Legacies. The word had sat on Azrael's status window like a locked vault since the very first day he had opened his status. It was a phantom category, it remained frustratingly grayed out. He and Master White had interrogated the System on multiple occasions, seeking even a shred of clarification or a path toward activation. But every time, the response had been a mechanical rebuff:
[Necessary conditions and requirements not met.]
To think it would unlock here, of all places. The air in the TradeHaven Slave Market was stagnant, a thick soup of unwashed bodies shackled with rusted iron, and the sharp, copper tang of old blood permeated the air. It was a place where a human was appraised by the pound and dignity was traded for Enos crystals. It was the absolute nadir of human morality, yet the System pulsed with a golden, celebratory light.
"Is the System encouraging us to get a slave?" Azrael asked in a dry, rhetorical whisper.
The answer was self-evident. The golden notification window hovered in his peripheral vision, pulsing in a rhythmic frequency that matched the desperate heartbeats of the people huddled in cages around him. The System was demanding it.
The internal dynamic between the two personalities sharing Azrael's body was, as always, a study in contrasts. Master White looked upon the rows of cages and saw only "Utility."
Azrael, however, felt a gnawing discomfort. But this discomfort wasn't born from a pure, heroic sense of morality.
The personality of Azrael possessed a very unique and terrifying common sense. He was capable of sympathizing and empathizing with the suffering of others; he could feel the weight of their chains in his own mind and the sting of the whip on his own skin. Yet, he almost never went out of his way to help. His sympathy was a fleeting shadow, it lasted only until his own interests weren't involved.
As he stood at the threshold of the market, the moment the System notification flared to life, that moral discomfort evaporated. It was deleted. The empathy he felt for the "slaves" as human beings was overwritten by the cold, calculating hunger for a "resource." In that instant, the barrier between Azrael and Master White thinned until it was non-existent. They were both looking for the best return on investment.
"So, System," Azrael asked, his internal voice hardening into a blade. "How does this work? If I buy a life, what does the 'Legacy' actually do?
[Azrael, you must select a candidate to be your permanent subordinate or slave. Upon binding, they will be granted a 'Perfected Legacy' synthesized by the System.]
[The Legacy is a tailored path of power. Select the candidate, and the System will manifest the Legacy of the Lost Ages—reconstructing their potential from the ground up.]
Master White's intellectual curiosity peaked. "Is this similar to the metamorphosis process we underwent? Will the System use blood for their evolution?"
[Yes, Master White. However, the blood and items of assimilation for the subordinates are drawn from the System's archives of the Lost Ages.. remnants of power long forgotten. Your own evolution, conversely, stems directly from the primal essence of Master V.]
They both paused, considering the distinction. If Master V had created the System, then everything within it technically originated from him. Was there a difference between "System archives" and "Master V's personal essence"? It felt like a riddle with no immediate answer. Recognizing a dead-end, they pushed the thought away.
"Okay then, White," Azrael said, a strange, dark excitement bubbling up in his chest. "Let's get ourselves a slave."
He spoke the words in a high, almost airy voice, a stark inappropriate contrast to the grim surroundings. Master White simply nodded. He didn't care for the optics or the ethics. From the moment he realized slavery was a cornerstone of Terralon's economy, he had already factored a "Personal Attendant" into his long-term logistics. He wasn't a sadist; he took no pleasure in torture. To him, an absolute slave was simply the most efficient way to handle the "odd jobs" of life. Like, guarding the door while they cultivated, managing finances, or acting as a decoy.
Azrael began to walk, and for the next several hours, he descended into the bowels of the market. It was an experience that defied his memories of Earth. In his previous life, such things were hidden in the dark corners of history books or the depraved depths of the dark web. Here, it was a bustling Sunday afternoon.
The display of humans on shop counters like selling vegetables and fruits was a sight he wasn't able to put into words. It was the monetization of humanity. Men were measured by the breadth of their shoulders and the thickness of their callouses; women were appraised by the clarity of their skin and the potential of their mating capabilities. He felt "wrong" on a visceral level, but it was only superficial and not complete repulsion. It all felt like a play he was watching from the best seat in the house. Because he was a spectator with control and power. He only had a sense of wrong and never truly experienced "wrong."
The market was divided into sectors. The outer rings held the "bulk" merchandise, starving laborers from border wars, failed rogues who couldn't pay their debts, and orphans of the four Kingdoms. They were cheap, costing mere gold coins.
By mid-afternoon, Azrael found himself standing before a structure that looked less like a prison and more like a high-end auditorium or a museum. This was a "Shop of High Standards" if there was any standard to be found in the act of human trafficking. Here, the cages were replaced by velvet-lined alcoves and the smell of filth was masked by expensive incense.
This was the "Exhibition." It was where the elite were sold.
He explored the gallery, his eyes scanning the "pieces" on display. He saw a Tier-3 knight from the Vestra Kingdom, his limbs magically shrunken to prevent escape. He saw a twin set of archers whose eyes had been magically enchanted to never close, forced to watch their buyers. It was a theater of the grotesque, and it fascinated Azrael just as much as it repulsed him.
"The craftsmanship of misery is impressive here," Master White remarked sarcastically, his voice devoid of emotion as he analyzed the suppression runes etched into the floor.
And while exploring they had reached the final, most secluded wing of the auditorium.
The wing was separated by a heavy iron gate and guarded by two Tier-4 soldiers. Inside, there was only one "art piece" on display. Labeled exquisite and special. It was a solitary alcove, illuminated by a single, harsh beam of light from a crystal in the ceiling.
Azrael stopped. The air here felt different, heavy with a residual false authority.
The man was displayed on a raised stone dais, chained by his neck and wrists with obsidian shackles that suppressed mana. He was stripped to the waist, his back a roadmap of silver scars, fresh lash marks, and brands of various noble houses. His hair was a matted, filthy mess of salt-and-pepper gray, hiding a face that was pressed against the cold stone.
He was a shape of despair personified.
The placard at the base of the dais listed a tragedy.
[Item: The Broken Noble]
[Condition: Mana Core Shattered. Spirit Extinguished. Potential: Null.]
[Note: A Tier-3 Cultivator who once held the rank of nobility. A collector's item for those who enjoy the sight of fallen.]
Azrael felt a jolt of recognition so sharp it was like a physical strike.
"Haha.. I guess it is fate, White!" Azrael said with a dark, amused smile in the mental space.
Master White remained silent, but Azrael could feel his cold consciousness narrowing, analyzing the shattered man with intensity.
Azrael leaned forward, his eyes tracing the faded noble crest tattooed onto the man's shoulder, a crest that had been partially burned away by a branding iron. He looked down at the gold-plated nameplate on the pedestal, and read the name of the "art piece" aloud.
"Baron Rodrick Hawl."
There was a natural pause in the surroundings after the name was spoken.
The situation was poetic.
The coincidence was too immense to be anything other than the hand of Fate. They had just left the town of Millware, a place half filled with this man's former subjects.
They had listened to a storyteller weave a myth of a "Hero Baron" who had lost everything to the greed of a Marquis and a Viscount.
And just after a week, they found him in TradeHaven. Bound to chains, and as their potential slave.
Azrael stepped closer to the bars. He could hear the man's breathing, it was shallow and ragged.
Azrael reached out and tapped the iron bars of the cage. The sound echoed through the silent, expensive hall. The man on the dais didn't move. He didn't even flinch. He was truly broken.
"System," Azrael whispered internally, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. "If I take him... if I give him a Legacy... can you fix a shattered core?"
[The Legacy does not fix what is broken, Azrael. It replaces it with something far more dangerous and alien.]
Azrael's smile widened. He turned his gaze toward the back of the room, where a merchant in fine robes was already approaching, smelling the scent of a high-value transaction. The Baron was sitting in a cage, and Azrael had seventy Enos crystals. It was time to see just what a Legacy is.