The Free Trade Port.
A place where morality was merely a faint line, easily washed away by the ocean waves.
The wind here smelled of salt, rotting wood, and the cheap perfumes meant to mask the stench of sin. The sky above the harbor was perpetually gray, as if the sun itself hesitated to cast too much light on what transpired below.
I stepped off the ship, my expensive leather shoes touching down on the slick wooden pier.
A dark red coat woven from spider silk wrapped around me, shielding my body from the chill of the sea breeze, but doing nothing to deflect the cold stares of the crowd.
Here, freedom was a commodity.
There were no royal laws to bind anyone, only the unyielding law of the market: money exchanged for goods.
I walked down the main street.
Shops lined the road without a shred of shame. High-End Brothels. Illegal Weaponsmiths. Monster Materials.
A signboard caught my eye: Magic Crystals & Grimoires.
I paused. The glass display window revealed intricately carved staffs and faintly glowing crystal orbs. Beautiful. Tempting.
But I walked past.
My pace didn't falter, though a faint throb echoed in my chest. A primal envy.
I had hundreds of gold coins. I had a physique capable of crushing stone with my bare hands. I was a generalist who could comprehend any structure merely by looking at it.
But I had no vessel.
I could not channel energy. Magic was the one thing in this world that absolutely rejected me.
I lit a cigarette.
"Haa..."
I let out a slow breath, the white smoke billowing and blending seamlessly into the harbor's fog.
I continued walking until I stopped before an old brick building. There were no flashy neon lights, no scantily clad women lingering by the door. Just a small wooden plaque that read: Specialized Labor Supplier.
A slave shop.
I pushed open the heavy wooden door.
Ding.
A small bell chimed.
The interior was surprising. It wasn't a damp dungeon, but a warm, inviting parlor. Thick carpets, a crackling fireplace, and the faint, soothing scent of herbal tea.
There were no screams here. No rusted iron chains.
This place sold premium goods, and premium goods were not to be tainted by fear.
"Welcome, Sir."
An elderly man wearing spectacles with a gold chain emerged from behind a curtain. His wife, a plump and amiable older woman, followed closely, carrying a tray.
They looked like kindly grandparents waiting for a visit, not human traffickers.
"Please, have a seat. Tea? Or coffee?" the woman asked softly.
"Coffee."
I took a seat on the plush leather sofa.
The old man sat across from me, his sharp eyes sweeping over my attire. The spider-silk coat. The monster-hide gloves. A posture that was relaxed, yet entirely alert. He knew I wasn't a tourist.
"Cigarette?" I offered.
The old man's eyes lit up. "Gladly. I didn't expect you to partake—it's rare to see a smoker in this part of the world."
He took a stick. We smoked in silence for a moment. The trails of our smoke intertwined in the air, forging a quiet, transactional bond.
"This place is remarkably... civilized," I remarked, my tone flat.
"Naturally," the old man replied, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Goods sold under duress are defective, Sir. They are prone to rebellion. Sooner or later, they bite the hand that feeds them."
He took a slow sip from his teacup.
"Here, everything is voluntary. Debts. Bankruptcies. Failed harvests. Or perhaps... those no longer desired by their families. They sell themselves to survive, or are sold to salvage family honor. It is all entirely legal. Documented on paper."
Brutal honesty.
Unfiltered capitalism. There was no room for emotion, only the cold calculus of profit and loss.
"What exactly are you looking for, Sir? Miners? Bodyguards? Or perhaps... evening entertainment?"
"I don't know."
The answer left my lips on its own.
The old man didn't seem surprised. He offered a knowing smile. "Many come here searching for something missing in their own lives. One moment, please."
He retrieved a large, leather-bound ledger. A catalog.
I turned the pages slowly.
Every page was a human life.
Woman, 25. Healthy. Agricultural expert. Reason: Failed harvest, debt of 10 gold coins.
Man, 30. Former soldier. Leg injury. Reason: Medical expenses for younger sibling.
Girl, 15. Intelligent. Crippled leg. Reason: Unwanted.
My eyes scanned down the rows, reading human tragedies reduced to mere statistics. I felt no sympathy. All I saw were the consequences of weakness.
The final page.
Girl, 17. Human. Education: Noble Etiquette, Estate Management, High Literacy. Physical Condition: Frail but healthy. Reason: Bankruptcy of a Viscount's House.
There were no portraits. Only data.
But something in the description caught my attention. High Literacy. Management.
My mansion in the City of the Sun's Son was too empty. Too dusty.
"I want to see this one," I said, pointing at the final entry.