The rain in Aethelgard did not cleanse; it suffocated.
It was a freezing, relentless drizzle that turned the cobblestones of the capital into slick mirrors reflecting the gray misery of the sky. For the citizens of the Upper District, it was merely an inconvenience. But here, in the Iron Plaza—the heart of the imperial slave trade—it was torture.
Silas Vane knelt in the slush, his knees submerged in a mixture of freezing water, mud, and filth.
He didn't shiver. He didn't have the energy left for it.
The iron collar clamped around his neck was heavy, cold, and hummed with a low, nauseating vibration. It was a 'Mana-Dampener,' a device designed to sever a mage's connection to the world's energy. For Silas, who had once been a promising noble scion trained in the arcane arts, it felt like having a constant migraine, a dull pressure that whispered: You are nothing. You are empty.
"Chin up, Number 402," a guard grunted, lazily poking Silas's ribs with the shaft of a spear. "Buyers like to see the eyes. Makes 'em feel powerful."
Silas slowly lifted his head. The movement made his neck creak.
Six months.
That was how long it had been since the Great Purge. Six months since the fires consumed Vane Manor. Six months since his father, Duke Vane, was dragged to the scaffold, screaming his innocence until the axe fell.
Silas looked at his hands. They were caked in dirt, the fingernails broken and jagged. These hands used to play the piano. They used to hold a rapier with elegant precision. They used to sign trade agreements that shaped the economy of the southern provinces.
Now, they were worth less than the chains that bound them.
"Fresh stock!" the auctioneer bellowed from the wooden podium, his voice magically amplified to boom across the plaza. "Traitors, debtors, and prisoners of war! Guaranteed healthy! Guaranteed broken!"
The crowd of buyers moved like a singular, hungry organism. Nobles in velvet cloaks, merchants with greedy eyes, and gladiatorial masters looking for meat for the arena. They prodded the slaves, checked their teeth, and made comments about their muscle mass as if they were inspecting cattle.
Silas stared blankly ahead. He had disconnected from reality weeks ago. He was just a ghost haunting his own body.
Let them sell me, he thought, a hollow echo in his mind. To the mines. To the arena. It doesn't matter. The Silas Vane you knew is already dead.
But fate, it seemed, wasn't done playing with him.
The hum of conversation in the market suddenly dropped. It started as a ripple of silence at the northern gate and spread rapidly until the entire plaza was quiet, save for the rhythmic drumming of the rain.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Heavy, disciplined footsteps approached. Not the chaotic shuffle of the crowd, but the uniform march of soldiers.
Silas felt a familiar chill crawl up his spine. It wasn't the cold rain. It was a sensation he remembered from the court—the aura of high-tier Holy Magic.
"Make way!" a herald shouted. "Make way for the Silver Wing!"
The crowd parted hastily, bowing their heads in a mix of reverence and fear. Through the gap, a squad of knights walked in. Their armor was polished to a mirror sheen, untouched by the mud or rain, protected by invisible barriers of mana.
And leading them was She.
Elena Sterling.
Silas's breath hitched in his throat. He hadn't seen her since the trial. Since the day she stood before the Emperor and testified that the Vane family had been conspiring with demons.
She looked... magnificent. And that made it worse.
Her long, dark hair was braided intricately beneath a silver circlet. Her face was pale and composed, her blue eyes scanning the area with the detached disinterest of a goddess walking among insects. She wore the ceremonial white and silver armor of the Holy Commander, a cape of pure white silk trailing behind her, miraculously staying hovering inches above the mud.
She didn't look like a liar. She didn't look like a betrayer. She looked like the savior of the realm.
Silas lowered his gaze, his heart hammering against his bruised ribs like a trapped bird. Don't look at me. Just walk past. Please, just walk past.
But the gods of Aethelgard were cruel.
Elena stopped. Her silver boots, pristine and gleaming, halted right in front of Silas's kneeling form.
The silence stretched, agonizing and thick.
"Is this him?" Elena asked. Her voice was soft, melodic, the same voice that used to whisper secrets to him in the academy library.
"Yes, Your Holiness," the slave master rushed forward, bowing so low he nearly toppled over. "This is the... the leftover of House Vane. We kept him separate, as requested. He hasn't been sold yet."
Elena didn't answer the man. She stepped closer, invading Silas's personal space. The scent of lavender soap and cold steel washed over him, triggering a wave of nauseating memories.
"Look at me, Silas," she commanded.
It wasn't a shout. It was a calm order, backed by the weight of her authority.
Silas clenched his jaw. His pride, which he thought was dead, flared up one last time in a pathetic spark. He refused to move.
Elena sighed, a sound of mild disappointment. She reached down, her gauntleted fingers gripping his chin with unyielding strength, and forced his face upward.
Their eyes met.
Hers were cold, clear lakes of ice. His were burning with shame and impotent rage.
"You've lost weight," she observed casually, tilting his head side to side as if inspecting a piece of furniture for scratches. "And that fire in your eyes... it's almost gone. Pity."
"Go... to... hell," Silas rasped. His voice was ruined from disuse, sounding like grinding gravel.
The knights behind her tensed, hands going to their sword hilts. The slave master gasped. But Elena just smiled. It was a small, terrifyingly vacant smile.
"Hell is where I sent your father, Silas," she whispered, leaning in so close that only he could hear. "You are still here. Which means I haven't finished with you yet."
She released his chin, letting him drop back. She pulled a pristine white handkerchief from her belt, wiped the spot where her glove had touched his skin, and then dropped the cloth into the mud.
"I'll take him," she announced to the slaver, her voice returning to its normal volume. "House Sterling needs a new houndkeeper. The kennels are filthy. I think it's fitting for a traitor to clean up the shit of beasts."
The crowd murmured. Some chuckled nervously. It was the ultimate humiliation. The heir of a Duke, reduced to a dog-cleaner for the woman who murdered his family.
Silas stared at the white handkerchief sinking into the brown sludge.
Something inside him broke.
It wasn't a loud snap. It was a quiet, final disintegration of hope. He realized, with crystal clarity, that justice didn't exist. Karma didn't exist. There was no redemption arc waiting for him. There was only power, and he had none.
If I could, Silas thought, his mind turning into a dark, frozen void. If I could just tear it all down. Honor. Love. Mercy. I would trade it all. I would burn this world to ash just to see her kneel.
He closed his eyes, embracing the darkness. He wanted it to end.
But the darkness didn't embrace him back. It stared.
[...Searching...]
A voice. Not a sound, but a vibration in the deepest architecture of his brain.
[...Host Found...]
Silas's eyes snapped open. The rain seemed to slow down. The shouting of the slave master, the clinking of coins, the arrogant turn of Elena's back... it all became muffled, like he was underwater.
[Condition Met: Absolute Despair coupled with Infinite Malice.]
A single, translucent violet pixel appeared in the center of his vision. Then another. Then a thousand. They swirled and coalesced, forming text that burned with a cold, alien light.
[ SYSTEM INITIALIZATION ]
[ Identity: Silas Vane ] [ Current Status: Slave / Broken ] [ Potential: UNLIMITED ]
[ WELCOME TO THE SOVEREIGN OF SINS SYSTEM. ]
Silas blinked. He looked around. No one else seemed to see the floating letters. Elena was walking away, discussing the price with the merchant.
The text changed, shifting focus from him to the woman in silver armor walking away. An arrow pointed at her back.
[ TARGET DETECTED: Elena Sterling ] [ ANALYZING SOUL FREQUENCY... ]
A loading bar appeared over her head.
...20%... 55%... 100%.
[ ANALYSIS COMPLETE. ]
[ WARNING: Target contains High Concentrations of 'PRIDE'. ] [ OPPORTUNITY: The Target's soul defenses are lowered due to arrogance. ]
[ Would you like to view the Truth of the World? ] [ YES ] / [ NO ]
Silas looked at the blinking 'YES' button. He looked at his chained hands. He looked at the woman who treated him like dirt.
Slowly, painfully, a corner of his mouth twitched upward.
Truth? he thought. I have nothing left to lose but lies.
He focused his mind on the word YES.