now.
Rodrick collapsed, his forehead hitting the marble. He wasn't just afraid; he was terrified.
"I don't need a scroll to own you, I have other means." Azrael said, the aura receding slowly, allowing the Baron to breathe again.
Rodrick looked up, his face pale, his body trembling. "Who... who are you?"
"The question isn't who I am, Rodrick," Azrael said with a mused smile. "The question is: what do I want?"
"What is it?" After a while, the Baron asked cautiously.
"As I said, your wholehearted submission for time unknown." Azrael answered.
The Baron didn't reply immediately and sat back on his heels. He looked at the shredded scroll, then at the youth who radiated the power of the end-times. A slow, dark fire began to kindle in his hollow eyes, a fire other than hope, that had been suppressed by five years of chains.
"On one condition," Rodrick whispered, his voice cracking like dry wood.
"Which is?" Azrael asked still amused.
"Revenge!"