Chapter 3: The Contract Made in Filth
After nearly an hour of travel, the carriage slowed to a stop.
The air changed first.
It became heavier, tainted with the stench of waste, sweat, and decay. Even before the door opened, I knew we had arrived.
"The slums," the driver announced quietly.
I stepped down from the carriage without hesitation.
This place was nothing like the polished streets surrounding the Valemont estate. The ground was uneven, layered with mud and refuse. Broken wooden structures leaned against each other as if they might collapse at any moment. Children with hollow eyes watched from alleyways, their bodies thin, their expressions empty.
This was not a place for charity.
And I was not here to save anyone.
What I had come for was a person.
Someone I could trust.
In a world where loyalty was bought with fear, blood, or benefit, trust was a currency rarer than gold. And the most reliable way to obtain it was not persuasion or kindness—
It was a soul pact.
A soul pact was a contract engraved directly into the soul of two individuals. One became the master, the other the servant. Once bound, the servant could never harm the master—no matter the circumstances, no matter the temptation.
And if the master died—
The servant died with them.
Cruel.
Absolute.
Perfect.
Of course, such a pact could not be made lightly. Binding myself to a weak or unstable individual would be nothing more than suicide delayed.
If I was going to risk a soul pact, then the other party needed to meet one condition.
They needed to be strong enough to protect me.
That was why I was here.
This slum, despite its appearance, hid a power that rivaled even the Marquis himself.
The Marquis Valemont was influential, feared, respected—but in terms of cultivation, he was merely at the lower tier of the Spirit Link Stage.
The person I was searching for—
She stood at the peak of the Spirit Link Stage.
Strong enough that even the elders of the Valemont family would need to join forces if they wished to kill her.
Yet here she was.
Buried in filth.
Unnoticed.
I walked slowly through the slum, my gaze calm, detached. Edward followed a step behind me, silent, observant. Beggars flinched as I passed. Some lowered their heads. Others stared with naked greed.
Gold did that to people.
I ignored them all.
I wasn't looking for desperation.
I was looking for emptiness.
After a long while, I stopped.
There.
A woman sat against a broken wall, her clothes torn and filthy. Beside her lay a sack of scraps. Her eyes were sharp—not desperate, not pleading. Calculating.
Behind her stood another figure.
A woman.
Black hair matted with dirt. Black eyes dull and lifeless. Her body bore the marks of long exhaustion—old wounds, scars poorly healed, posture stiff from endless labor.
She stood there like a tool that had forgotten its purpose.
This was the one.
I stepped forward and spoke without preamble.
"Sell me your daughter."
The words landed like a blade.
"I will give you eighty gold coins."
The slum went silent.
Eighty gold coins.
For someone like her, that amount was enough to live comfortably for decades.
The woman stared at me, stunned. Her mouth opened slightly, as if she hadn't understood the words.
Then reality caught up.
"Y-young master…" she said slowly. "Are you speaking of my daughter?"
Her tone wasn't that of a mother.
It was the tone of a merchant.
A negotiator.
I raised my hand slightly.
"One hundred gold," I said. "This is your final offer."
Her breath caught.
She bowed hastily.
"Yes. Yes, young master. I will bring her to you immediately."
There was no hesitation.
No tears.
No protest.
She turned and hurried away.
Edward said nothing.
Neither did I.
After some time, the woman returned, pushing the black-haired woman forward.
"This is her, young master."
I studied her more closely now.
She appeared to be in her early thirties by this world's standards—still considered young. Her clothes were nothing but rags. Dirt clung to her skin. Her eyes were dead.
Not sad.
Not angry.
Dead.
She was not the woman's real daughter.
In fact, she had once been raised by a noble family of another kingdom. Groomed. Educated. Trained.
Then betrayed.
Framed.
Discarded.
The very people who raised her had destroyed her.
She had been found unconscious on the roadside, broken in both body and mind, without the will to live. This woman had taken her in—not out of kindness, but because free labor was useful.
And so the woman worked.
Endlessly.
Repaying a life-debt she no longer cared about.
Her condition was worse than the novel ever described.
Far worse.
I clicked my tongue softly.
"Edward."
"Yes, young master."
"Have maid's clothing tailored for her immediately. Clean. Proper. No insignia."
Edward hesitated for the briefest moment, then bowed.
"As you command."
The black-haired woman flinched slightly, as if she hadn't expected to be addressed at all.
I turned my gaze to her.
"What is your name?"
She hesitated, then spoke quietly.
"Aria… young master."
Aria.
The name fit.
I studied her eyes.
"Aria," I asked calmly, "what is it that you live for?"
She did not answer immediately.
When she finally did, her voice was flat.
"I live for nothing, young master."
No bitterness.
No drama.
Just fact.
I nodded.
"Good."
Her eyes lifted slightly.
"From now on," I continued, "you will live for me."
Her pupils widened.
Not in fear.
In shock.
"…As you wish, young master," she replied.
Something changed.
Just barely.
In her eyes—once completely hollow—there was now a faint glimmer.
Like a wanderer who had finally found a place to stop.
Edward returned shortly after, handing over a small pouch of gold to the woman. She bowed repeatedly, gratitude overflowing—not for her daughter, but for the coins.
I ignored her entirely.
My attention remained on Aria.
This was not kindness.
This was acquisition.
And soon—
It would become a contract written in blood and soul.