Chereads / A 20th Century Wizard! / Chapter 30 - Sold Off!

Chapter 30 - Sold Off!

Anton gave Ivan a firm pat on the shoulder, a final warning look, and muttered, "Don't cause trouble," before turning on his heel and disappearing into the maze of the dockside.

Ivan turned his attention to the two men left behind. One was still puffing on his cigarette, while the other gave him a friendly enough smile, though there was something unsettling about it.

"Not everyone's here yet. Just wait," the smiling man said, his voice casual but with a hint of mockery.

Ivan, deciding to play along for now, simply nodded and leaned against the wall, feigning patience. His instincts told him something was off, but he needed more information before making any moves.

Soon, the sound of shuffling footsteps echoed across the dock, and Ivan saw another man approaching. He was herding a small group of people forward, all with dirt-streaked faces, hoods partially covering their heads, and shackles around their ankles. They moved in slow, weary steps, eyes downcast, fear evident in their body language.

The man leading them exchanged a greeting with the other two, and they all shared a knowing glance. With a smirk, the two men stubbed out their cigarettes and picked up steel pipes from behind some crates.

One of them swaggered over to the nearest worker, yanked off his hood, and then shoved him roughly to the ground. The worker; a fellow Russian; looked up, his face pale and his body trembling.

"Old Dog," the man with the pipe said, glancing at the man who had brought the workers, "are you sure these folks are clean? We don't want any unnecessary trouble."

Old Dog, the man who'd herded in the workers, sneered. "Don't worry, second brother. No family, no connections, just stray dogs."

The worker on the ground looked up, fear flashing in his eyes. "W-What… what do you plan to do?" he stammered, his voice thick with terror.

The man sneered down at him. "Do? Just teaching you your place!" He raised the pipe and brought it down hard. The worker cried out, curling into a ball, but shackled as he was, he had no way to defend himself.

The other two men laughed, watching as the second brother continued to rain down blows with the pipe. His strikes were harsh, calculated to bruise and terrify without breaking bones. After all, these workers were valuable only if they could still labor.

Ivan watched in grim silence, his suspicions fully confirmed. This was no simple "job." This was a trafficking ring, a black-market operation enslaving people to work in brutal conditions.

The man who had been watching Ivan walked over, a smirk on his face. He picked up a set of iron shackles from the pile and tossed them at Ivan's feet. "Put these on," he said with a casual menace. He pointed his thumb toward the second brother, who was still brandishing the iron pipe. "Unless, of course, you'd rather end up like them."

Ivan's mind raced. So this was the trap Anton had set for him. He'd been sold like livestock, betrayed by someone who was supposed to be his "fellow countryman."

Suppressing his rage, Ivan gave a weary sigh, mentally chastising himself. 'So, I paid Anton three dollars for an introduction; only to be sold off to a slave pit? Not even a real job? Unbelievable.'

He looked up at the man holding the iron shackles, putting on an expression of desperate politeness. "Brother, we're both from Russia. We're from the same roots. Do we really have to go down this road?"

The man just laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. "Roots? I left those behind a long time ago. Don't try to get chummy with me."

Ivan's face fell in mock defeat, but he quickly composed himself, forcing a fawning smile. "Alright, alright… look, I'm really not keen on wearing those shackles. How about I make you an offer?" He leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I happen to have a bottle of quality wine on me… top-shelf stuff. How about we forget the shackles?"

The man's eyes lit up. "Wine, you say?"

Ivan nodded, watching the man's expression shift to open interest. He knew full well that the American Prohibition Act had recently come into effect, making good alcohol a rare and valuable commodity. In these parts, a good bottle of wine was worth more than gold.

The man leaned closer, his gaze sharp. "Alright, but don't even think about tricking me with that medical-grade junk they sell at pharmacies. I want the real stuff. If you cross me, you'll regret it."

Ivan gave a little nod of understanding, reaching into his pocket, all the while keeping his movements calm and collected. What he was actually doing was using his alchemical abilities to synthesize a bottle of his potent paralyzing agent, discreetly shaping the vial to look like an expensive bottle of wine.

"Here it is," Ivan said smoothly, pulling out the faux bottle and holding it out with both hands, his expression one of utmost sincerity. "Top-shelf stuff, just as I said. Please, take it as a gift."

The man grinned, his greed overriding his caution. He snatched the bottle from Ivan, eyeing it with satisfaction, completely unaware of the trap he was holding.

Ivan kept his face neutral, but inside, he was already planning his next moves.

Ivan had carefully crafted the bottle of paralyzing agent, shaping it to look like a genuine whiskey bottle. He even thinned out the formula just enough to make it appear like a smooth, aged liquor, filling the bottle with about 300 ml of the potent solution.

With a conspiratorial smile, he held it out to the man. "Brother, this is something I've hidden away for a long time; real, aged, illegal liquor. Just opening the bottle will get the drinker drunk, and anyone close by will feel the effects just from the scent."

The man's eyes lit up, intrigued. He took the bottle, giving it a little shake and watching the bluish liquid swirl inside. "Is that so? Sounds like quite a magical drink." He unscrewed the cap and took a cautious sniff. The unmistakable scent of alcohol hit him immediately, confirming Ivan's story.

This scent was no accident; one of the ingredients in Ivan's paralytic formula was a mix of whiskey and tobacco, giving it just the right aroma.

At this point, the other two men noticed the exchange and ambled over, catching sight of the bottle in Ivan's hand. They took in the scene with amused glances, recognizing this as a bribe. The illegal immigrants workers often tried to avoid beatings with small "gifts" of cigarettes or cash, but a bottle of contraband liquor? That was rare.

"Hey, got any more of that?" the second brother asked, slapping a hand on the first man's shoulder and reaching for the bottle.

The man quickly pulled it back, shielding it with his body. "We'll each get a sip, alright?"

"Like hell," grumbled Old Dog, rolling his eyes. "Who knows what'll be left after you take the first sip? Hand it over, let me take a little taste first."

"Forget it, I'm going first!" The second one reached out, fingers grasping for the bottle.

"I said I'd just take one sip, and you two can have the rest!" The argument escalated, and soon enough, the three men were bickering like children, each unwilling to back down. They cursed and shoved, each trying to get hold of the prized bottle.

Eventually, the second one managed to wrench it free. With a triumphant grin, he uncapped it and tilted it to his lips, ready for the first taste.

But before the liquid even touched his mouth, there was a sharp crack, and the bottle shattered in his hands, the paralytic agent spraying across all three of them. Shock flashed in the second man's eyes as he stared down at the broken bottle, rage sparking in him for an instant. But that anger faded just as quickly as he realized something was very, very wrong.

He tried to move, but his limbs went slack, his muscles suddenly unresponsive. His companions, too, faltered, collapsing one by one with dull thuds onto the dock. The paralytic agent had taken full effect.

Ivan, standing a few steps away, lowered his pistol, his expression steely. He approached the men slowly, his gaze fixed on the second brother, who lay paralyzed on the ground, his face twisted in fury.

"Damn… it…" the second brother spat, able to move only his lips as he glared up at Ivan. "What… what did you put in that bottle?"

Ivan's tone was cold as he crouched down, meeting his gaze. "I told you; it's the real deal. Just one whiff, and you're down for the count."

Raising his pistol again, Ivan held it leveled at the second man, a grim look on his face. The background noise of the dock swallowed up the earlier gunshot, so no one had come running.

"I'll ask questions," Ivan said evenly, "and you'll answer."

The second brother sneered defiantly. "Screw you… give me the antidote, or you're dead the second I get out of this…"

Ivan just shook his head, unfazed. He knew the man was bluffing, assuming Ivan didn't have the nerve to pull the trigger. What he didn't realize was that Ivan was beyond any hesitation.

"Not how this is going to go," Ivan replied, his voice soft but chilling. "Now, let's try this again. I ask, you answer. Otherwise, you'll be regretting more than just a lost drink."

The second man's confidence wavered, his bravado fading in the face of Ivan's unblinking stare. He realized, too late, that he was dealing with someone far more dangerous than he had imagined.