Chapter 10: Purchasing a Ghost

  The Free Trade Port.

  A place where morality was merely a faint line, easily washed away by the ocean waves.

  The wind here smelled of salt, rotting wood, and the cheap perfumes meant to mask the stench of sin. The sky above the harbor was perpetually gray, as if the sun itself hesitated to cast too much light on what transpired below.

  I stepped off the ship, my expensive leather shoes touching down on the slick wooden pier.

  A dark red coat woven from spider silk wrapped around me, shielding my body from the chill of the sea breeze, but doing nothing to deflect the cold stares of the crowd.

  Here, freedom was a commodity.

  There were no royal laws to bind anyone, only the unyielding law of the market: money exchanged for goods.

  I walked down the main street.

  Shops lined the road without a shred of shame. High-End Brothels. Illegal Weaponsmiths. Monster Materials.

  A signboard caught my eye: Magic Crystals & Grimoires.

  I paused. The glass display window revealed intricately carved staffs and faintly glowing crystal orbs. Beautiful. Tempting.

  But I walked past.

  My pace didn't falter, though a faint throb echoed in my chest. A primal envy.

  I had hundreds of gold coins. I had a physique capable of crushing stone with my bare hands. I was a generalist who could comprehend any structure merely by looking at it.

  But I had no vessel.

  I could not channel energy. Magic was the one thing in this world that absolutely rejected me.

  I lit a cigarette.

  "Haa..."

  I let out a slow breath, the white smoke billowing and blending seamlessly into the harbor's fog.

  I continued walking until I stopped before an old brick building. There were no flashy neon lights, no scantily clad women lingering by the door. Just a small wooden plaque that read: Specialized Labor Supplier.

  A slave shop.

  I pushed open the heavy wooden door.

  Ding.

  A small bell chimed.

  The interior was surprising. It wasn't a damp dungeon, but a warm, inviting parlor. Thick carpets, a crackling fireplace, and the faint, soothing scent of herbal tea.

  There were no screams here. No rusted iron chains.

  This place sold premium goods, and premium goods were not to be tainted by fear.

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  "Welcome, Sir."

  An elderly man wearing spectacles with a gold chain emerged from behind a curtain. His wife, a plump and amiable older woman, followed closely, carrying a tray.

  They looked like kindly grandparents waiting for a visit, not human traffickers.

  "Please, have a seat. Tea? Or coffee?" the woman asked softly.

  "Coffee."

  I took a seat on the plush leather sofa.

  The old man sat across from me, his sharp eyes sweeping over my attire. The spider-silk coat. The monster-hide gloves. A posture that was relaxed, yet entirely alert. He knew I wasn't a tourist.

  "Cigarette?" I offered.

  The old man’s eyes lit up. "Gladly. I didn't expect you to partake—it's rare to see a smoker in this part of the world."

  He took a stick. We smoked in silence for a moment. The trails of our smoke intertwined in the air, forging a quiet, transactional bond.

  "This place is remarkably... civilized," I remarked, my tone flat.

  "Naturally," the old man replied, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Goods sold under duress are defective, Sir. They are prone to rebellion. Sooner or later, they bite the hand that feeds them."

  He took a slow sip from his teacup.

  "Here, everything is voluntary. Debts. Bankruptcies. Failed harvests. Or perhaps... those no longer desired by their families. They sell themselves to survive, or are sold to salvage family honor. It is all entirely legal. Documented on paper."

  Brutal honesty.

  Unfiltered capitalism. There was no room for emotion, only the cold calculus of profit and loss.

  "What exactly are you looking for, Sir? Miners? Bodyguards? Or perhaps... evening entertainment?"

  "I don't know."

  The answer left my lips on its own.

  The old man didn't seem surprised. He offered a knowing smile. "Many come here searching for something missing in their own lives. One moment, please."

  He retrieved a large, leather-bound ledger. A catalog.

  I turned the pages slowly.

  Every page was a human life.

  Woman, 25. Healthy. Agricultural expert. Reason: Failed harvest, debt of 10 gold coins.

  Man, 30. Former soldier. Leg injury. Reason: Medical expenses for younger sibling.

  Girl, 15. Intelligent. Crippled leg. Reason: Unwanted.

  My eyes scanned down the rows, reading human tragedies reduced to mere statistics. I felt no sympathy. All I saw were the consequences of weakness.

  The final page.

  Girl, 17. Human. Education: Noble Etiquette, Estate Management, High Literacy. Physical Condition: Frail but healthy. Reason: Bankruptcy of a Viscount's House.

  There were no portraits. Only data.

  But something in the description caught my attention. High Literacy. Management.

  My mansion in the City of the Sun's Son was too empty. Too dusty.

  "I want to see this one," I said, pointing at the final entry.

  "Ah..." The old man hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Miss Alicia. An exceptional specimen. However... her spirit is somewhat 'hollow'. She won't rebel, but she isn't truly alive, either."

  "Bring her out."

  A few minutes later, the curtain parted.

  The girl walked in.

  Her hair was a dark crimson, though the tips had turned stark white—a physiological symptom of immense, prolonged stress. Her skin was as pale as cracked porcelain. She wore a simple, impeccably clean gray dress.

  She just stood there. Silent.

  Her eyes...

  I stared into those fading red irises.

  There was no fear. No hope. No urge to flee.

  They were the eyes of someone who had entirely surrendered to the world. The eyes of someone who felt their own existence no longer held any weight.

  It was like looking into a mirror.

  An Empty Human.

  My heart beat one fraction slower.

  A resonance.

  We were two hollow vessels, crossing paths in a shop that trafficked in lives.

  "How much?" I asked.

  "Eighty gold coins. She is highly educated, Sir. And quite... obedient."

  Eighty gold coins.

  A sum that could buy a small village. An absurd price for a "broken" human being.

  But inside my dimensional pouch sat hundreds of gold coins that were practically useless to me.

  I didn't haggle.

  I withdrew a heavy pouch from inside my coat and placed it onto the table.

  "One hundred gold coins. Keep the change. Buy the rest of your stock a decent meal."

  A fleeting tribute to my long-dead sympathy.

  The old man’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. His wife covered her mouth with a gasp.

  "S-Sir... we can perform the soul-binding ritual. A magic contract to ensure she can never bring you harm."

  "That won't be necessary."

  I stood up.

  I couldn't use contract magic anyway. Nor did I need it. If she wanted to try and kill me, she was welcome to try. It might even provide some sparse entertainment.

  Besides... looking into her eyes, I knew she lacked even the energy required to hate.

  I slowly peeled off my black leather gloves, tucking them into my coat pocket. My pale hands were now bare.

  Many people misunderstood my condition. They assumed I absorbed everything I touched.

  I didn't. Humans possessed 'valves'—their will, their very souls—that locked their life energy inside and prevented it from leaking. This was entirely different from raw, overflowing magic crystals.

  Touching a human was perfectly safe for me. Touching an unshielded crystal, however, was a surefire way to ruin my wallet.

  I walked up to the girl. Alicia.

  She didn't bow her head. She stared blankly at my chest, not quite meeting my face.

  Reaching out with a bare hand, I touched her chin, gently tilting her face upward until our eyes met.

  Skin against skin. She was cold.

  There was no sudden influx of drained energy. Only the faint, tragic vibration of a withering life.

  "Follow me," I said coldly, letting my hand drop.

  "Yes, Sir."

  Her voice was entirely flat. Like a machine responding to an operator.

  We stepped out of the shop together.

  The damp harbor wind brushed against our faces.