"Ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, we've got some heavy hitters this week. This right here is the youngest Storm-Blessed I've ever seen, only 14 years old…"
'I guess the inner-city folk can't escape conmen.' Jett thought, laughing internally.
"…Soul Released at such a young age. Just imagine the possibilities! This is an investment that can skyrocket! I feel robbed for selling it this low, but deals like these are why we're all here. He's a native of our very own Valley. Just look at the cuts all over his body. Natural gifts in their purest form. For the devout among us, I'd say with confidence that this is one touched by divinity."
The suited man's swindling pitch worked wonders; numerous hands of the darkened, masked crowd shot into the air.
While Jett was in a joking mood. As he stared into the masked crowd, he couldn't help but feel rage.
"Wow, already 400 Catas. 450, 550, 575, sold at 575 Catas!"
And with that, Jett was escorted off the stage and sent into a holding cell nearby.
***
Fate had smiled upon Jett for the first time, perhaps in his entire life.
Surviving as a child in Shacktown could've been the first, but Jett saw it as a major insult to make him live in such a horrifying shithole.
Even with his rocky relationship with the mysterious hand of the universe, Jett was forced to submit once more.
Everything Jett had—his life and Soul—hinged on his buyer.
Only fate could tell if his life would improve or worsen from his old, insignificant Shacktown life.
His dastardly forged fortitude could only handle one life's worth of hell.
If he was forced into another, he would want to go out like that crazed man did. Maybe with a little more flare.
Jett was escorted out of the holding cell and throughout the maze of hallways.
With his head focused on the ground, he heard the dangling of keys.
It stopped the moment the keys touched a palm.
"Here you are, sir. We appreciate your patronage." the armored guard said.
The buyer said nothing in return, while the guard walked off.
Now, Jett was greeted with the sight of fate's final judgment.
He was an older man, with black hair thin and greying.
He had a masculine and defined face, yet worn with age. Dark, wrinkled circles highlighted his dark eyes, along with a full, disheveled beard of medium length.
He and Jett locked eyes, exchanging stern gazes while the buyer looked down upon the slim and battered boy.
"You're a slum rat, aren't you boy?" he asked in a low, unnerving voice.
"…Yes" Jett replied.
'Is it that obvious?'
"Maybe that cheat of an auctioneer was right. Truly touched by divinity," the man unlocked his cuffs and pushed a cloak into Jett's chest. "Put this on, let's go."
Donning the hooded cloak, Jett finally began to feel like a man worthy of respect.
Odd for someone who just had their life nonconsensually bought with money.
But it all made sense to Jett as he stepped out the doors.
The pair left the auction house and into a dark alley. Unlike the trash alleys of Shacktown, this one was paved, with stone buildings blocking the high sun.
Following the buyer out into the street, Jett became infatuated with the sights of the inner city.
However, this was purely in the periphery; his sight didn't leave the buyer for an instant.
'Taking off my shackles could only mean he's either a fool or overbearingly powerful…'
Jett didn't think of himself as a genius, but he was no fool. This man was powerful, he could feel it.
Each step the man took—intentionally ignorant of the Jett behind him—tingled a part of Jett's instinct.
Locking his head onto the man's back, Jett looked around with his eyes to weigh his options.
The most obvious and glaring feature was the massive black spire in the far distance, the tip curving downward in a hang, almost pointing straight down, towards the lowest of the city layers.
It was the Spire. A distant tower which could hardly be seen from Shacktown.
The Spire was once built to house the revered founder of the now-defunct Central Plain Kingdom. When the Five of the South Ridge overthrew the king, it is said that they scorched the throne room with their combined hellfire, causing the tower's tip to droop toward the ground like a cane.
That's at least what Jett's subconscious understood, but today it served as a finger, wagging in the face of those lesser, sat upon by a single man of unfathomable power, known only to the masses as the King.
Around Jett were rows upon rows of tall, square homes with rounded, dome-like roofs. All were adorned with a uniform, grey brick and stone, small windows, and metal gates reinforcing the doors.
Many of the shops and stalls surrounding the main street were left quite open, built in a similar style, with their metal gates wide open for customers.
Other humans walked the streets casually, dressed in clean robes of varying dark colors. Jett could only see a pair of guards leisurely patrolling the avenue.
The paved roads were without blemish.
Wagons carrying goods were pulled by powerful Corrupted Bison, their ethereal bodies chained and horns shaved.
'He isn't looking at me at all, and I have no chains. I can make a break for the alleys, steal from these middle-city fools, and live better than I've ever lived.'
Survival was the name of the game, if he died, he would regret not taking this chance.
There were plenty of spaces to flee: tight alleys and dark corners that were perfect for an illegal crosser like Jett to hide in.
'Why was I bought? What does this man want to do with me, someone who has nothing?'
While searching for these answers, Jett realized he did have something.
It was his life, his Soul, that's what the man wanted.
To take Jett back to his house and murder him.
There was no other option but to run. Especially when he made escaping so easy.
'Why is it so easy?'
Was there more to this?
No. Regardless of whether this is some sort of trap, Jett had to take his chances.
He didn't need to overthink it. Just like how he didn't overthink his decision to run back in the Shacks.
Slowing down his pace ever so slightly, distance began to build between himself and the buyer.
Then Jett nonchalantly slipped into a dark alley and walked, as if each step was right, justified, and with purpose.
Like an expert in disguise, Jett walked as if he belonged.
Then he booked it.
Darting down the straight stone alley, he prepared to take a sharp right, a few unsavory-looking characters who littered the alley giving him looks of alarm.
"Hey!" one of them called out as Jett brushed past.
Jett paid him no mind, focusing on the alley's exit in front of him. He planned on crossing, then entering another one and bunkering down.
As he approached, however…
SHHHH…
A piercing wind blasted his eardrums as his head was thrown forward.
An invisible force sat an incredible weight onto his back, pushing Jett to the ground in a brutal smash.
All of his muscles twitched and shook under the pressure.
Wind howled throughout the alley as Jett's already bloodied front became heavily bruised, his collarbone borderline fracturing.
Then, the man appeared in front of the alley's entrance.
Jett angled his head upward to see his buyer, standing above him with his cusping, gloved hand outstretched.
A white glow emanated from his palm, his entire overbearing frame lording over the beaten boy.
The man cackled in a deep rasp as Jett's searing gaze looked up at him in a fury.
"Excellent job. You are exactly what I'm looking for."