Chapter 105

  Written by Bayzo Albion

  "Want to know if you're ready?" he asked, as if plucking the thought from my mind.

  I nodded. The coffee still steamed, and I hadn't noticed the mug was half-empty.

  From beneath the counter, he produced a small wooden box and set it before me. The lid was secured by a simple latch, but a peculiar aroma wafted from it—sweet like honey, yet undercut by the rot of decaying blooms.

  "Open it, and there's no turning back," he warned, his voice slicing like a blade. "Inside is what will remind you of your true self... or reveal you've been playing someone else's part all along."

  "And if I refuse?" I asked, a uneasy tremor rising in my chest.

  "Then you choose the counterfeit life," he shrugged. "I won't judge. I'll just pour your coffee and send you on your way."

  My hand reached for the box, fingers quivering as I fumbled the latch. Click. The sound was faint, like a resigned breath.

  Inside lay a mirror—small, framed in dark wood carved into intertwining serpents.

  I peered in, and my breath caught.

  The reflection wasn’t mine. It was an echo of something buried deep—eyes sharper, colder, predatory. The smile was firm, merciless, free of hesitation. This was someone who knew exactly what he wanted and took it without remorse.

  But then the surface of the water rippled… and the echo changed.

  My features dissolved into shadow, stretched, reshaped—until a massive black wolf stared back at me. Not a beast of flesh, but the distilled essence of hunger and will. Its fur was midnight woven with starlight, each strand shimmering like a blade poised to cut. Muscles coiled beneath the dark pelt, sculpted with brutal purpose; even in stillness, the creature radiated motion, violence, inevitability.

  Its eyes—my eyes—glowed with a fierce, otherworldly brilliance, a molten gold burning through the reflection as if threatening to melt the water itself. Power rippled from its form, a raw, ancient force that made the air tremble. This wolf wasn’t just a predator.

  It was dominion.

  A sovereign of the wild, forged by night and sharpened by every wound I’d endured. A creature that would tear apart anything standing in its path—gods, monsters, fate itself.

  For a heartbeat, I felt its breath merge with mine, hot and savage.

  That was the truth hidden beneath my skin.

  Not the frightened boy.

  Not the fallen god.

  But the black wolf—restless, rising, ready.

  "Who... is this?" My voice cracked, ice creeping under my skin.

  "You," he replied evenly. "The you who didn't shy from your darkness. The you who lived, not performed."

  The reflection blinked—out of sync with me. Slowly, languidly, it raised a hand, beckoning me nearer.

  My heart plummeted.

  "I get it now..." I whispered. "I'm in paradise. Here, I can be real."

  I reached into my pocket for more gold coins, intending to pay him extra. But he gently caught my hand.

  "No need," he said softly, his eyes piercing mine.

  "But—"

  "You'll need that money yet."

  He released me. His words were calm, but they carried an undercurrent of foreknowledge, as if he saw paths I couldn't.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  I thanked him and stepped outside. The air felt purer, softer, almost crystalline. Even the cobblestones' echo underfoot seemed attuned to my rhythm. The people around me moved sluggishly, like shadows, while I felt detached—elevated.

  I drew a deep breath. The air carried a peculiar sweetness, viscous like awakening from an overlong dream, blurring the line between wakefulness and illusion.

  And then it hit me: something within had shifted. Subtly, irrevocably.

  I still hadn't figured out how to fulfill my core self's ambitions. Once, I'd dreamed of forging the Mirai Empire on foundations of will and vision. But now, clarity pierced through: I'd always harbored two voices. The light and the dark.

  The light one was gone.

  Dead.

  All that remained was me—hollowed out, corroded from within, stripped of what once made me human. And now, I was truly alone. Utterly, profoundly alone.

  – – –

  I pulled myself together and decided it was time to act.

  Gold weighed heavy in my pouch, but I knew true power in this world wasn't forged from mere words—it came from the people you could rally to your side. I set out to buy a slave, gender be damned. What mattered was finding someone who could endure the chaos of life beside me longer than anyone else.

  Slave trading was outlawed here… at least on paper. In reality, the law was nothing more than a delicate spiderweb: impressive when viewed from above, but rotten and useless where it actually mattered. The nobility brandished it as a tool to crush their rivals and silence enemies, yet anyone who paid the right bribes could traffic human lives freely, untouched and unquestioned.

  I navigated the narrow backstreets where every twist seemed to devour the light. Crooked houses loomed over the cobblestones, their eaves sagging as if desperate to hide from prying eyes. The air hung thick and oppressive, laced with the musty stench of damp rags, soured wine, and an undercurrent of raw fear. Whispers replaced conversations here; gazes darted away before they could fully meet mine, like ghosts fleeing the dawn.

  Tucked behind an unassuming shopfront lay a descent into the underbelly. A girl with hollow eyes swung open the door—no words, no gesture, just a mechanical step aside to let me pass. Her movements were precise but lifeless, as if she'd long since stopped living and merely existed in this grim routine.

  Down below, the atmosphere shifted. A low hum of voices mingled with the clink of coins, the acrid bite of cheap candle wax, and the sour tang of sweat, all blending into a suffocating din. It resembled a marketplace, but twisted and perverse. People in collars stood on crude platforms like exhibits in a macabre gallery, prodded and inspected—teeth checked, muscles flexed—as if they were livestock at auction. Haggling voices rose and fell, punctuated by coarse laughter or the scratch of quills tallying figures in ledgers.

  I moved through the crowd slowly, my eyes scanning the dim hall. Every accidental glance I caught flickered out like a snuffed flame, as if even in this den of desperation, something about me marked me as an outsider.

  In the far corner, behind a massive dark-wood desk, lounged a corpulent man in a crimson doublet. His smile stretched unnaturally wide, his ring-laden fingers drumming lazily on the tabletop. His eyes gleamed with predatory insight: *I know why you're here. And I have exactly what you need.*

  "New face," he drawled, shaking his head with exaggerated slowness. His voice oozed like honey laced with rot. "Looking for a slave... or perhaps a slave girl?"

  I shrugged, keeping my tone even. "Gender doesn't matter. It's about who can survive by my side the longest."

  He burst into laughter, a guttural, fleshy sound that evoked a butcher hacking at a carcass right there on his desk.

  "Now that's the spirit!" he wheezed. "I figured you for someone chasing a plaything."

  With a lazy clap of his hands, he summoned the first group. Young women were herded forward—fresh-faced, clad in tattered but meticulously fitted dresses that hinted at calculated allure.

  "Beauties, every one," he said, smirking with satisfaction. "They'll handle the household and keep your eyes entertained. Cost more, of course... but you're young, with fire in your veins."

  I glanced at them. The beauty was there, superficial and polished, but their eyes held nothing—no spark, no defiance. Just broken dolls, vacant and compliant. I shook my head dismissively.

  He snorted, narrowing his eyes. "Hah... so not here for that. Fine. Let's show you the real stock."

  A snap of his fingers brought forth the men: callused hands gripping hammers, ink-stained fingers clutching scrolls.

  "Blacksmiths, builders, scribes," he listed off, as if appraising cattle at a fair. "Each with a trade. Need walls? Grab a builder. Want profits? Scribes or merchants will do. Even mages," he added, waving over a pair in frayed robes. "Not top-tier, but good enough for basic work."

  This was closer to what I needed. Beauty faded, but skills built empires.

  "How much?" I asked flatly.

  His grin widened, arms spreading wide as if he'd been waiting for this cue. "Basic slave, no skills? Hundred gold," he said with feigned indifference. "Pretty one? Two, three hundred. Rare beauty or sly operator? Five hundred easy."

  I pressed my lips together. A hundred for an empty shell.

  He leaned in, savoring the negotiation. "Skilled ones—blacksmiths, builders, scribes—from five hundred to a thousand. Mages? Thousand or more, depending on their tricks and how sharp their wits still are."

  A chill settled in my gut. Amounts that could arm a small army, vanishing for a single chained pair of hands.

  He tilted his head, his smile playing like a cat with prey. "So, lad? Beauty for the soul or skill for the grind? You don't strike me as the type chasing fun."

  As he rattled off prices, a sour unease twisted inside me. Hundred gold for a blank slate. Five hundred for a craftsman or clerk. A thousand for a mage.