The man's eyes gradually adjusted to the dimness, the haze of confusion lifting like a shroud. Shapes became clearer, and he could now make out the two figures standing before him, their forms outlined by the flickering torchlight that cast jagged shadows across the walls.
The first figure was short and round, with a bulbous frame that strained against the confines of his medieval garb. His tunic, embroidered with faded, once-bright patterns of gold and crimson, clung tightly to his corpulent form. Sweat glistened on his ruddy, jowled face, trickling down past the coarse stubble of his double chin.
A bulbous nose sat above a smirk that revealed yellowed teeth, and his beady eyes darted nervously around the room, gleaming with an unpleasant mix of curiosity and disdain.
Despite his rotund appearance, there was something shrewd, even sinister, in the way he carried himself—as if beneath the layers of flesh and finery lurked a man who knew how to wield power without lifting a finger.
Beside him stood a striking contrast. The second figure was tall and imposing, his lean, muscular frame wrapped in dark leather armour that clung to his powerful form like a second skin. The armour was worn but well-kept, each strap and buckle polished, each seam reinforced, as if ready for battle at a moment's notice.
His hair, a cascade of sunlit gold, fell in unruly waves past his shoulders, catching the torchlight and making it seem as though his very presence was illuminated.
Eyes as sharp and cold as steel studied the man on the floor, their icy blue depths giving nothing away. A jagged scar ran down from his left temple, cutting across his cheekbone, a silent testament to battles fought and survived. His jaw was set, his expression one of detached, practiced indifference—a predator sizing up potential prey.
The short man stepped forward, his boots scraping against the stone as he leaned in with a smirk. "Well, look what the gods have tossed back to us," he sneered, voice oily and tinged with mockery.
The man on the floor shifted slightly, the chains binding his wrists clinking faintly in the silence. His eyes narrowed as he met the blond warrior's gaze, feeling the weight of judgment in that unwavering stare. He could sense the menace radiating from both figures, each dangerous in their own way—one through cunning, the other through sheer force.
"Where am I?" he demanded, forcing the words out despite the ache in his throat. The tall man in leather did not respond, only tilted his head slightly, as if assessing the worth of a question so boldly asked.
The short man's grin widened, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Where you belong, Dra'kesh," he said, his tone mocking. "In the depths where even the sun fears to tread."
The man on the floor clenched his jaw, the ember within him flaring as he locked eyes with his captors.
The room flickered under the meager light of a single torch, casting wavering shadows that danced across the rough stone walls. The blond man, tall and imposing with sinewy muscles barely restrained by his fitted leather armour, surveyed the room with piercing blue eyes. His chiseled features reflected both arrogance and practised detachment. The torchlight glinted off his close-cropped hair, giving it an almost golden sheen as he spoke."Simply outstanding, merchant," he said, his voice cold but laced with curiosity. "Where in Aeons did you manage to capture a Dra'kesh?" His gaze narrowed as he turned his attention back to the man lying at his feet.
The short, rotund merchant, draped in medieval garb of faded reds and browns, flashed an oily grin. His round face, flushed with excitement, glistened with sweat under the flicker of the torch. "Dear customer, our guild procures only the finest slaves in the market," he declared, wringing his chubby hands together with a gleam of avarice in his beady eyes.
"Well," the blond man replied, taking a step closer, "Dra'kesh slaves are rare finds, but I'll need to inspect the product more closely."
The merchant's smile grew strained, but he bowed his head and snapped his fingers. "Tod," he barked, his voice losing its oily charm.
A third figure lumbered into the room. Tod was a mountain of muscle, with a shaved head and deep-set eyes that conveyed brute strength more than intelligence. Clad only in rough brown trousers that barely reached his knees, his scarred chest gleamed with sweat as he moved. He carried a ring of keys on his belt that jingled as he approached the cage.
Yomi Masaru, the so-called Dra'kesh, watched them all with smoldering eyes.
If these fools only knew who they were dealing with. The man they had reduced to a spectacle for sale was once the Heavenly Demon—the man who had sundered the sacred mountain of Makaiyama in two, feared by legions.
Yet now, shackled and weakened, confusion clouded his thoughts as he tried to make sense of his plight.
The cold iron clanged as Tod unlocked the cage and hauled Yomi out by his ankle. Pain seared through Yomi's exhausted body, but he clenched his jaw, refusing to show weakness. He was tossed before the two men like a rag doll, his limbs splaying out on the rough stone floor.
The blond man's eyes narrowed as he examined Yomi. He reached out, tilting Yomi's chin up with a finger, noting the hollow cheeks and the sharp glint of defiance in his eyes.
"Huh," the blond man sighed, stepping back and crossing his arms over his chest.
The merchant's smile faltered, turning into a thin line of frustration. "Is there a problem, dear customer?" he asked, his voice straining to maintain politeness.
"It's obvious," the blond said, tapping a booted foot impatiently.
"This Dra'kesh is malnourished. Look at him. He's barely fit to stand, let alone be used for what I need."
His eyes glimmered with calculation. "I'm looking for bait—a slave to use in the dungeons. He's hardly worth full price."
'Here we go,' the merchant thought, suppressing a groan. He'd seen this tactic before. "How much, then?" he said, voice clipped.
"Half the price," the blond man said smoothly.
"Half?" The merchant's eyes bulged with indignation. "Dear customer, this is entirely unprofessional!"
The blond shrugged. "Consider the cost to discipline him and the food he'll need to regain his strength. Half is fair."
The merchant clicked his tongue, frustration bubbling beneath his calm exterior. He had hoped for a higher profit, but the look in the customer's eyes told him negotiation was futile. "Fine," he spat, snapping his fingers once more. "Tod."
With a grunt, Tod hefted Yomi onto his broad shoulder like a sack of grain. Yomi's vision blurred as his body swayed, but through the haze, the embers of his pride and wrath refused to be extinguished.
The group filed out of the dark chamber, the torch casting long shadows that seemed to whisper of retribution yet to come.