The city of Vallu reeked of power and despair. The air was thick with the scent of filth, sweat, and desperation, a fitting atmosphere for a kingdom built on suffering. The marketplace bustled with nobles draped in silk and gold, their eyes gleaming with greed as they examined the wretched souls chained before them.
John Erebus Malos strode through the market, his steps slow, deliberate, his long black coat billowing behind him. A man built like an ox, he stood tall and broad, his body a wall of muscle that spoke of raw strength. His dark hair framed a face as cold as steel, his blood-red eyes burning with cruel intelligence. His tan skin, a mark of his Vallu heritage, was flawless, untouched by the struggles of the weak.
John carried himself with the confidence of a conqueror, his piercing gaze sweeping over the market like a predator surveying its domain.
John's boots echoed on the cobblestones, each step steady, deliberate, as he walked through the narrow streets of Vallu's market district. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and the rot of the city's underbelly. The market was alive with the sounds of haggling, shouting, and the desperate cries of the enslaved.
Vallu was a city that knew no mercy, where the weak were broken and the strong ruled. Slavery was the lifeblood of the ruling class, their power built upon the backs of those who had no choice but to serve. It was a world where everyone was a commodity, and John had learned long ago how to play the game.
As he approached the heart of the market, where the slavers set up their stalls, the scene grew more vivid. Rows of iron cages held men, women, and children, some staring vacantly into the distance, others trembling in fear. Their eyes flickered with the faintest spark of life, but it was quickly snuffed out by the cold, calculating gaze of those who passed by, inspecting them as one might examine livestock.
John's smile tugged at his lips—slight, almost imperceptible—but it was there. His gaze swept over the collection of girls on display. They were paraded like objects, their worth determined by the cruel whims of the market. Their expressions were a mix of terror, resignation, and defiance, but none of them seemed to notice him. They were used to men like him—buyers, looking for something to control, something to break.
A slaver caught his attention—an old, crooked man who only sold girls. The slaver noticed John approaching and bowed deeply. "Ah, my lord," he wheezed, flashing a yellow-toothed grin. "You have a fine eye. Perhaps I can interest you in something… exquisite?"
John smiled, a slow, cruel curve of his lips. "Show me."
The slaver gestured to a row of girls, their faces downcast, their bodies trembling. Some barely looked past their early teens. They were draped in rags, their wrists bruised from shackles. Their eyes, hollow and lifeless, spoke of shattered spirits.
John tilted his head, amusement flickering in his gaze. "You sell only girls?"
The slaver chuckled. "They break easier."
John hummed in agreement, stepping closer to one of the captives. A girl with dark hair and pale skin flinched as he lifted her chin with a single gloved finger. Her lips quivered, but she did not dare meet his eyes.
"Pathetic," he murmured, letting her face drop. He turned back to the slaver. "I'll take three. Have them delivered to my estate."
The slaver bowed eagerly, rubbing his hands together. "Of course, my lord. A fine purchase, indeed."
John who was about to leave he see something interesting there was one in the corner of the stall, hidden almost deliberately from the crowd—a girl with wild, untamed eyes, her posture rigid with both pride and fear. She was different. Something in her gaze caught his attention. A defiance that was rare in this place.
She was unlike the others.
Her golden-blond hair, though tangled and dirtied, still shimmered under the sunlight. But it was her eyes that truly held him still—sky-blue, deep as the ocean, filled with something rare in this wretched place. Courage.
She did not tremble. She did not lower her gaze.
She looked straight at him.
John narrowed his eyes. "Who is that?"
The slaver hesitated, then forced a grin. "Ah, my lord, she is trouble. Defiant, wild. Hard to tame. I wouldn't recommend—"
"I didn't ask for your opinion."
The slaver swallowed hard. "Yes, of course, my lord. But she is not for sale."
John stepped closer, his towering form casting a shadow over the girl. She still did not look away.
Interesting.
A slow smirk tugged at his lips.
"Everything is for sale."
Without breaking his smile, John turned to the slaver. "Tell me about her."
The slaver's smile nervously, and he stepped forward, to speak of his prize. "Ah, she's strong-willed, this one. A bit of a temper, but that's what makes her valuable. With the right... training, she'll serve you well." He paused, glancing at John with a glint of greed in his eyes. "For the right price, of course."
John's smile never faltered. His eyes moved from the slaver to the girl, studying her as though she were just another object to be appraised. "And what is the right price?" he asked, his voice smooth, calm, but with an undercurrent of something darker.
The slaver shifted, sensing the weight of the question. "For someone like her? I'd say... a fair deal for both of us." He raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting negotiation, but also knowing that John could pay whatever he asked.
John took a step closer to the girl, his smile fading slightly, replaced with something more calculating. "I'm not here to negotiate," he said softly, his tone low, barely a whisper over the noise of the market. "I'm here to take what's mine."
The slaver's eyes narrowed, sensing the subtle shift in John's demeanor. But before he could respond, John reached out, his fingers brushing the bars of the cage where the girl stood. She didn't flinch, didn't recoil. Her eyes locked with his, and for a moment, there was an understanding between them—a shared recognition of the brutal game they were both part of.
John's gaze lingered on the girl as she stood there, defiant, unyielding. Her posture was rigid, her eyes full of a fire that many slaves lost long before they were bought and sold. She was young—too young to fully understand what she was about to face—but she had spirit. And that spirit, John knew, would be his to claim. He could see it now, just beneath her hardened exterior—a flicker of resistance that, with the right touch, would be shattered.
His fingers brushed against the bars of the cage as he watched her. She met his eyes, her gaze unwavering, but there was a flicker of something else—fear, perhaps? Or maybe it was just the instinctive awareness that her life was about to change forever.
John's smile deepened as he considered the possibilities. Breaking her wouldn't be difficult. It was never difficult. There were always cracks in the strongest minds, weak spots where fear and despair could slip in like poison. He had learned that over the years—how to break someone without laying a hand on them. The mind, after all, was the most fragile thing.
He studied her features: her sharp jawline, the anger in her eyes, the way her body tensed whenever someone came too close. She would resist at first. They always did. But resistance, he knew, was just the beginning. She'd learn soon enough. He'd make sure of that.
The process of breaking her would be methodical, subtle. He'd take his time, planting seeds of doubt in her mind. The key was isolation—cutting her off from everything and everyone until she had no one left but him. Her thoughts would become his thoughts, her fears his to command. He'd play on her emotions, twist her perceptions, and slowly strip away whatever was left of her will.
She would be his, and she wouldn't even know how it happened.
The slaver was still waiting, his eyes flicking between John and the girl, perhaps sensing something in the air. John turned back to him, his expression neutral once again.
"I'll take her," he said, his voice low but firm. "And I'll make sure she's useful."
The slaver nodded, still unsure of the chill in the air, but too eager for the silver to care. John handed over the coins, a fair trade for the girl, though to him, the true value wasn't in the price—it was in the challenge of breaking her, of bending her mind to his will.
As the slaver unlocked the cage and handed her over, John's eyes never left her. She stood tall, trying to mask her fear, but her hands trembled ever so slightly. She had no idea what she was about to endure.
And that, John thought with a cold smile, was the most beautiful part.