The Scarlet Exchange was more than an auction house—it was a monument of human suffering, a grand structure where lives were bought and sold like common trinkets.

  At its heart stood the Auction Hall, a massive circular chamber built from doomstone, its walls lined with golden braziers that cast flickering shadows across the polished obsidian floor. Carved into the walls were depictions of past conquests—men and women in chains, kneeling before faceless masters.

  Above the hall, a domed ceiling of stained glass filtered the moonlight into an eerie glow, as though the very heavens bled in protest of what took place beneath them.

  The air reeked heavily of sweat and incense, spilled wine joining faraway cries of unfortunate people dragged from holding pens.

  The stands surrounding the stage were packed with spectators—traders, nobles, crime lords, and warlords, all eager to claim their new property.

  Kaelen stood in the line of shackled slaves on the stage, each of them displayed like cattle on a raised platform in the middle of a circular auction hall.

  His wrists ached from the heavy iron cuffs and his throat was dry from hours of travel without water. He didn’t need to look around to know what kind of people lurked in the audience. He could hear them.

  "That elf there... exquisite. A rare bloodline, I’d say. Easily worth ten thousand gold."

  "Bah, elves break too easily. Give me a proper orc. The pits always need fresh meat."

  "Look at that one—the horned brat. What even is he? Some bastard offspring of a demon?"

  Kaelen lowered his gaze, thinking, 'It's always the same. Always.'

  "Brat."

  "Monster."

  "Freak."

  He was used to it. But no matter how much he told himself that, it still scraped against his mind like a rusted dagger.

  Out came a tall, gangly auctioneer in a plum-colored robe. Years sharpened on haggling and lying, his voice rang out through the hall, "Honored guests! Oh, lords of coin and conquerors of flesh! Tonight, we bring you only the best stock!"

  His long fingers, with rings of bone and gold, and what appeared to be fossilized fingers, gestured to the slaves.

  Kaelen barely listened as they began selling off the others.

  “Our first offering—a mighty beastman warrior, captured from the savage clans of Theria! Strong of arm, unbroken in spirit! A perfect addition to any warband or gladiator pit!”

  The beastman snarled as the chains were yanked, but he stood tall, his muscular form glistening under the dim light.

  The bidding started almost immediately.

  “Two thousand gold!”

  “Four thousand!”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Six thousand!”

  Kaelen exhaled slowly, 'It won’t be much longer before it’s my turn.'

  One by one, the slaves in front of Kaelen were led forward and sold. A trembling elf. A broad-shouldered orc. A weeping child no older than ten.

  And then, finally—

  Kaelen’s chains jerked.

  He stumbled forward, blinking against the harsh light as he was dragged onto the stage.

  As he stepped onto the stage, Kaelen stood still, back straight, hands clenched at his sides.

  “Before you stands a creature of uncertain lineage,” the auctioneer announced, “A human? A demon spawn? Perhaps something… more?”

  Laughter rippled through the stands.

  “A runt!” someone shouted.

  “I’ll give you a single copper!” another jeered.

  The auctioneer raised a gloved hand, silencing the noise and said, “Ah, but let us not be so quick to judge! A mere glance may deceive! This one possesses resilience—cast out and left to die, yet he lives. A survivor. Perhaps, with the right owner, he could be… cultivated.”

  More laughter. More mockery.

  'Cultivated? Like a crop? Like an animal?', Kaelen thought bitterly.

  The bidding began sluggishly.

  "Fifty gold!" someone called lazily.

  "One hundred!" another chuckled.

  "One-fifty, but only for amusement," a noblewoman mused.

  'One hundred and fifty gold. That's all I am worth? Less than a horse? Less than a well-forged sword?', Kaelen thought as he kept his head bowed.

  Suddenly,

  “Five thousand gold!”

  The whole hall fell silent.

  Kaelen instantly turned his head toward the voice.

  An old man sat in the corner of the auction hall. His face was a road map of deep wrinkles, his beard long and silver-white, like mist rolling over a frozen lake. Unlike the other bidders, he did not wear finery or jewelry—instead, he was draped in simple, weathered robes of dark green, the kind only hermits, sages, or lunatics would wear.

  But what really struck Kaelen most was his eyes.

  They were not dim with age but burnt with an intensity sharper than any blade, full of something beyond the grasp of mortal men.

  The silence in the hall stretched.

  The auctioneer coughed, regaining his composure, “An… unexpected bid! Five thousand gold—surely, a jest?”

  The old man tilted his head, a faint smile touching his lips.

  “I do not jest,” he said in an unusually deep voice, “Five thousand gold."

  The crowd erupted with laughter and mockery.

  "Hahaha! What a fool!"

  “Is he mad?”

  “What could he possibly want with that wretch?”

  “The old fool has lost his mind!”

  Kaelen stared at the old man and thought, 'Five thousand? Why? No one has ever given a damn about me before. Why does this old man spend so much?'

  The auctioneer hesitated, wetting his lips. He looked toward a balcony, to a masked man—the one Kaelen had noticed earlier—sitting quietly.

  The auctioneer nodded slightly, as if for approval.

  The masked man cocked his head to one side, but said nothing.

  “…Very well,” the auctioneer said, regaining his dramatic flair., “Five thousand gold! Going once—going twice—”

  “Six thousand,” a new voice interrupted.

  Kaelen’s gut twisted and he looked in the direction of the other bidder.

  A nobleman in a crimson suit leaned forward, smirking and said, “I’ll take the boy.”

  The old man sighed and said, “Seven thousand.”

  “Ten thousand.”

  Kaelen’s stomach dropped and he thought, 'No! No! This isn’t just about buying a slave anymore. This is turning into a contest!'

  The nobleman huffed, his wine swirling in his goblet, and mocked, "Oh, old man, do you even have that much coin?"

  The smile on the old man's face grew a bit wider as he reached into his robe and pulled out a small pouch, flicking it toward the auctioneer.

  The moment the pouch landed before the auctioneer, a strange force rippled through the air.

  The auctioneer’s eyes widened as he reached in, pulling out a single gemstone, glowing with an inner light.

  “A-A Z-Zhilstone?” he stammered.

  The smirk on the nobleman's face froze.

  The old man tapped his cane against the ground and taunted, “That should cover it, yes?”

  Silence.

  The auctioneer turned back to the nobleman and asked, “Will you be raising your bid?”

  The nobleman’s jaw tightened. His fingers clenched against his goblet.

  “…Tch. The wretch isn’t worth it,” he muttered, leaning back.

  The auctioneer lifted his hands and exclaimed excitedly, “Sold! To the esteemed master in the back!”

  A murmur spread through the crowd as the old man leaned forward slightly, locking eyes with Kaelen who gulped nervously and thought, 'Oh no! W-What is this? H-How did this happen? For the first time in my miserable life, someone has fought for me. This... terrifies me more than anything else.'