Far from the city, near a quiet village cloaked in shadows, a transaction was taking place under the veil of night.
A trade between beings who, at first glance, could not be more different—yet they shared one singular goal: to extract profit from this meeting.
On one side stood two figures with mossy-green skin, their tusks jutting slightly from mouths that hadn't known a toothbrush in centuries. These were the ones who had discovered the unconscious body. And now, they sought to sell it—whether for coin or food, it mattered little, as long as it kept them fed another day.
Opposite them stood four cloaked individuals, faces hidden beneath deep hoods. Each carried a weapon, subtly visible even beneath their robes—a necessary precaution should these "merchants" attempt anything foolish.
These four belonged to a group known as the Red Eye Guild—an organization infamous for trafficking sentient beings. Human or monster, man or woman… it made no difference. If someone wanted to buy it, the Red Eye would find a way to supply it.
And the subject of tonight's trade?
A red-haired male, perhaps twenty-five years of age, with a muscular, athletic build. Roughly 192 or 193 centimeters tall, without a single scar or blemish. His face held a rugged, battle-tested kind of beauty—not soft or delicate, but charismatic in a way that suggested a life of discipline. Perhaps he had been a soldier. Or simply someone who took pride in training his body. No one present could say for sure. A short, well-kept beard lent him even more character.
Human-looking. Likely human—at least by the shape of his face, the texture of his skin, the anatomy of his teeth. All signs pointed to it.
"Some noblewoman's gonna pay handsomely for this one," one of the Red Eye men thought to himself. "Toy or servant, makes no difference."
"Have you stared enough? Gonna buy him or should we carve him up for meat?" one of the green-skinned merchants barked. His voice broke the buyer's thoughts like a thrown rock through glass.
He was the larger of the two, and though all four of the Red Eye wore masks, the lead negotiator's mask was different—its white-and-black patterns were trimmed in gold, unlike the plain silver markings on the others. At its center, etched in crimson: the symbol of their guild. The Red Eye.
"Don't whine," the golden-masked man said flatly. "We'll take him. But the price still stands—150 silvers. You know the times. The Empire's cracking down hard. Border control's tighter than ever. Moving a body like this could get us all executed. And besides…" He gestured to the unconscious figure, "…he hasn't even woken up yet. What if he dies?"
It was a game. They always played it.
The Red Eye Guild gave its handlers a strict coin allowance. Whatever they saved on a deal, they kept. So bargaining wasn't about protecting the guild's purse—it was about fattening their own.
"150?" the second monster hissed, taller than the first. "He's top-grade! I'd buy him myself if I had a use for him. You won't even pay two gold coins? Absurd. Five gold—or five hundred silvers. That's the price. Take it or leave it."
The four humans stepped aside, murmuring in hushed tones. Killing the sellers and stealing the body would be simpler—but rules were rules. Even criminal guilds had reputations to uphold.
Eventually, they returned with a counter.
"Three hundred twenty silvers," the man with the golden trim said.
The taller of the two monsters snorted, then leaned toward his companion. A brief exchange in their guttural tongue followed—words too crude for the Red Eye men to decipher. Then came a pause. Silence. Weighing profit against risk. Hunger against greed.
"Three hundred twenty," the larger one repeated slowly. "But we want food. Enough for a week."
A brief stare-down. Then, a nod.
"A week's worth," the guildman agreed. "No more."
A handshake sealed the deal.
The monsters took the coin and a bundle of supplies. The Red Eye loaded the unconscious man into one of their wagons.
No one looked back
— — —
Two days had passed since the exchange between the two monsters and the men of the Red Eye Guild.
A long column of wagons rumbled down the dirt road, accompanied by the guild's personal guards. They were there for one purpose only: to eliminate any threat before it could become a problem. Be it an escape attempt or border complications—they were prepared.
Fifteen wagons.
Each one carried a cage of iron, welded shut, with captives inside.
Each one guarded by twenty armed men.
Three hundred in total, clad in black leather and muted steel, marching in unison with their cargo of flesh.
The Red Eye didn't deal in bulk from one location. That was reckless. A person or two going missing? No one noticed. But ten vanishing in the same town? That invited suspicion. Investigations. Wanted posters. Trails that couldn't be erased.
So the guild split their agents into teams of four or five, spreading out across towns, villages, even roadside inns—gathering "merchandise" a little at a time.
Now, with their quota met, the caravan was heading home.
They would report to their superiors, move the slaves into larger cages at the base, and wait a month—long enough for any missing persons searches to lose momentum.
Then the auction would begin.
Then the real money would flow.
But this time, they were late.
Three days behind schedule, delayed by setbacks from smaller teams who struggled to find enough bodies. The entire convoy had been forced to wait. And time was no longer on their side.
Now they rolled through the southern region of the kingdom of Esgaria—a land known for its temples, farmlands, and piety.
Harmless, at a glance.
Dangerous, beneath.
Because Esgaria was home to the Church of Darkness.
The Inquisition patrolled the borders here.
And when they found you guilty, they didn't arrest you.
They unmade you—interrogation first, execution second.
Slavers? They lost their heads before they could beg for mercy.
Normally, Red Eye avoided Esgaria, taking the southwestern route through Olmerat.
But with pressure mounting, they took the risk.
They would ride straight through the Inquisition's den.
Their leader, the man in the platinum-trimmed mask, had bribed the border guards—bought silence with coin and threats. No inspections. No delays. No questions asked. In return, the guards risked their lives.
It was a trade. One danger for another.
Better to face the wrath of Esgaria than the wrath of their own boss—who would certainly punish failure. And the man in the platinum mask would be held responsible.
So they pressed on. South, toward Esgaria's shadowed borders.
Their only hope? Speed.
Their worst fear?
The Inquisition.
— — —
Two days had passed since the trade between those two swamp-colored creatures and the men of the Red Eye Guild had taken place.
Within the very last wagon of the convoy, something stirred.
The man with crimson hair awoke, his mind clawing back to awareness through a storm of agony. His head throbbed with a searing pain—so fierce it felt as though molten gold had been poured straight into his skull, burning his brain, his eyes, the muscles of his face… everything within his head.
This… "man?" blinked slowly, trying to grasp his surroundings.
The first thing he noticed were the cold, steel bars surrounding him—he was caged.
His arms were weighed down by iron shackles, heavy and unforgiving.
"Damn it… where… am I?"
His thoughts were scattered, fragile. The last thing he remembered—wastelands?
As his vision sharpened, he realized he wasn't alone.
In the same cage, crammed together like vegetables in a jar, were fifteen to twenty others. The comparison rose in his mind unbidden—but oddly, it fit the scene perfectly. The cage was cramped, bodies pressed tight against one another, barely enough room to breathe.
Most of them looked similar.
Short ears. Pinkish skin. Hair moderately spread across their bodies.
Humans…?
He knew the word. He understood what a "human" looked like. But he had no idea what he was. He couldn't recall his own face—his own race. And whenever he tried to chase that thought deeper… the pain in his head roared louder.
Besides the humans, he spotted two male figures that resembled them, but carried an unnatural grace. Handsome faces. Long, pointed ears. Elves, perhaps?
And five shorter ones, each bearded and stocky—dwarves, unmistakably. The interior of the wagon was cloaked in thick canvas, denying them any light of Zorkhalis
Yet even in this gloom, he could clearly make out their silhouettes—the outlines of the broken and the bound.
A voice broke the silence:
"Oi, finally awake, are you? Been out three days. Come on now, tell us—who are you, and where from?"
The speaker was one of the long-eared ones, his brownish hair falling over his shoulder. He looked directly at the crimson-haired man, his tone half-genuine, half-curious.
But the man didn't reply. Not because he wouldn't—but because he couldn't.
He heard the words…
But the meaning—the structure, the logic—none of it made sense.
Like hearing an echo from behind a thick wall. Words were there, but understanding was out of reach.
"He's just starin'. Doesn't speak the language? Or maybe he's one of those… how do you call 'em… idiots? Dropped on his head as a babe, I say."
The voice came from one of the dwarves, scowling beneath his beard.
A human beside him jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow, shooting him a look that said shut it.
What if he did understand, and was simply too dazed to speak?
They were all in the same situation. Bound, caged, and silenced by fate. There was no room for mockery here.
At the far corner of the cage, a young woman quietly sobbed, whispering over and over to herself.
"They'll sell me… they'll do things to me…"
No one tried to comfort her. Because no one could deny her fears. The men would be sent off to dig, haul, and bleed. The women—some would become maids. Others… playthings.
To shift the crushing weight of that realization, one voice—light, awkward, but determined—cut through the gloom.
"Alright, alright… enough of this depressing silence," said a youthful man named Dan, the youngest in the cage. His ash-grey hair fell in uneven strands, and a small scar rested just above his brow. "Let's talk about something else. Not who we are, but what we wanted. Our dreams, maybe?"
He hesitated. His voice wavered—not from doubt, but from sincerity.
"I… I wanted to be a knight. You know, the kind who saves people. Fights for the Light, protects the innocent. Someone who matters."
At first, no one said a word.
Then, slowly, a few chuckles emerged—soft, even warm.
Not ridicule.
But bittersweet approval.
A childish dream…
But to hold onto it, even now—that meant something.
Then, unexpectedly, the girl who had been crying before—muttering to herself about being sold, about what might be done to her—found her voice again.
"I always dreamed of being an actress in the theatre," she said. "I even went to auditions once, but… they didn't take me."
Her tone was quiet and brittle.
Then, after a brief pause and a short rest, the next one to speak was the elf.
"I always wanted to open an inn in Ellisil. But I never had enough coin. And by the time I finally scraped together what I needed… someone else had already built one. A woman, from what I heard, over six hundred years old.
After that, I didn't want to give up. I thought I'd try opening a guesthouse or a lodge somewhere else… but every attempt failed.
In the end, I came to the lands of men, hoping for a new beginning. But I couldn't find decent work, nor a roof over my head… not even enough for food. I fell into debt I couldn't pay back. And when the collectors came, they sold me to the Red Eye.
I'm afraid I'll never see the only elf I had left in this world… my family… my sister."
The story was heartbreaking, and the elf's face looked even more sorrowful by the end. If it hadn't been so dark in the wagon, the others would've seen the quiet tears trailing down his cheeks.
Once again, silence fell—this time for several minutes.
"So I started working as a tavern waitress. I was fourteen.
My father needed help feeding the family—three younger brothers and a little sister.
НTwo years passed, and things only got worse.
Eventually… my father 'gave' me to a man he knew, in exchange for steady work.
And through him I was… I…"
She couldn't finish.
Her voice cracked, and once again the tears came.
No one asked her to continue.
They didn't need to. The end of that tale had already been written, and it wasn't hard to imagine.
She had a delicate, lovely face—just the kind of "merchandise" that sold quickly.
And so, one after another, the captives began to speak. Sharing the dreams they once held. The paths that led them here. The mistakes. The misfortunes. The chains.
All of it was quietly observed by the man with crimson hair.
In the gloom of the wagon, his blood-red eyes began to glow—brilliant and deep. As if lit from within by a strange fire. They were so vivid that the darkness couldn't hide them. It almost looked as though rubies had been placed where his eyes should be.
He still couldn't understand a single word. But he didn't need to. He could feel their pain. Their longing. Their fear. Each of them carried a story that led them here.
And yet… he had no such story of his own. He had no idea who he was. No name. No memory. No past. Nothing, except—
"Antares."
The name echoed in his soul, carved into the very fabric of his being—like an inscription etched into marble by a long-forgotten sculptor.
"Well… it's something, at least."
He shifted his weight, settling into the most bearable position he could manage inside the cramped space. Leaning back against the iron bars, Antares closed his eyes. He let his mind wander—searching for fragments of identity… and trying to imagine what lay ahead for them all.
The road would be long. And where it would take them—no one could say. The night was cold, unusually so—even for the southern lands.
They were nearing the borders of Esgaria, drawing closer to Fort Estion—the checkpoint they'd need to pass through. And why exactly this route? Because there was simply no way around it.
Fort Estion was a marvel of strategic design: nestled between mountains and straddling a river that allowed direct passage by boat to key locations across the kingdom. Trying to bypass it would mean crossing treacherous mountains and swimming the river—at a severe cost to food supplies, manpower, and, most crucially… time.
Hours had passed since the man in the platinum-trimmed mask had begun weighing every possibility in his mind. He was the one in charge—the overseer of this massive operation, this bold purchase of living "merchandise."
He had intentionally delayed their crossing until nightfall. It would be safer under the cloak of darkness. He'd already sent one of his men ahead to negotiate with the guards at the gate, offering them a hefty bribe in advance—just to smooth the passage of the entire convoy.
The "Silvers," as his envoys were called, had long since returned and reported: the money had changed hands. The guards had accepted. But still, something gnawed at the back of the platinum-masked man's mind. An unease. A tension he couldn't shake.
Maybe it was the fact that they were crossing one of the most dangerous borders in the empire. Maybe it was instinctt.
Whatever it was… he could only hope things would go smoothly.
The gates of Estion were now visible ahead—tall, iron-forged, and heavily manned. The guards were clad in enchanted steel, forged by the finest blacksmiths and blessed by the royal mages of Esgaria. Shields and swords, spears and halberds, crossbows enchanted with glyphs of piercing and flame—these were no ordinary gatekeepers.
Roughly forty soldiers stood guard on the ground, and several battle-mages were stationed atop the walls, prepared to rain down death if needed.
The man they had bribed had to be someone of considerable status—otherwise, they'd have never made it this far without alarm. Even reaching the outer gates would've been impossible.
The caravan rolled closer, the lead wagon coming to a halt just before the iron doors. Riding at its helm sat the platinum-masked man himself.
Approaching him was the very guard they'd bought off—dressed like any other, but eyes sharp and voice colder than the night air.
Naturally, the men of the Red Eye had removed their masks by this point. Drawing suspicion now would ruin everything. Still, they kept their hoods up, shadows hiding enough of their faces to avoid easy recognition.
"Show me your pass," the guard said curtly, staring directly into the eyes of the man in charge.
The man—bearded, somewhere around forty, with a streak of silver in his otherwise dark hair—met his gaze with stern confidence. He wasn't particularly tall or imposing, standing just under one-eighty, but his presence was commanding. A sword hung at his side, worn but well-maintained.
With practiced calm, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a folded slip of parchment. A forgery, of course—but forged well.
In situations like these, confidence mattered more than truth. He handed it over.
The guard took it, pretending to read it as if it were genuine, then gave a subtle nod, playing his part with admirable skill.
"And what're we hauling tonight, Master Fowen?" the guard asked smoothly, inventing a name on the spot.
He said it to make the exchange feel natural—to not appear overly friendly or too rehearsed.
"We're transporting food, clothing, construction materials, fabrics—everything you can think of. It's high-quality imported goods. Planning to sell the lot in Liareth for a hefty profit. You've seen the papers. I assume there's no issue?"
"Fowen" spoke with confidence. His tone, his measured demeanor, the calm in his voice—everything about him screamed experience. This wasn't his first time dealing with bribes, smuggling, or sidestepping the law. He wore his crime like a second skin.
But even the sharpest eye might've caught a flicker of unease in his voice—a faint tremor betraying the pressure of the moment. Because no matter how seasoned you are, walking into the tiger's den makes anyone sweat.
"You're cleared," the guard replied curtly. "Safe travels. Proceed."
"Much appreciated, captain. May your post bring you glory and favor."
We made it… the man in the platinum-trimmed mask thought as the gate slowly groaned open. If the road stayed clear, they might reach the base within the week—and that meant no punishment from the boss. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling tension slowly drain from his body.
And then—
A voice rang out. Clear, level, and uninvited.
"And what is this? You're letting them through? What happened to protocol? You're supposed to inspect every cart. All of them. That's your regulation—as captain of this outpost. Unless, of course, you wish to call into question the integrity of the entire command that placed you here."
The voice was cold, composed—serene, even. No strain. No fear. He spoke as though ranks and titles meant nothing… or worse, as if they meant little to him personally.
The captain blinked. For a heartbeat, he was speechless—offended. How dare this man speak to him with such gall? Did he have no idea who he was talking to?
Red-faced and fuming, the guard snarled back, barking:
"And who the hell are you to lecture me about my duties? State your name, your station—now. I'll see to it personally that you're reprimanded for this."
The stranger didn't flinch. He answered simply, without a shred of hesitation:
"I am Idan Valter Oul. Grand Inquisitor of the Church of Darkness. Servant of the Dark Goddess. Is that sufficient?"
With a flick of his hand, a shimmering seal of silver and black appeared midair—hovering like judgment. The mark of his rank. The symbol of his absolute authority.
A ripple went through the Red Eye men. Silence fell.
The very guard who had barked so boldly just seconds ago now bowed his head low in apology—though the submission felt hollow, forced.
"M-my sincerest apologies, Grand Inquisitor. I acted out of ignorance. I—I didn't realize who you were. Please, permit me to accept the consequences of my insolence. But may I ask… what brings someone of your stature to this border?"
"I'm under no obligation to explain myself to you," Idan replied. "But you will face consequences—if I find anything illicit in those wagons. Because who would go to such lengths to hide their cargo—layered canvas and magical wards—unless they had something to hide?"
Damn it all… Fowen cursed inwardly. Of all the people we could've run into in this forsaken kingdom… it had to be him. The Inquisitor of Dread?
Idan Valter Oul. A name that struck fear into even hardened criminals. They said he was the strongest man in the Empire—perhaps rivaled only by the Saint of Light, Abraham, his counterpart from the Church of Radiance.
Despite his fearsome reputation, Idan looked deceptively youthful. A tall, well-built man, no older than thirty. Silver hair fell in soft waves to his collar, framing a face with piercing emerald eyes. He wore black, accented by the silver-embroidered emblem of the Church: a crescent moon glowing with divine light, encircled by a curved scythe.
Behind the Grand Inquisitor, ten cloaked figures emerged from the shadows, wearing the same crescent-and-scythe insignia upon their chests. Their presence was as sudden and silent as their leader's—almost as if the darkness itself had hidden them from view.
Watching Idan intently, the man in the platinum-marked leader discreetly gestured to his people with a series of subtle hand signs. The moment the inquisitors moved to inspect any of the wagons, his agents were to strike without hesitation. He knew better than to rely on the local guards for support. They weren't fools—they'd never cross the Inquisition. If anything, they'd likely join the fight against Red Eye, simply to avoid drawing the Inquisition's wrath upon themselves.
At Idan's command, two of his followers approached the second wagon in the line—just behind the one where "Fowen" sat. One of them reached out, grabbing the tarp with measured calm, preparing to lift it.
Red Eye's guards tensed, hands already resting on their weapons. The plan was clear: if things went south, they'd strike first and flee second. Survival was the only goal now—everything else could be figured out later.
The tarp came up—
And beneath it… crates of building supplies, fabrics, and neatly packed garments. Nothing suspicious.
The two inquisitors began sifting through the cargo, lifting each item carefully, inspecting them one by one. Nothing contraband. Nothing cursed. Just ordinary goods.
"Clear," one of them announced.
Idan raised an eyebrow. Really?
Could he have misjudged the situation? No… that wasn't possible. His instinctts didn't lie. Their behavior alone betrayed them. The moment his agents approached the wagon, everyone tensed. Hands went to weapons, hearts began to race. Even the one in the lead cart—cool-headed "Fowen"—had flinched.
"Well then," Idan said calmly, turning away toward Estion's gates. "If nothing was found, they're clean. Let's go."
Everyone was stunned. He'd only inspected one wagon. One. How could the Grand Inquisitor just walk away like that?
He stopped.
Still facing away, he added, in a tone as light as it was lethal:
"Oh, and one more thing. I noticed that in addition to concealment magic, you're also employing illusion spells. I wonder… why that might be?"
Fowen's eyes widened in disbelief.
How did he know? The bastard hadn't even come within ten meters of the wagons. Was it some kind of artifact? An enchantment? Divine insight?
It didn't matter. Their cover was blown.
Without a single word, the Red Eye guards sprang into action. No command was needed—they all knew. This was the only possible outcome.
The city guard responded immediately, weapons flashing as they met Red Eye's strike. From the walls, battle-mages began unleashing precision spells in support. And the ten inquisitors—Idan's chosen—entered the fray like wolves among lambs.
One of them cut down three opponents in as many seconds.
Even so, they restrained themselves. Unleashing their full power would endanger the wagons—and the slaves inside. They fought using only their physical prowess, while the mages above carefully rained down pinpoint attacks.
Fowen clashed with one of the guards, both fighters channeling their aura to enhance their speed and strength. The air cracked with every blow. But in a sudden feint, Fowen swept the guard's legs out from under him and drove his blade through the man's throat.
Elsewhere, the battle was a massacre.
The fortress guards carved through Red Eye's forces like a hot blade through parchment. These weren't common foot soldiers. They'd undergone rigorous testing and elite training. And yet, they were hopelessly outmatched against the defenders of Estion—men and women armored in enchanted steel, wielding magically forged weapons, and honed by years of battle-hardening discipline.
The most terrifying thing was that Idan hadn't even moved.
He merely stood there, watching silently as the inquisitors and guards cut down the slavers like sheep being led to slaughter. Amid the chaos, the platinum-marked man unhitched a horse from one of the wagons, leapt into the saddle, and broke into a full gallop away from the carnage.
"To hell with the Red Eye. I'm dead either way, so I might as well try to run."
With that thought, Fowen had already gotten far from Estion's gates, weaving through a storm of arrows and spells with surprising agility. But then—he appeared.
Idan.
With a single strike, the Grand Inquisitor knocked both horse and rider off course, sending Fowen flying twenty meters across the ground.
Desperately, Fowen drew a dagger and lunged at the man. A final, hopeless attempt to do… something. Anything.
But fate had turned its back on him long ago.
Idan's palm struck forward like a thunderbolt—shattering Fowen's skull in one clean blow. The man was dead before he hit the ground.
Without saying a word, Idan turned back toward the battlefield and entered the fray. The justice he brought was swift, merciless, and absolute.
The massacre lasted only six minutes.
All three hundred warriors of the Red Eye, along with every last member involved in their caravan, lay dead. A few wagons had been overturned in the chaos—clearly an attempt to use the slaves as shields or bargaining chips.
Idan Valter Oul surveyed the scene. His personal unit—all ten inquisitors—remained unscathed. The local fortress guard, however, had lost fourteen. Reinforcements, another hundred soldiers, had arrived toward the end… though it turned out their presence wasn't even needed.
As for the chief gatekeeper—the one who had clearly accepted bribes—he had somehow survived. His trial would be held within the city walls. Justice would be done.
Idan approached one of the overturned wagons and ripped away its cover. Inside, caged and packed together, sat nearly twenty captives—humans, elves, dwarves… and one red-haired man who stared directly into the Grand Inquisitor's emerald eyes.
Idan's gaze shifted to a boy with ashen hair and a barely visible scar above his brow.
Dan.
The same wide-eyed dreamer who had once spoken of knighthood, of light, of justice.
Now just a lifeless body—killed instantly when the wagon tipped and slammed his skull against the earth.
Idan gritted his teeth. With a flex of his arm, he tore open the bars of the cage and gave a calm but firm order:
"Release them all. Treat the wounded and bring the rest to our temple. As for the slavers—burn them. And the innocent…" — his gaze dropped once more to the boy's still form — "…bury them. With honor. In the city cemetery."
The guards moved quickly, breaking open cages and removing shackles. Healers stepped in to patch wounds, while Idan turned away and began walking through the outer gates of Estion.
But just before he crossed the threshold, he glanced back.
His eyes met those of the red-haired man once more.
"Interesting," Idan thought, his steps echoing beneath the stone archway as he vanished into the night..