?Chapter 12: The Throne of Ash and the Auction of the Soul
?The arrival at Vancort Castle should have been Zhask’s moment of final triumph, the hour to trade his "golden burden" for a life of courtly luxury. However, when the wheels of the hay cart ground to a halt before the granite towers, the air didn't smell of a banquet, but of fear and bureaucracy.
?The blue and silver banners of the Vancorts still fluttered, but the atmosphere had shifted. Zhask, concealing his scar and predatory gaze, approached an elite guard. The response he received was like a punch to the gut: Duke Vancort had been deposed by the Crown for high treason. The territory was now an occupation zone under the direct supervision of the King of Eritineos.
?Zhask returned to the cart with a livid face, the vein in his forehead pulsing. He felt betrayed, not by Vancort, but by fate. If he stayed there, he’d be hanged. If he turned back, he’d be hunted by Iris Valerius’s Eternal Frost.
?"Change of plans," Zhask growled to his four companions. "Eritineos is getting too small for us. We’re heading east. If the Kingdom doesn't want this brat’s knowledge, the Morgathia Empire will pay double in blood and gold."
?The Long March East
?The journey lasted three days and three nights of logistical hell. Ren, tossed into the back of the cart, was treated with less dignity than the supplies. Zhask's potion had closed his wound, but the rushed magical healing left a latent, throbbing pain that shot up his spine. He barely received water, and the bread they gave him was hard as a brick.
?However, within that improvised cell, Ren’s mind did not rest. He used sensory deprivation to focus inward. He felt the mana — a bluish, rebellious energy trying to circulate through his still-developing neural pathways. He knew that if he attempted a burst of power now, his six-year-old body would simply shatter. Patience, Sergeant, he repeated to himself. Reconnaissance first. Survival later.
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?At the border of Marquess Merves' lands, tension reached its peak. A platoon of ten soldiers blocked the road. The officer, a man with greedy eyes, demanded to search the cart. Ren held his breath, his small hand fumbling along the floor for any wooden splinter he could use as a weapon. But Zhask knew human nature better than anyone. With a cynical smile, he handed over eight large gold coins — the blood-price of William’s sacrifice and the Valerius escort. The officer weighed the coins, looked at the cart, and spat on the ground, clearing the way.
?The Market of Morgathia
?Autumn began to paint the forests a sickly yellow as they pushed deeper into the Empire. After eight days of non-stop travel, the black towers of the Oakhaven slave market loomed on the horizon. It was a city built on suffering, where the aroma of expensive incense tried, unsuccessfully, to mask the scent of sweat and despair.
?Zhask wasted no time. He placed Ren on a central podium, surrounded by merchants and nobles whose clothes were worth entire villages. The starting price was an affront: 100 large Imperial gold coins. The crowd laughed. What could a scrawny, pale boy with a hollow gaze offer for such a price?
?Zhask smirked. It was time to showcase the power Ren had given him. Without drawing weapons or tools, he merely extended his right hand, concentrating mana at his fingertips.
?Vrum.
?A purely magical wind blast, shaped into a perfect ogive and stabilized by high-speed rotation, sliced through the square with a sharp hiss. Sixty meters away, the metal helmets of his four companions were pierced with surgical precision, one after the other, without the men so much as flinching. The silence that followed was absolute.
?"This boy," Zhask shouted, pointing at Ren, "is one of the Valerius sons. He is the architect behind this technique. He is not just a slave; he is a living library of tactics and power. Who wants the secret to dominating the battlefield?"
?Greed turned the auction into a verbal combat arena. Bids flew like arrows until a voice, deep and heavy with corrupt authority, silenced them all: "Five hundred large Imperial gold coins."
?The bid came from Marth Vermilion, the Duke of the Empire's North. With his red beard and black armor, he walked toward the stage. His family and the Valerius were historical rivals, blood enemies whose disputes spanned centuries of border wars. Marth bought Ren not just for the technique, but for the sadistic pleasure of possessing the heir of his greatest foe.
?The Final Destination
?Zhask, now immensely wealthy, departed back toward Eritineos with a mind full of new ambitions. Ren, on the other hand, was shackled with "mana-iron" cuffs and tossed into a cage on wheels along with twelve other slaves.
?The trip to the far north, the Duchy of Vermilion, would take a full month. A month of biting cold and humiliation. Ren leaned his head against the cold bars of the cell. His eyes, once bright, were now mere slits of pure steel. He looked at the other prisoners and began to count.
?"Eight hundred kilometers to the north," Ren calculated mentally, ignoring the pain in his leg. "Thirty days to observe the guards' routine. Thirty days to understand the Empire's mana system. Thirty days to turn this hatred into a weapon."
