The iron cage creaked as it settled on the stage, surrounded by thick, chains of mana suppression.
From VIP Booth 7-A, I rested my chin on my hand, looking down at the boy inside. He looked pitiful — bruised, starved, wearing torn rags. To the wealthy nobles and lords in the lower rows, he looked like broken goods.
A rogue, who had killed his own team and failed his mission. Garbage to be tossed away. They had no idea what they were looking at.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the auctioneer shouted, his voice echoing through the hall. He pointed dramatically at the cage. "Tonight, we have a special, unlisted item from our deep vaults! A slave with incredible talent!"
Murmurs immediately broke out through the crowd below.
"A slave?" someone called out from the second-floor balconies. "Why are you selling Syndicate garbage on the main stage?"
"Is he tamed?" another voice shouted. "We don't buy wild dogs that bite their masters!"
