Eventually, they loop back around to the main room.
The narrow corridors and flickering lanterns give way to warm chandelier light once more. The slave woman from earlier stands just inside the entrance, waiting patiently. Her posture is calm, hands folded neatly at her waist, collar still catching the light. She gives Woon a brief glance as they enter—measured, unreadable—and then focuses on Smith.
Woon returned to his original seat on the velvet sofa, letting out a slow breath as he leaned back. The air smelled faintly of incense and old wood—better than whatever had been clinging to the iron bars and straw mats of the basement.
Smith settled back into his own seat with practiced ease, his coat shifting around his sides as he relaxed into the cushions. The slave woman from earlier returned to her position near the wall, hands folded neatly, eyes low.
"So," Smith asked with a pleasant tone, "did any of them catch your fancy? Or are you looking for something more specific?"
Woon didn't answer right away. He reached for the glass of water on the table and took a small sip before replying,
"I need someone for the kitchen," he says simply. "Preferably someone with actual skill. The higher, the better."
Smith gives a knowing nod, that merchant glint returning to his eyes.
"Ah, now we're getting to it," he says, already reaching into the inner fold of his coat. "You're in luck, my good sir."
From his sleeve, he draws out a small, well-worn booklet and begins flipping through its pages with practiced ease. His fingers pause midway, tapping lightly on a particular entry.
"We just received a fresh batch yesterday. Among them—one girl stood out. Human. Young, maybe fifteen at most. Quiet type. But the gods must've given her something rare."
He turns the booklet for a second, as if rechecking the details.
"She's got an Innate skill: Cooking, rank A. Not acquired—innate. Born with it. And I don't need to tell you how rare that is. You'd be hard-pressed to find better in any tavern kitchen, much less on the market."
Woon raises a brow slightly, expression otherwise calm.
"Cooking A?"
Smith chuckles, proud.
"Most skilled cooks in the trade? B-rank, if you're lucky. A-rank? That's the kind of thing nobles fight over when they get wind of it."
Woon doesn't respond right away, but the math is already running behind his eyes.
*A-rank innate. That means less time training, fewer chances of failure, better food from day one. Less stress, fewer surprises in the kitchen. Worth every coin—if she lives up to it.*
Still, he keeps his face neutral.
"Show me."
Smith doesn't even need to look back. He gives a sharp snap of his fingers.
The slave woman standing by the door gives a quiet nod and slips through a side corridor, leaving the two men alone in the calm, dim glow of the room.
___________
A few quiet moments pass.
The only sounds are the distant murmur of other voices deeper in the building, and the faint ticking of something mechanical—maybe a wall-mounted clock, half-hidden in the decor.
Woon leans back slightly on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other. He keeps his eyes on the corridor the woman disappeared into. No fidgeting. No impatience. But inside, he's already calculating.
*A-rank skill or not... if she's too meek, too broken, or slow to follow instructions—it'll just be another liability. But if she's even half as good as he says… this might be the best pickup I make all week.*
Footsteps echo softly from the hallway.
The slave woman returns first, walking with the same smooth, quiet steps. Following behind her is a young girl—human, just as Smith described. Probably around fifteen.
She wears a plain, gray tunic that hangs a little loose on her frame. Her arms are slim, her hands rough in the way that speaks of real work. Not pampered. Not staged. Her dark hair falls to her shoulders in uneven cuts, likely done with a knife or old scissors, but it's clean. Her posture is cautious but not defeated. She doesn't stumble. Her eyes, a muted brown, flick once toward Woon and then settle on the floor near his feet.
The collar around her neck fits snugly, a dull metal band with a small identification tag pressed flat against her collarbone.
Smith steps to the side, giving Woon an unobstructed view. His tone softens slightly—almost theatrical.
"This," he says, gesturing toward the girl like presenting fine wine, "is the one. Registered yesterday. No behavior issues so far. Physically healthy. And again—Cooking, A-rank. Innate. She doesn't say much, but she follows instructions."
Woon doesn't answer immediately. His gaze lingers on the girl, watching how she stands, how her shoulders carry weight without slouching. How her fingers twitch slightly when she thinks no one's looking.
Eventually, he reaches for the glass of water on the table, takes a slow sip, then sets it back down.
"That's wonderful," he says at last, voice calm and unreadable. "For how much?"
Smith doesn't miss a beat.
He flashes a wide, oily smile.
"Since it's your first time at my establishment, I'll be generous and give you the newcomer's discount."
He pauses for just long enough to let it feel generous.
While Woon took a sip of water.
"Three platinum coins."
Woon immediately chokes.
A sharp sputter follows, and the water sprays straight from his mouth, catching Smith squarely across the face.
The room goes silent.
___________
Smith doesn't flinch. He slowly blinks, now glistening with droplets. The smile on his face doesn't fade, but it stills—frozen in place like someone hit pause mid-expression.
Woon coughs once, clears his throat, and sets the glass down carefully.
"…Sorry. Reflex."
Smith dabs at his face with a silk handkerchief drawn from his sleeve, patting gently with the patience of someone very used to unpleasant surprises.
"No offense taken, good sir," he says, his voice still polite but notably drier now. "It's a common reaction."
Woon leans forward slightly, elbows on knees, voice low.
"Three platinum, huh... for one girl?"
He doesn't sound angry. Just… tired. Like someone trying to justify a bad financial decision before making it anyway.
Smith folds the damp cloth neatly and slips it into his coat sleeve like nothing happened.
"Not just any girl," he says smoothly. "A-rank innate cooking isn't something you see often. Most folks are lucky to get B. And even then, it's trained—not born."
Woon runs a thumb along the edge of the table, thinking.
*Three platinum could buy me a property in the outskirts. Or enough supplies to run the diner for months. But…*
He glances back at the girl. She hasn't moved an inch since entering. Still standing there—quiet, alert, shoulders squared, chin slightly down. Not blank. Just... careful.
*If she really can cook… if she really is A-rank… that's worth more than any gold or platinum. That's the kind of help that runs the kitchen while I deal with everything else.*
He exhales slowly.
"Fine," he mutters, more to himself than to Smith. "Let's call it a necessary investment."
Smith's smile widened, eyes glinting behind half-lidded lids.
"A wise choice," he said,
Leaning back slightly into the cushions with the smug satisfaction of a merchant who'd just pocketed a small fortune.
At his snap, the silent slave woman at the wall gave a small nod—not to leave, but to act.
She gently placed a hand on the cooking girl's shoulder and guided her wordlessly into position behind Woon. The girl moved with quiet steps, head still bowed, and took her place without hesitation.
She stood just behind his right shoulder—shoulders square, posture straight, hands folded at her waist. The soft clink of her steel collar echoed faintly in the otherwise quiet room, settling into the moment like punctuation at the end of a sentence.
Woon didn't turn fully, but glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
Still. Present. Calm.
*Good. Doesn't need coaxing.*
Smith adjusted the cuff of his coat, one ring catching the chandelier light as he continued, smooth as ever.
"Now then, that settles your kitchen. Shall we move on to the rest of your staff?"
Woon nodded. "Two waitresses. Two bodyguards. And let's skip the dramatic buildup this time."
Smith chuckled, deep and indulgent.
"Straight to it. My kind of customer."
He raised one hand and gave two sharp snaps.
The door opened again, and four figures entered in a clean, practiced line, guided by the same silent woman from before.
First came the muscle.
Two beastkin men stepped in with heavy strides—one tall and broad, the other even broader. The taller one had the striped orange hair and sharp eyes of a tiger-kin. Scarred arms crossed behind his back, he radiated coiled restraint. The shorter one looked part badger—wide shoulders, squat build, gray-black hair cropped close. No wasted movements. Just a wall in boots.
They stopped a few paces from the table and stood at attention, arms to their sides, collars locked tight. Both wore sleeveless tunics stretched taut over thick frames, and their eyes remained forward—no curiosity, no nerves.
*Bodyguards, alright. They look like they've put a few people through walls.*
Next came the girls.
The human girl walked with even steps, back straight, skirt falling neatly to her knees. She looked about fourteen—young, but not fragile. Her blouse was modest, hair tied in a tight bun, expression calm and reserved.
Woon's gaze slid downward for half a second.
*Huh. Not bad. If she doesn't spill drinks or get flustered when someone flirts, she'll work.*
And then the foxkin.
Shorter than the others by a head, maybe twelve years old. Auburn hair framed a soft face with large amber eyes that flicked around the room before dropping to the floor. Her fox ears twitched twice, tail flicking behind her in slow rhythm. She wore a slightly faded dress with a patched hem, and her posture was unsure—not hunched, just hesitant.
*Skittish... but alert. That tail's gonna earn tips, like it or not.*
All four lined up in front of the table.
Smith gestured lazily toward them with one ringed hand.
"As requested. Two capable bodyguards, and two servers with charm. Let me break it down for you."
He pointed at the tiger-kin first.
"This one—swordsmanship, C-rank innate. Fought in a border merc unit before being caught in a slave round-up. Doesn't talk much. Doesn't need to."
Then to the badger-kin.
"This one's got martial arts, D-rank innate. Built like a siege ram. Was a pit fighter, if memory serves."
Woon tilted his head.
*Decent spread. Brains and brawn.*
Smith shifted to the human girl.
"Now, this little lady has an innate skill—maid, E-rank. Sounds low, I know. But E-rank's still trained, still useful. She's well-mannered, easy to direct, and hasn't shown any disobedience. Could've gone to a noble's estate if her skill were a letter higher."
Woon raised an eyebrow.
"E-rank's enough to handle trays and customers?"
Smith gave a casual shrug.
"She won't set the place on fire. And she'll smile while doing it."
Fair enough.
Finally, he gestured toward the foxkin.
"This one's a little more unusual. Young, yes, but she's got dual wielding, C-rank innate. Picked it up fighting with sticks, apparently. Acquired skill in waitressing—D-rank. That one surprised even me. Means she's had experience in tavern work before."
Woon leaned back a little, hand resting against the armrest.
*Dual wielding and waitressing? Weird combo, but I'll take it. At least if she drops a tray, she can defend herself with the other.*
He gave them another look—top to bottom. The beastkin looked solid. The human girl seemed mild and manageable. The foxkin… well, he had a soft spot for cute ears and competence.
He spoke evenly.
"How much for the lot?"
Smith's eyes twinkled like a man delivering good news—with a dagger behind it.
"One gold for the pair of bodyguards," he said with a grin. "They're a package deal—trained together, less drama."
Woon nodded. *Reasonable.*
"Ten gold for the maid," Smith added. "She's young, clean, trained, and looks presentable. Nobles love that type."
Woon just grunted. *Sure. Let's say that's for 'aesthetic.'*
"And twenty-five for the foxkin."
There it was.
Woon blinked.
"Twenty-five? For a kid?"
Smith raised a finger.
"Rare race. Combat potential. Tavern-trained. Plus she's got charm. Trust me, she'll earn that back within a month if she smiles at the right customers."
Woon didn't answer right away.
He turned to glance at the foxkin again. Her fingers twitched slightly where they rested against her dress. She wasn't trembling—just wired tight. Her gaze flicked up to meet his for half a heartbeat, then dropped again.
*Alright. Not broken. Just waiting to be told what to do. Same as me once, really.*
He sighed through his nose, then reached into his coat.
The coin pouch landed on the table with a dull *thump*. Solid weight. He untied the string and counted out three platinum, thirty-six gold—stacking them with quiet taps on the dark wood.
*There goes my cart fund.*
Smith beamed like a bloated cat and began tucking the coins into a velvet-lined tray. He handled each piece with gentle reverence.
"A pleasure doing business with you," he said. "And since this is our first transaction, the contract fees are on the house."
Woon nodded, standing.
"Good."
The cooking girl behind him moved in sync, following half a step behind.
As he turned, the new slaves responded. The beastkin gave sharp, professional nods—fists to chest. The human girl offered a graceful curtsy. The foxkin hesitated for a breath, then mimicked a small bow, her ears twitching as her tail wrapped nervously around one leg.
Woon didn't smile. But he didn't frown, either.
*They'll do.*
The silent slave woman approached the far door and opened it without a word.
Beyond lay a cold, rune-lit chamber where deals were made permanent.
Woon stepped inside.
To be continued.....