The air shifts the moment Woon steps off the main road.
The lively rhythm of the city dies behind him, fading into a kind of heavy silence that sinks into the stone. The buildings here lean close together, narrow and tall, their windows either shuttered or barred. Cracks run down the old walls like veins. The street is narrower, too. Fewer signs. Fewer people.
Those who do walk here move quick, eyes low. No one lingers. No one talks.
Woon adjusts his cloak and keeps walking.
This the right place? Figures it'd feel like a prison from the outside.
Ahead, a building crouches behind a rust-stained iron fence. Grey bricks, thick walls, and windows you can't look through. It's less a shop and more a fortress—quiet, cold, and still. There's no banner, no name. Just a metal plate bolted to the stone by the door.
Slave Trading House. Plain and shameless.
Classy.
He pushes the door open. It groans like it hasn't been oiled in years.
Inside, the lighting turns orange and dim. The smell is strange—old wood, sweat, and something like stale perfume. It's too warm, like the walls are holding their breath. A few lanterns flicker along the corridor, their flames barely holding on. Shadows stretch and twist with every step he takes.
A woman waits just inside the entrance.
She stands straight, hands folded neatly in front of her, head slightly bowed. Her clothes are simple but clean—a long skirt, a loose blouse—and around her neck, a steel collar. It fits snug, no decoration, just a small lock at the front. Quiet proof of who she belongs to.
Woon notices it right away.
Even the staff wear chains. Subtle.
She doesn't say a word. Just offers a small nod and gestures for him to follow.
He does.
The hallway is narrow and quiet, lined with old wooden doors and a few reinforced ones made of metal. The floorboards creak now and then, but otherwise, the place is too still. The walls are close, painted in faded beige that's turned a little yellow with age. A few lanterns hang overhead, their glow weak and flickering.
There's a smell in the air—old varnish, sweat, and something faintly sour. Not strong, but it clings.
No voices. No footsteps. Just the sound of Woon's own breathing and the woman's soft steps ahead of him.
Place feels more like a holding cell than a business. Guess that's the point.
Eventually, she stops in front of a double door, polished darker than the rest. She pushes it open and steps aside to let him in.
The room he steps into is a sharp contrast to the hallway outside.
Warm light spills from a chandelier above, casting a soft glow over polished wooden floors and clean stone walls. There's a subtle fragrance in the air—expensive incense trying to mask the room's age. Two velvet-cushioned sofas face each other across a dark oak table. A decanter of water and a few glasses sit neatly in the center. It's not luxury, but it's clean, orderly—designed to calm the buyer, not impress them.
Woon sits down without needing to be told.
The woman who guided him closes the door gently behind him, then takes her place just off to the side, standing silently.
A moment later, another door opens from the back.
A man steps in—broad belly, short legs, and a slow, practiced smile. His coat is long and dark, trimmed with dull gold, and it sways slightly as he walks, giving him a self-important air. Rings flash on every other finger as he adjusts his cuffs with a deliberate flick, the kind of motion done more for show than necessity. The scent that trails him is sweet and sharp, somewhere between cheap perfume and something medicinal—like he's trying to cover one odor with another.
His black hair is combed back tightly, not a strand out of place. His mustache is waxed and curled at the ends, neatly symmetrical. Every detail screams presentation over comfort.
As he crosses the room, his eyes settle on Woon—and for just a second, that smile dips. His gaze sharpens, narrowing ever so slightly.
It's the kind of look a seasoned trader gives an item that wasn't listed in the catalog. Unexpected. Potentially valuable. Possibly dangerous.
The weight behind it isn't hostile—but calculating.
He studies Woon the same way Beloukas looks at Naofumi: not like some random wanderer or over-eager buyer, but someone with teeth. Someone who knows what he wants and doesn't need to say it twice. A man who could become either a regular or a problem.
Then, just as smoothly, the warm smile returns like nothing happened.
He places one hand across his chest and gives a slight bow—not too deep, but respectful enough to imply business.
"Welcome to my humble store, good sir," he says—voice smooth, practiced, but with the faint drag of someone who's said the same line too many times. "The name's Smith. What can I help you with today?"
Woon gives a faint nod, his eyes calmly meeting Smith's.
"I'm looking for slaves," he says, his voice steady. "Specifically for a diner I'm setting up. I'll need kitchen staff, a few servers, and a couple of people who can handle trouble if it comes knocking."
Smith's smile stretches just a bit wider at that.
"A man with a plan—refreshing," he says, turning slightly and gesturing toward a side door. "Then you, my good sir, have come to exactly the right place. If you'll follow me, we can start with a look at our current inventory."
He leads the way with practiced steps, coat swaying slightly behind him. Woon stands, smooth and unhurried, following him through the back hall.
The woman from before walks a pace behind them—silent, but keeping her eyes low. She doesn't speak, doesn't make a sound beyond her soft footsteps.
The hallway they pass through is dimly lit, the stone underfoot older than the front chamber suggested. Oil lamps hang at regular intervals, their glow casting soft shadows across barred doors and iron-bolted wooden gates.
Then, Smith stops in front of a heavy iron door, produces a key from within his coat, and unlocks it with a casual twist.
A dull creak opens up into a larger, colder space.
They move deeper into the building, passing cell after cell as Smith leads the way.
"Feel free to take your time," Smith says, hands clasped behind his back, his pace unhurried. "These here are general stock. Good health, basic obedience, some with beginner skills. We sort by type and age."
Woon walks quietly beside him, his eyes drifting from one cage to the next. Each cell holds something different—beastkin with dulled eyes and tucked tails, dwarves sitting with arms crossed, a few humans staring blankly ahead. Children cling to corners. Most of them don't bother looking up.
The air is colder here, the kind that settles into your skin. The faint hum of mana lanterns overhead barely cuts through the dim. Straw mats line the cells, and a thin layer of dust clings to the iron bars, clean enough to pass but not enough to forget where you are.
Well-fed, mostly. A few bruises here and there. No obvious signs of disease. Not bad for general stock… but I'm not here for charity.
Smith keeps talking, listing off traits—obedience levels, skill ranks, heritage—and Woon lets him.
He's not listening for details. He's watching reactions.
Some flinch when Smith's voice gets closer. Others sit still, eyes empty. A few peek at Woon from beneath their hair, cautious and calculating. That's what he's looking for—not obedience, but awareness.
To be continued.....