If one were to ask Kurosaki Kageyama if the afterlife existed, his response would come curtly:
"If you ever find out, please report back to me."
And if one continued to pester the man, and the conversation ever meandered towards the existence of God, his answer would come unexpectedly. Kurosaki Kageyama—a man who was not religious in the slightest—would confidently state; "Of course, God exists."
More surprising, however, was that the comment was neither PR stunt nor off-handed remark intended to get rid of the questioner. Kurosaki Kageyama was somebody who firmly believed in God.
Though, the 'God' he spoke of was not some omnipotent being in the sky. The 'God' that Kurosaki envisioned was, instead, a most cunning being on Earth.
Kurosaki enjoyed studying history the most as a child, for the human record was an enthralling tale of men trying to become God. His teachers noticed early on that he had a natural affinity for the subject. Placing himself in their shoes, seeing what they saw, and justifying their brutal campaigns; it all came as naturally as breathing to the young Kurosaki.
And he held great admiration for those priests living thousands of years ago; they were wise to claim the almighty was watching. For He was the wind that blew through the grasses of the fields. He was the water that flowed down the riverbed. And He was also the basket that collected donations in church.
What a delightful use of God.
Whether it be carved on stone tablets or broadcasted from a pedestal, it came down to influence and authority; the fundamental currencies of the world. Empires waged war under the guise of their deities, dictators built nations under the banner of divine right. In the end, 'God' was simply a word; a title bestowed to those who mastered their masses the best.
And then, it was Kurosaki's turn.
If one were to ask him why he chose to become a leader of men, he would simply shrug. Because it was fun.
Because he could.
And while he may have achieved it in a small sense, it was never enough. He could never compare to those who came before him. If he stood up and declared himself the supreme ruler of the world, it would be as laughable as planting a flag in the ocean and asking it to bow. Even if he managed to compel people to obey his command, the critters of the sea would continue to live as they pleased. They would continue to swim along quietly as they always did, oblivious to the God that reigned above.
Kurosaki knew this.
Which was what made it all the more infuriating.
To think that one of those critters unwound everything—a lone rat. Somebody who'd slipped beneath his notice, with influence comparable to a dead leaf in autumn. It was like a single grain of sand slipping through your fingers, and then being punished for it.
Wasn't it ridiculous? That was how Kurosaki Kageyama viewed his situation.
However, there was no denying that the rat had succeeded in doing something extraordinary. It was a contradiction. How did one with such little authority, manage to usurp the very rules of the world? If that was the case, then the rat was more of a God-like figure than he was.
'What a humiliation...' Kurosaki's thoughts returned in waves as he drifted through the darkness.
Up, down, left and right—all were the same; there was nothing to see, nothing to hear. There was no ground beneath his feet. No ceiling above. There was no sensation of wind on his skin. No smell of fresh air.
It wasn't even black, for there was no colour to perceive. Simply... nothingness.
'Is this what awaits humanity at the end?' Kurosaki wondered.
If it was, then he was glad he'd chosen not to waste time imagining such a place, for he could never have thought that the afterlife was so boring. Coincidentally, Kurosaki Kageyama was the type of person who did not like to waste time. And now, here he was, wasting time. Even more impressively, he was managing to waste time in a place where time didn't exist. If this place was hell, then it was one that was truly tailored for him.
***
"...I'm bored."
A voice broke through the silence.
It sounded gentle, a tone one might've expected of a young girl, but at the same time it was snappy—like the sound of someone grumbling through their teeth; it was unpleasant.
It was something that felt wholly out of place to Kurosaki's ears. After suffering torturous deprivation for so long, the existence of external stimuli set off alarm bells in his mind.
Kurosaki wasn't sure if he should respond. In the first place, trying to do so was impossible. Not only was there no body to respond with, but he had no ears to receive the message either. Was he finally getting to the point of hallucinating? He'd gotten quite used to floating in the void; but now he was starting to feel like he was going mad.
Kurosaki did the only thing he could: he waited patiently and listened as best he could. However, the voice itself seemed to have no intention of speaking again. The world faded back into silence, and Kurosaki was left alone with his own thoughts once more.
Not a moment later did Kurosaki realise he had a visitor.
A force was pulling him down.
It was unmistakable. Gravity? It hadn't existed a moment ago, but it was there. A sense of weight—something Kurosaki had been devoid of for so long. As if the void he'd been in was now being replaced by another; like a dream fading away to be replaced by reality.
'...'
Kurosaki didn't know what to make of the sudden change. But along with gravity, a new sensation made its existence known. It was focused; a pressure bearing down on him from behind. It lasted only for a moment. Then, it too vanished.
Pain returned to Kurosaki.
And in less than a moment, Kurosaki was no longer surrounded by darkness, but hurtling towards the ground face-first. The world exploded into motion, and Kurosaki was given no time to react to the dirt and soil rushing towards him.
'Shit!'
The physical world greeted Kurosaki with a dull thud. His face slammed against the ground as his vision blurred from the impact. He stayed motionless on the ground, overwhelmed by what had transpired. Slowly, the trickle of blood in his mouth woke him from his trance, and as he tried to spit it out, the taste of grit and dirt stung his tongue.
A roar of laughter erupted from behind him.
"Bored, it said? Bored?! Is my hearing finally going? This is the first I've ever heard one whine about boredom."
The voice belonged to a middle-aged man; a stocky, rough silhouette that Kurosaki could not recognise. The man was standing over Kurosaki's prone body, who looked like he was enjoying himself immensely.
Kurosaki struggled briefly, before realising his wrists were bound together.
A brief glance at his surroundings did not bode favourably. While the floor may have been crude dirt, Kurosaki found himself in a large tent, complete with a cloth canopy overhead, lit by rudimentary oil lamps. It was a simple enough structure, and the walls were lined with straw mats and wooden poles. Talk about a low budget operation. If the Yamato Group were under the same industrial safety standards as these people followed… Oh, the construction costs he could've saved.
There were other men too; all dressed in uniform leather attire, the same as the stocky man. Strangely, they were armed not with guns nor nightsticks, but with swords. Long blades dangled loosely from belts tied around their waists, forgoing sheathes. And behind them, large cages were stacked up against each other. If Kurosaki squinted, he could make out shadows of human-sized figures trapped within.
Kurosaki drew a conclusion instantly.
The situation was beyond hopeless.
He'd been ripped from the void—probably an extended coma—and thrown onto the ground. Supposedly woken up after being kicked in the back by the larger man. All of which was strange enough to be unbelievable, but then somehow, instead of waking up in the arms of a private hospital bed, he'd found himself on the dirty floor of a human trafficking operation!
Two distinct claps rang out, and the men quietened down.
"Now now, gentlemen, I believe house rules forbid damaging merchandise before the show." The stocky man turned to the side to the one who'd spoken. A tall, lean stepped through the tent flaps, dressed in formal attire. He looked much cleaner than the others, and unlike them, he wore a masquerade mask, hiding the top half of his face. His hair was slicked back, and there was an air of competence about him. "It's almost time for the main event; get things ready."
"Argh, don't be such a downer," the man replied. "This one's gonna end up worthless, can't you see? And you know better than I do what happens when a slave doesn't reach the reserve price," the stocky man said. "We get to keep 'em, isn't that right? Where's the harm in welcoming it as part of the family a little early?"
"Hum." The man nodded, looking down at Kurosaki with a critical eye. "You are free to make price estimates in your free time. Your group is assigned to security this evening; it is not your responsibility to take on the burden of ownership. There is no time to be messing around, Marcus. I can overlook your other misdemeanours, but today is a special occasion."
The man's tone was commanding, and the power of his glare wasn't hindered at all by the mask he wore. If the circumstances were different, Kurosaki thought he might've been quite good friends with that masked man.
"Yeah, yeah. Fine. Your suppliers have some serious issues to solve if this is the quality they're hauling back from that continent." The now-named Marcus shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Kurosaki with a smirk. "Well, suits me either way."
"W-Wait just a moment, I'm willing to negotiate—!" Kurosaki tried to move away from the man, but his blood ran cold as an inexplicable fear overtook him. Marcus' gloved hands clamped down around the back of his neck, and almost immediately, Kurosaki's body seized up and fell limp. Once Marcus' grip was secure, he effortlessly lifted Kurosaki from the ground.
"Pfft! This one is funny—it thinks it can negotiate! Hey, I'm curious. Who's the comedian that sent this one? There's no chance the Expedition would waste resources on getting this thing to the mainland."
The masked man clasped his chin at the probing question.
"...It was a personal favour. Nothing a hired hand should concern himself about."
"Oh come on, can't you at least tell me where to find the stand up venue? Or is it a circus this time?"
As the two argued back-and-forth, Kurosaki desperately struggled against the callous man's hands.
'What's with this guy's strength?! Why won't my body move?!'
Having his motor functions stripped from him so soon after regaining them was a nightmare; like coming up for a single breath before being plunged underwater again. All his muscles had frozen in place, and his body didn't respond to any command he gave it. It did not reassure Kurosaki that to the stocky man, his strange reaction to the grip seemed business-as-usual. Like a sack of potatoes, Kurosaki's limbs swung from side to side in the air as his captor casually carried him at arm's length toward the exit.
Marcus was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.
"She goes to auditorium one. Not two, or three, or ten. Auditorium one. You will place her in the unlabelled, empty presentation cage backstage; my handlers will take it from there."
The masked man relayed his commands to the mercenary.
They regarded each other for a moment, Kurosaki still dangling awkwardly at Marcus' side, almost delirious at this point. To the eyes of an outsider, it may have appeared an amusing sight.
"Hmph," with a small grunt of confirmation, Marcus was let go, and the masked man let him continue on. Moving through the drapes and heading outside, a soft evening glow greeted Kurosaki's vision. As his eyes adjusted to the warm orange sky, he could see clearly enough to notice a number of other tents. There were people everywhere, all busy shouting orders and scurrying about, lifting heavy crates and wheeling goods to and fro. They were dressed in strangely plain clothes, the rare one dressed in well-worn leather like his captor.
As Kurosaki's head lolled in sync with Marcus' steps, he caught further glimpses of his surroundings.
It was confusing.
There wasn't an automobile in sight, that was the first thing Kurosaki noted. Instead of trucks, outdated wagons and horse-drawn carts were scattered about, loaded with mountains of cargo. Kurosaki couldn't understand what he was seeing.
'How could it be so rudimentary?!' His mind reeled at the shocking sight.
Trafficking was a multi-billion dollar industry; there were sophisticated global networks dedicated to the buying and selling of human beings daily! What he didn't expect to find, however, was a scene of utter, primitive chaos—the kind that would make any seasoned logistics expert skin crawl.
There should've been semi-trailer trucks, docking cranes, forklifts, and the like. Instead, there were only the old carts and wagons, all moved by human hands, not engines. Kurosaki was utterly bewildered as to how he'd fallen into the clutches of such a backwards operation.
Marcus didn't give Kurosaki much time to contemplate the nature of the camp; trudging on through the muddy soil and occupied crowds to the rear entrance of a large building. The next thing Kurosaki knew, was that he had been tossed into a cage and locked inside. Once the metal bars swung shut, Marcus released his grip and Kurosaki's body was once again returned to him.
Although he could once again move of his own volition, the cage did not permit such a luxury. It was a tiny space that forced his body to stand upright, leaving only fingers and toes free to wiggle around.
"Tch. Ridiculous."
Marcus gave Kurosaki one last look before walking off with a sneer on his lips and a shake of the head as he muttered to himself. Kurosaki watched him go, unable to do anything but stare at the retreating figure.
At this point, he was beginning to fall into despair; struggling against the absurdities of the situation, whilst simultaneously ignoring the pain radiating from his battered body. He had no idea what he'd done to warrant being treated like this. Shouldn't he have been the holy grail of the human trafficking world? Auctioned off? What idiocy! Whatever happened to the tried and true method of ransoming? They'd make millions from that, and at the end of it everything, he'd be back home safe and sound! He didn't know what his captors were thinking.
Kurosaki's mind wandered aimlessly; he was still in a daze from the sudden turn of events. With a sigh, he leaned his head against the bars to take stock of his surroundings. His prison didn't offer much support for this endeavour, the tight space restricting the movement of his head.
It was dark.
Directly in front, looming red curtains rippled a few feet from his position in the cage. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. The masked man had said he was being sent backstage. The murmuring of voices beyond the grand drapes all blurred into one low hum. People were waiting for his debut.
Kurosaki turned away from the curtain, his eyes drifting to the right.
As he suspected, there were other cages besides his own; others in the same predicament. Inside those cages were—people. But not quite? It was tough to tell. From out of the corner of Kurosaki's eyes, he could see clearly the silhouettes of humans, but with strange protrusions here and there... the features of animals? Impossible.
He craned his head as far as it would go and got a clear view of the young woman to his right. She looked human, except for her strikingly green hair and pointy ears... An elf? Kurosaki's eyes darted to the others beside him, not daring to miss a single detail of the occupants inside.
'What the hell?'
They each had a gimmick, each with a different, exotic feature. On the left, there was a woman with tall, fluffy ears. Next to her, one with a bushy tail. There was a man with bat-like wings.
'This is insane! My captors are degenerates!'
Putting rabbit ears on a slave; what kind of sick joke was this? Kurosaki understood the need to make products more attractive, but this wasn't the act of a sane person. Not only had he been kidnapped, but he'd been kidnapped by criminals with a fetish for fantasy half-human hybrids! The place was like a medieval-themed Disneyland, with him as the overpriced merchandise!
The whole situation was so utterly bizarre, Kurosaki began to panic.
If the others looked like that, what about him?
What humiliating 'extras' had they planted on his body?
Before he could learn the answer to that question, the murmuring of the audience members quietened; a hushed excitement filled the air. Kurosaki felt a surge of dread. He heard the muffled footsteps of somebody walking out onto the stage beyond the heavy drapery.
"Our free city welcomes you, illustrious guests, to the two-hundred-and-fifteenth Grand Exhibition—humanity's most prestigious charity auction!" A man's voice echoed from behind the curtain, its volume filling the entire room, and the crowd applauded enthusiastically. "We are honoured with the privilege of hosting this year's event, and encourage everybody tonight to partake in tonight's presentation!"
Kurosaki listened to the man's ramblings, trying to drum up as much energy from the audience as possible.
"—a special occasion. For tonight, our generous sponsors have gathered together a truly exceptional assortment of specimens, of every type and description. From artefacts of old to exotic creatures of vast potential, our brave inquisitors and patrons have donated only the best of the best! All available to you, the discerning connoisseur, for the right price, of course!"
The audience cheered at the man's words; a measured mix of hype and sales pitch. With the introduction complete, Kurosaki watched as a masked employee—one of the handlers—emerge from the corner of the room to prepare the first cage. They walked up to the 'elf's' cage and grabbed two handlebars at its sides. It was only when it started moving away from him, Kurosaki saw the wheels attached underneath. The girl with pointy ears disappeared through the curtains as she was presented to the crowds.
"Shall we start strong? The first item of tonight," the announcer gestured behind him, "a pureblood elf from the far west!"
A new roar of applause greeted the man's statement as the elf's cage was wheeled into the centre of the stage.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you do not see this every day. With their numbers diminishing by the day, who knows; perhaps you'll be the one to help this dying race from extinction?!"
A round of laughter echoed throughout the chamber.
"Now, now, now—I'm sure you are all eager for details. Very well! At a healthy sixty years of age, this splendid specimen comes with a clean bill of health. No genetic or physiological irregularities, and no prior history of illness. As expected of a pureblood, it almost makes you jealous!"
A few more chuckles rang out, mostly from the older ones in the crowd with back problems.
"Now, if you are simply not satisfied with prestige alone, you may be thinking: 'what can this poor soul possibly offer?' Well, fear not; for this rarity is blessed with a talent for the arcane—!"
And the auction continued, and continued.
"—bidding starts at fifty thousand gild—!"
Kurosaki had lost track of how many slaves and 'artefacts' had been brought out to the stage in that time. The auctioneer was a master of his craft, using his skills to manipulate the crowd into bidding higher and higher for each individual. How did he convince them that they were buying real fantasy creatures? Either the crowd were fanatical role-players, the "gilds" they were throwing away was monopoly money, or they were gullible beyond belief.
What was more impressive than the host's speechcraft, was the host himself. He seemed to have near-infinite stamina, hawking the most mundane of trinkets like they were miracle cures. The words flew by Kurosaki without registering, filled with random jargon and… was that some latin mixed in-between?
"—a necklace of [Magna Augurium], forged by one of the great seven—!"
There he went, and the crowds ate it up. Kurosaki didn't even want to know what it meant.
As the sky grew dark and midnight passed, Kurosaki's legs screamed for rest; he shifted his weight from side to side, trying to alleviate the tension in his muscles. But no matter how hard he tried, blood pooled in his legs regardless, and he grew more and more lightheaded as time passed.
As cages of slaves trickled out onto the stage, Kurosaki eventually found himself as the last one left backstage. He slumped down against the bars of his cage and closed his eyes, praying for a merciful end to the night.
'Just get me out of here...'
The outside world grew indistinct as the auctioneer's endless spiel continued. The clanking of chains and the roaring crowds all blended into one.
"Oh, what's this?" The announcer cleared his throat. "Ahem, I have been informed that a last-minute item has been added to our list!"
The audience's excitement reignited, and they began to murmur amongst themselves. This had never happened before in the history of the Grand Exhibition. Even the auctioneer paused his spiel to wait for the commotion to subside. He continued:
"Now, I'm afraid we don't have much information on this mystery item. However, why, look here! The anonymous donor has submitted a reserve price! To the discerning amongst you, this should shed some light on its value! Let's see... bidding starts at..."
The host fell trailed off before finishing.
He blinked at the amended parchment he'd just been handed, unsure of what to say; his expression morphed from confusion to shock. He read the words again, as though to confirm they were no illusion. For the first time in the auction, the host faltered.
"O-One... One gild."
Outraged members of the audience began voicing their displeasure.
"Impossible!"
"One gild he said?!"
"An insult to our dignity!"
Listening from behind the curtain, Kurosaki agreed with that last comment.
The host cleared his throat as tried placating the indignant audience.
"W-Well, isn't this a surprise! Tonight has been full of surprises, don't you agree? Bidding begins at just one gild!" The host took a deep breath and began to speak again. "N-Now then, what could this mysterious item be? Even I am at a loss to guess."
He snapped his fingers.
"Don't keep us waiting; bring it out!"
Kurosaki's cage jolted to life and began its slow journey toward the break in the curtains. Kurosaki peered down through the bars of the cage and spotted a pair of hands that had emerged from behind. Kurosaki's eyes widened; he had no idea how long that handler had been standing there for.
The cage wheeled ever-closer towards the stage, and the drapes parted. A harsh spotlight illuminated Kurosaki, and a wave of whispers spread through the crowd.
An unpleasant sound escaped the host's lips.
"...Kghk. W-What is the meaning of this—?"
With a thump, the cage rolled to a stop, and the handler stepped away. It was finally Kurosaki's turn to see the people from whom he had heard ravenous bids all day.
There had to be hundreds, if not thousands of audience members, all wearing masquerade masks. They occupied a massive hall, adorned with crystal chandeliers and littered with opera boxes; easily larger than any concert hall he'd known in Japan. The seats were filled with all sorts of pretentious people; the wealthy and the influential.
They stared at him like he'd just gone around and gravely insulted each and every one of their mothers and grandmothers. Even behind their feathered masks, Kurosaki could tell they were livid, disgusted, even. And all of their beady eyes were down staring at him.
'W-What the hell did I do to them?! I'm the victim here!'
"Ahhh—!" The host's voice boomed. "Who is responsible for bringing such a lowly thing to this sacred occasion?! This is intolerable! Disgraceful!"
No one answered him. Instead, the crowd began to whisper amongst themselves.
"..."
Soon the audience began to shift and mutter, and the air grew thick with the sound of voices talking over one another. The host shouted over the din.
"Please, please! If you will all please settle down!" The host's voice was shrill; he was losing control of the room. "Rest assured, this incident will be thoroughly investigated! Handlers, take it back! Take it back!" Kurosaki watched as the auctioneer's eyes darted from the crowd to the stage and back again, waving his arms frantically.
A lone voice broke through the shouting sea of audience members.
"O-One gild for the black cat."