The Second Day
Outside, the night air was cool, the moon hanging lazily above the city of Varnhelm. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked and was quickly silenced. The wind rattled a shutter two rooms down. Inside Mitchell's room, however, the only sound was his ragged breathing—and the occasional rustle of the mattress every time he shifted.
His body lay motionless on the straw-filled bed, wrapped in the blanket he found too scratchy, too thin, and too stained to provide any real comfort.
But sleep had claimed him anyway.
At first, it had come fast—like someone flipping a switch. His muscles had collapsed. His thoughts had shut down. Darkness swept over him like a tide.
But that tide had not been peaceful.
The nightmare didn't start violently. Not at first.
He was standing by the riverbank again. The sunlight was warm. The wind gentle. Slimes wobbled nearby like lazy little jelly beans, utterly harmless.
Mitchell smiled. He swung his sword once, cleanly slicing a slime in half.
Then again.
Slime after slime fell, and he laughed.
Until the laughter wasn't his.
A high-pitched cackle echoed behind him.
He turned. The river had gone dry. The sky had turned dark.
A group of goblins had surrounded him. Dozens of them.
They crawled from the bushes, the shadows, even the soil. They had beady red eyes now. Their teeth were longer. Their skin was peeling, rotting, and monstrous.
Mitchell raised his sword—but it wasn't there.
His hands were empty. His feet felt heavy as he couldn't move to run away.
The goblins closed in. One by one.
"You're weak," One hissed, voice distorted.
"You a coward," Spat another.
"You're just a joke," Growled the third. It wore his torn hoodie.
The fourth was taller. Broader. It held a twisted mirror, and when Mitchell looked into it, he saw himself—crying, bleeding, begging.
Alone and then they pounced.
Teeth sank into his arms.
Clubs shattered his legs.
He screamed, but no sound came out.
"Dance for me, monkey," A woman's voice whispered in his ear, sweet and mocking.
And then everything went black.
—-----------------------------------------
Mitchell jerked awake with a violent gasp, his whole body flinching.
His chest heaved, cold sweat soaking through his shirt. The itchy blanket was tangled around his legs. His fingers clutched at it like a lifeline. His heart thundered in his ears.
For several long seconds, he just sat there—half-upright in bed, eyes wide and glassy, as his breathing slowed from frantic to merely shallow.
The room was still dark.
The oil lamp on the nightstand had long since burned out.
Only the faint moonlight through the shuttered window gave shape to the walls.
Mitchell rubbed his face with both hands, wiping the sweat from his eyes.
'It was just a dream,' He told himself. 'Just a dream…'
But it hadn't felt like one.
His ribs still ached. His arms still throbbed. He could still smell the blood. Still hear the shrieks. Still see the way one goblin had tried to gouge out his eye with a spear.
'I should feel proud,' He thought. 'I survived. I actually survived that fight and defeated them.'
So why did he feel so… Empty?
His fingers trembled slightly.
He'd joked about being isekai'd. About slimes and harems and hero quests.
But none of those anime ever showed you what it felt like to almost die. To be outnumbered and alone.
Or how loud it got when your heart pounded in your ears, and you knew—truly knew—that no one was coming to help.
And yet… He was still here. Somehow.
Mitchell let out a shaky laugh. "Welcome to your fantasy adventure, jackass. Stupid Bitch Goddess."
He looked toward the window and saw the faintest hint of blue behind the shutters. Morning would come soon.
He didn't know what today would bring. Another quest? Another near-death experience? The Goddess messing with him to create even more entertainment for her.
But one thing was certain.
He'd get up again. Even if it was just to spite the goddess watching from whatever divine sofa she was lounging on.
—------------------------------------
The morning light filtered through the tall windows of the Adventurer's Guild, casting long golden beams across the wooden floor. The scent of sweat, steel, cheap ale, and smoke clung to the air. Adventurers milled about, shouting to each other, laughing, scanning the quest boards, or showing off trophies from their successful hunts.
Mitchell stepped through the front doors, still sore from the previous day. His hoodie was patched awkwardly with some thread he'd begged from the innkeeper, and his gear still looked like it belonged to a budget cosplay.
He shuffled over to the front desk, where Sera stood behind the counter, parchment in hand, already dealing with early-morning paperwork.
She looked up as he approached.
"I see you're back." She said, expression unreadable as she writing in her papers.
"I think I'm still sore from yesterday." Mitchell whined, dragging himself into a slouch against the counter. "I wonder if there is anyone willing to pity this poor man."
Sera blinked. "That implies you have friends to pity you in the first place."
"Oof. Right to the heart," He groaned. "But seriously…" His joking tone dropped. His fingers tapped anxiously against the wood of the counter. "I don't think I can do this alone."
Sera paused mid-writing.
"I mean… yesterday," Mitchell continued, "I almost died. I should've died. If I hadn't gotten lucky, if I'd tripped just once—bam. I would be Goblin stew." He looked her in the eyes, tone quieter now. "I don't think I'm cut out for this solo adventuring thing."
Sera put her quill down. She gave him a long look, a little bored and tired, but not unkind. "Then quit."
Mitchell blinked. "Wait, what?"
"If you're afraid," She said plainly, "then quit. Go find a different job. Become a laborer. Sell vegetables. Or go home—assuming you have a home."
Mitchell stiffened. "I… I don't," He muttered. "I'm a Lost, remember?"
"Then grow up," Sera said, voice still calm, not cruel. "This isn't a fairy tale. Adventuring is a bloody, lonely, and dangerous path. People die all the time. Especially F-ranks who think goblins are funny until they're being eaten alive by them."
Mitchell looked down. Her words stung—but not unfairly.
Sera softened, just a little. "If you don't want to die, then don't go alone. Join a party."
He frowned. "That's… easier said than done."
"It's really not," She said, returning to her papers. "Just ask. This guild is full of adventurers looking for warm bodies to fill roles. You ask, they say yes or no. Done."
"Yeah, but… I don't exactly have the best first impression skills," Mitchell muttered. "What if they think I'm weird? Or useless?"
"They probably will," Sera replied without hesitation.
Mitchell squinted. "Are you always this encouraging?"
She sighed. "The guild is not a daycare. We don't pair adventurers up like schoolchildren. You want a party? Go talk to people. Make yourself useful. Or…"
She paused.
"There is another option."
Mitchell tilted his head, wary. "And that is…?"
"You could buy a slave."
The words hit him like ice water down his spine.
"…Excuse me?"
"You're uncomfortable," she observed.
"Because you just casually suggested I… buy a person."
Sera gave him a measured look. "I'm not saying it's moral. But it's legal. And it's been done before, quite often. Plenty of adventurers who can't trust strangers or are too antisocial to form parties use purchased help. Most use them as pack mules. Others train them to fight. The law protects ownership—if that's what you care about."
Mitchell's stomach twisted. His mind flashed back to that horrible storefront from last night. The cages. The collars. The eyes of the girl who didn't even blink when she saw him.
He looked down, voice quiet. "No. I'm not doing that."
"Then your only options are to risk adventuring alone, or ask for help like an adult," Sera said, businesslike again. "I suggest the latter. But whatever you choose…"
She pointed toward the growing line behind him.
"Now please step aside. Some of us are trying to keep this place running."
Mitchell sighed. Shoulders sagging, soul slightly bruised, he nodded and stepped away from the counter. "…Thanks anyway," He muttered.
Sera gave a small shrug. "Try the east wall. That's where the greenhorns usually hang out. Someone might tolerate you there."
—--------------------------------
Mitchell stood near the east wall of the guildhall, fidgeting with the loose string on the hem of his patched hoodie, trying to psych himself up.
'Alright,' He thought. 'Just walk up. Introduce yourself. Don't stammer. Don't sweat. Just act like you're not a socially awkward loser who almost cried in his inn room last night.'
He inhaled deeply.
Then turned toward a nearby group of adventurers clustered around a table, laughing over a half-finished quest sheet.
One was a tall man with an axe larger than Mitchell's entire torso. The others—a lean rogue-type girl with twin daggers and a priest-looking guy with a gleaming amulet.
Mitchell approached with a practiced, forced smile.
"Hey, uh… sorry to bother you guys," He began, trying to sound casual. "I was wondering if you had room in your party? I'm still new, but I'm a hard worker. Got some unique skills. Killed some goblins yesterday, actually."
The axe guy gave him a once-over. His expression didn't change.
The rogue girl raised a brow and leaned forward, inspecting him like a vendor assessing a bruised fruit. "…What's your rank?" She asked bluntly.
"F."
"What skills?"
"Uh… Tongue, Sprint, Swordsmanship, and my rare skill Cure."
The three exchanged glances.
The priest sighed as that was his job.
"Pass," The axe-wielder said, turning away without ceremony.
Mitchell stood there, mouth still open to explain, but they were already ignoring him. "…Right. Thanks anyway," He mumbled, retreating quickly.
He tried another group—this time two women in worn armor and a short man with a bow. He barely got a sentence in before the man cut him off.
"Sorry. Don't need a corpse slowing us down." He chuckled like he'd made a joke.
The women didn't even look at him.
Mitchell turned on his heel and forced himself to keep walking.
A third group—a scholar-looking mage and a silent swordswoman—didn't even respond when he asked. The mage looked him up and down, scoffed, and returned to his drink.
And a fourth…
And a fifth…
Each rejection cut a little deeper. Not just because they hurt—but because they all came with the same look. That glance. One quick, disinterested sweep of the eyes.
The kind of look that said, "You're not worth the risk."
He ended up leaning against one of the support beams, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying to hold in the frustration building behind his eyes.
'Was this how things were going to be? Another weakling in a world that didn't wait for stragglers.'
He wasn't even sure how long he stood there before he gave up.
Mitchell pushed away from the wall, brushing past other adventurers with tight lips and a clenched gut.
The goddess had made it clear she was watching. And now that he had proven he could survive, she'd probably only turn up the pressure.
Another goblin ambush? Maybe a freaking wyvern next time?
Going solo wasn't an option. Not unless he had a death wish. That left only one path.
The one that made his skin crawl. But the one he couldn't avoid anymore.
Mitchell stepped out into the city streets, the morning sun now higher in the sky, casting long shadows between the buildings.
He didn't have to ask where it was.
He still remembered exactly where he'd seen it. That horrible place.
The slave market.
—----------------------------------
The stone road twisted through the merchant quarter, past fruit stands and cloth shops. Mitchell kept his eyes low, ignoring the vendors who shouted offers and greetings. His feet moved on autopilot.
Until he saw it again. That iron-barred storefront. That crooked wooden sign in the strange script.
Mitchell stopped just across the street. He swallowed hard, hands balling into fists at his sides.
People were walking in and out as if it were any other business. Some laughing. Some shouting. Some dragging chained bodies behind them.
No one questioned it. No one looked twice.
'This is normal here,' Mitchell realized.
And that made it worse.
Mitchell's stomach twisted. A part of him wanted to turn back. To run. To sleep another night on a terrible straw mattress and pray for something else.
But he couldn't. Not if he wanted to live.
And so with his heart pounding, guilt already whispering in his ears, Mitchell Alvarez stepped forward toward the entrance of the slave market.
—--------------------------------
The iron door creaked open with a groan far too theatrical for Mitchell's liking.
He stepped into the dim interior of the slave market, and the first thing to hit him was the smell—a choking blend of sweat, rot, mildew, and something too sour to identify. He winced, pulling the collar of his hoodie over his nose.
'Don't react. Don't look weak,' He told himself, swallowing back the bile rising in his throat. 'Don't say too much. Don't say you're a Lost. Just… don't. Remember what the guardsmen told you.'
The room was lit by enchanted lanterns embedded in the stone walls, casting flickering light across rows of metal-barred cages. Inside them—men, women, beastkin, elves, humans—each bound by collars of black iron. Some stared blankly ahead. Others curled up in the corners of their cages like wounded animals. A few met his gaze with empty eyes that sent a chill crawling down his spine.
Before he could even process the image, a voice chimed from the side.
"Welcome, welcome~!"
A flash of color approached. A woman—brightly dressed in silks that clashed wildly, every color screaming for attention. Her lips curved into a too-perfect smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Her tone was honey-sweet, but her eyes were practiced, sharp, and quick to judge.
She stopped a polite distance away and gave a shallow bow, hands clasped. "My name is Hanna. Is there a specific type of merchandise you're looking for today, sir?" She asked, already sizing him up.
Mitchell shifted awkwardly, glancing to the side. "Uh… n-not really. Just, um… someone that could help me with adventuring. Nothing too fancy."
The woman's smile tightened slightly, but she nodded, slipping into professionalism. "Of course, of course. Many of our clients seek battle-ready assets. Quality, reliability, and loyalty guaranteed. May I ask for your budget?"
Mitchell hesitated, eyes darting nervously across the room. "I have, uh… thirty coppers."
There was a beat of silence.
The woman's smile finally broke—flattening into a thin, unimpressed line.
"…Sir," Hanna said slowly, her tone dipping just slightly into disdain, "our cheapest labor-class servants begin at one silver. And if you're seeking someone capable of adventuring, you'd need to look in the five to ten silver range. Perhaps more, depending on race and combat proficiency."
Mitchell's heart sank. His face flushed with embarrassment. "Ah… right. That's… yeah, no, makes sense," He muttered, running a hand through his messy hair. "I figured. Thought I'd ask anyway."
He turned, already feeling the sting of rejection—again.
'Wait.' But then something clicked in his head. He remembered the only good skill the goddess gifted him.
He looked back at the woman. "Hey. Do you have any, um… slaves that are… close to death? Ones you're about to, you know… discard?"
The woman blinked. Her brows furrowed. "…Pardon?"
"I mean, like, sick ones. Ones no one wants. The kind that you… usually get rid of," He said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I'm not asking for top-tier. Just someone I might be able to, uh… work with."
She tilted her head slightly, regarding him now with more curiosity than contempt.
"We don't typically show those to buyers," she said. "They're… liabilities. Most expire within a week."
"But you do have them," He pressed.
Another pause. Then she gave a short, professional nod. "We do."
"Then… can I see them?"
The woman studied him for a long moment. "…As you wish."
—----------------------------------
She led him past the front rows and deeper into the back halls of the building. The air grew thicker, more oppressive. The stench was worse here—clogged with the scent of infection, urine, and unwashed bodies. Flies buzzed openly. The lanterns here flickered more dimly.
Mitchell tried not to breathe through his nose.
The cages here were smaller, darker, and far more silent. These were not the same people he'd passed earlier. These people were considered trash.
Living corpses.
The woman stopped at the final row, gesturing listlessly to the line of cages.
"As you can see," She said, voice flat now, "these are the unsellable. They'll likely be disposed of by the end of the week. If you wish to make an offer, we'll accept copper for the cleaning fee."
Mitchell nodded, though he didn't feel okay. Not even close.
His eyes scanned the cages.
Gaunt men. Limp bodies. Sunken eyes. One was already dead, he was sure.
And then—
One cage, near the far corner.
He stopped.
Inside, half-curled against the wall, was a young woman, thin, pale, and filthy. Her skin was bruised in places, and dried blood crusted on her arm. Her white hair was matted and tangled, partially covering her face.
But it was the ears that caught his attention.
Canine. Soft. Twitching slightly despite her stillness.
'A Beastkin.' A fantasy for many weebs.
Her breathing was shallow, but steady. Her eyes were closed, though her body shifted slightly with every breath.
Mitchell's gaze lingered. Something about her caught his eye, was it her exotic features, or the ears, or the shape of her form under the rags.
He hated to admit it but she was beautiful to him. Under the grime and bruises, there was a striking sharpness to her face. And maybe he was a hopeless degenerate, but his brain didn't care how dirty she looked—his hormones were already holding a tiny pep rally in his head.
'Of course this is what gets our attention,' He thought bitterly. 'Gods help me.'
He turned to the attendant.
"I want her," He said, pointing to the wolf girl.
The woman blinked. "...Her?"
"She's still breathing. That's enough."
The attendant hesitated. "That one is feral and won't speak. Bit a handler last week and is currently suffering from many ailments and diseases. She's more trouble than she's worth."
"I'll take my chances," Mitchell said. He didn't add that he couldn't afford anyone else.
The woman gave a slow, questioning glance. "…Very well. Hmmm. Twenty copper coins. No refunds or returns."
Mitchell nodded and handed over the last of his loose change.
As she went to unlock the cage, he steeled himself.
'Alright, Mitchell. You did this. You bought someone. You're going to have to live with that. But if you treat her well… maybe she'll help you survive.'