Sam listened a while longer, memorizing voices and footsteps. When the group finally split up and disappeared toward their huts, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
Good.
He slipped through the streets like a shadow, already heading toward the eastern district. After some time, he glanced up.
The moon had climbed high, pale and watchful above the broken rooftops.
"I need to be fit when I move," he murmured to himself.
He found a narrow corner between two leaning buildings and slid into it. The stench of piss and rot was strong, but he didn't even wrinkle his nose. He sat down, leaned against the cold stone wall, curled his body inward, and closed his eyes.
Crawling sounds echoed through the streets. Screeching of Rats whom fought over scraps. Birds screamed from broken roofs. Somewhere far away, a man screamed too—then went silent.
Sam knew all of it.
It was the lullaby of the slums.
Nothing disturbed his sleep.
At early dawn, a sudden sensation washed over his body—warm, faint, persistent.
A notification appeared.
[Requirements reached for skill acquisition] {Slow Self-Regeneration (F) [Level 1/10]}
[Requirements reached for skill acquisition] {Whole Body Weapon (C) [Level 1/40]}
Sam's eyes opened slowly.
"…Huh."
…
…
Warm light filled the grand dining hall of Tarakan.
"Henry…My son."
"Father."
Henry Tarakan sat across the long wooden table, stuffing his mouth with a thick, fatty cut of meat. Grease shone on his lips as he chewed loudly, completely at ease.
His father—the Lord of Tarakan—took his seat opposite him. His hair had gone grey with age, and his back was bent from decades of rule, but his eyes were still sharp, like a Tyrann.
"I heard you've been looking for workers for the mines," the old man said calmly.
Henry raised an eyebrow. "I'm not looking for people, Father." He placed his fork down on the table with a sharp clack. "I'm acquiring resources."
He lifted a finger, signaling for more wine.
The lord nodded approvingly. "I'm glad. Truly. You become more like me, every day a little more."
Henry smiled—pleased.
"So," his father continued, tearing off a piece of bread, "you're going into the slums again today to buy some pests?"
Henry nodded casually. "Yes."
The lord took a bite, chewed slowly, then spoke again.
"But first… we need to discuss your engagement to Torrs End's daughter."
Henry's lips parted slightly. He licked them, running thin fingers through his oily black hair.
"Anika…" he murmured, eyes gleaming. "I can't wait to see her." His mouth filled with saliva as he thought about the young and fresh rosy flesh.
The first time they met…her innocent smile, he licked his lips, just from the thought of breaking the mind of the young lady. Something twitched in his pants.
„What is with her?"
The Lord of Tarakan gulped down his piece of food and winked with his fork through the air; „They stated that she wanted to visit in - around- half a year!" he took another bite and continued with a full mouth, „…so, I dare you!"
He pointed the fork at Henry; „I dare you! To ruin my chance to get a good realationship with Tor'Vak!"
Henry sighed; „I know dad…"
The lord shook his head; „No you don't! To connect - even with just a string - too this Kingdom, the possibilities of trade is enormous! This country is one of the biggest trade nations in our world, so if I have connections to them - I am going to have more than I can imagine right now!"
With sparkling eyes the lord nodded and stuffed his mouth; „Promise!"
„Haaa! I promise dad!"
Lord Tarakan raised his eyebrows and nodded; „Good! Because this may be your future too! If you keep being a good moneymaker! Hahaha!"
Henry promised again, nodded his head, but then with an sudden burst of energy he slapped his hand on the table and stood up.
„You…!" he pointed at a butler at the edge of the room, „go and get my guards!"
…
Henry Tarakan descended the wide stone steps of the fortress with a lazy stride, adjusting the fine fabric of his coat. The morning sun reflected off the golden rings sewn into his sleeves—symbols of coiled snakes and glittering gold coins.
Four guards followed behind him, armored, their faces hardened and empty.
In front of the castle stood a small, hunched old man, bowing deeply as he opened the door to Henry's horse-drawn wagon. Two guards entered with Henry, while the other two walked beside the cart until they reached the city gate to the outer district.
Henry stepped down first.
He knew the streets beyond the wall were far too narrow for the entire wagon. As soon as the guards showed themselves, the gates to the eastern district opened without question.
The moment Henry entered the slums, the smell hit him—rot, shit, blood, and despair blended into a single, familiar stench.
He didn't wrinkle his nose.
"Disgusting places breed useful tools," he murmured with a smile.
He stepped onto a begging man's back to avoid dipping his shoes into a filthy puddle.
People noticed him immediately.
Eyes dropped.
Bodies turned away.
Some crawled back into doorways like insects fleeing from light.
Henry smiled, his heart started beating faster in euphoria.
He walked slowly, deliberately, making sure he was seen. His boots splashed through shallow filth as he examined the goods around him—skinny men with hollow eyes, women clutching sick children, boys barely old enough to stand.
Too weak.
Too broken.
Too noisy.
"Pathetic," he muttered.
A man suddenly fell to his knees in front of him, clutching at Henry's coat.
"M-my lord, please—just one meal! I'll work, I swear—"
Henry didn't stop.
One of the guards kicked the man in the ribs hard enough to crack something. The beggar folded instantly, coughing blood into the mud.
Henry laughed softly.
"Don't touch me unless you're worth something," he said over his shoulder. Then he added with a grin, "You know… if you ever get stronger than my guards—" he licked his lips, "—a B-rank adventurer, perhaps—I might consider hiring you."
Laughing, he continued on.
Deeper in, the noise changed.
This was where his gang headquarters is at the moment, so its influence were felt.
Men armed with knives, scraps of rusted armor, and crude tattoos burned into their skin watched him and bowing slightly as he passed—slavers without papers, merchants without laws.
Respect and fear mixed beautifully.
"Boss," one of them called. "Here for the stock?"
Henry stopped.
He turned slowly, eyes sweeping over the group like a farmer inspecting livestock.
"I need strong backs," he said calmly. "Ones that won't break after a week."
A man shoved forward a trembling boy, no older than ten.
"Born in the slums. Tough little thing."
Henry crouched and grabbed the boy by the chin, forcing his head up. The child's eyes were wide, wet, and shaking.
Henry smiled brightly.
"Too weak," he said, shoving him back.
The boy stumbled and fell into the dirt.
"I need grown things this time," Henry continued flatly.
They brought more.
Henry inspected muscles, teeth, scars. He kicked legs, pressed fingers into old wounds just to see who flinched. Each reaction amused him.
He snapped his fingers once.
A guard stepped forward and handed him a status stone. Henry activated it, forcing his way through their information without permission.
"Twelve," he decided at last. "These ones are good for now."
Chains clinked as the chosen were dragged forward.
Henry pulled a small poach from his coat.
"One silver each," he said coldly. "You should be grateful I'm paying at all."
The merchant grinned and nodded eagerly.
Henry turned away before the deal was even finished.
The guards took the chains and dragged the newly bought slaves across the ground without looking back. They disappeared around several corners and finally into a small, nondescript house—their new hideout.
Just before entering, one guard paused.
"Boss!" he called.
"What?" Henry snapped.
"There's a boy sleeping on the rooftops," the guard said, pointing to the house across the street. "Right there."
Henry clicked his tongue.
"Tsk. Don't waste my time with trivial things. If it didn't see us, don't bother." He waved his hand dismissively. "Just another rat from the slums."
And with that, they vanished into the hideout.