Hollow Crown: SSS-Ranked Godslayer’s Rise

Unaware of the storm brewing behind them, Ethan and Lirael strolled through the bustling streets, their laughter mingling with the clamor of merchants hawking wares and the jingling of coin pouches. The city was alive—spices perfumed the air, the cries of hawkers competed with the bray of donkeys, and the glow of late-afternoon sun painted the cobblestones gold.

Ethan leaned lazily against a fruit stand as they walked, biting into a crisp red apple he hadn't paid for—tossing a silver to the vendor only after taking the first juicy bite.

"So… healers," he said between chews. "What's the going price? If I'm spending coin, I'd rather know what I'm bargaining for."

Lirael gave him a sidelong look, her lips twitching despite herself. "Depends on the quality. Apprentice healers might go for tens to gold. Skilled ones? In fifties. But the best ones…" She held up two fingers. "…start at hundreds. And that's just the asking price."

Ethan whistled, tossing the apple core into a passing cart. "Hundreds, huh? For someone to tell me to drink more water and stop bleeding so much? Sounds like robbery."

"You're impossible." She rolled her eyes, though her smile betrayed her amusement. "It's not just about wounds. A true healer can extend lives, strengthen mana flow, even revive nearly dead. The right one is worth more than gold."

Ethan grinned wickedly. "So what you're saying is… if I buy one, I get both a walking potion and a scolding mother figure?"

Lirael snorted, failing to suppress her laugh. "Exactly. And you definitely need the second part."

He leaned closer, voice dropping just enough to tease. "Or maybe I'll just find one who'll fuss over me less than you do."

Her cheeks colored faintly, and she gave him a shove. "Keep talking like that and I'll make sure no healer wants to deal with you."

Ethan only laughed louder, the sound carefree, echoing down the busy street.

To the world around them, they were nothing more than two adventurers joking after a long day. Neither of them realized how close a predator's gaze was already circling from the shadows they couldn't see.

---

The laughter from earlier faded as Ethan and Lirael moved deeper into the city. The air grew heavier, the colorful vibrancy of the market giving way to a dull, stagnant atmosphere.

The streets narrowed into a district where sunlight seemed reluctant to linger. A rancid stench clung to the air—sweat, blood, unwashed flesh. Lirael's steps slowed, her blue eyes flicking uneasily at the scenes unfolding in the shadows.

Men and women of varied races sat slumped against cold stone walls, iron chains biting into their wrists and ankles. Thick, rune-inscribed collars clasped tightly around their necks, pulsing faintly with suppression magic. Their faces told stories without words—

Some were hollow, their gazes vacant as though their souls had long since fled.

Others wore expressions of dull resignation, eyes fixed on nothing, lips cracked and dry.

A few flinched at every passing footstep, trembling like animals that had been beaten too many times.

There were those with old scars crawling across their arms, and some still bore fresh wounds—bandaged poorly or left untreated.

The oppressive silence was broken only by the occasional bark of a slaver shouting commands, or the clink of chains dragging across the cobblestone.

Ethan walked through it all without slowing, his sharp eyes scanning each row, each chained figure. Not a flicker of interest showed on his face. Lirael, however, tensed at every glance, her fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger as if by instinct. Still, she followed him—her chin raised, her steps steady, refusing to falter even as unease twisted in her chest.

He asked several traders with larger stockpiles, his tone casual.

"A healer. Do you have one?"

Every time, the answer was the same—shakes of the head, a shrug, or a mocking laugh. Healers were rarer than gold, and those who did end up enslaved were already bought before they ever reached the public chains.

After wandering for some time, Ethan's gaze caught on a sturdier building amidst the dilapidated stalls. Its sign read in carved oak letters: Conner's Trade House.

He smirked faintly. "Looks promising."

They entered.

The air inside was a touch cleaner, scented faintly with tea leaves and polished wood, but the weight of bondage still lingered. They were greeted by a servant in a crisp waiter's uniform—polite smile, lowered eyes. Yet around his neck was the same black collar, a silent brand of his status.

"Welcome, honored guests," the servant said smoothly, bowing. "Are you here… to purchase a slave?"

"Yes," Ethan replied without hesitation.

"Please, this way."

They were led into a sitting area furnished with cushioned chairs and low tables. The servant bowed again, excused himself, and vanished behind a side door.

Moments later, a man appeared—a merchant with a practiced smile and eyes sharp with calculation. His fine robe marked him as someone who prospered off this business. His gaze swept briefly over Ethan before lingering on Lirael, noting the maid's attire, the subtle aura of magic around her. His grin widened; clearly, he saw wealth before him.

"An honor to host you," the merchant said warmly as he took his seat. He snapped his fingers, and the collared servant reappeared, pouring steaming tea into porcelain cups.

Ethan picked his up lazily, inhaling the faint floral scent, and then set it down untouched. "We're here for a slave," he said simply.

The merchant's smile deepened. "Of course. But before that—may I ask if you know the difference between those traders who sell their… merchandise in the open streets, and houses such as ours?"

Ethan raised a brow. "Not particularly."

"Then allow me to enlighten you," the merchant said, leaning forward slightly, his tone dripping with confidence.

"Those in the streets deal in scraps—runaways, criminals, vagrants captured by chance. They are of uncertain background, no guarantee of health or purity, and their contracts often… unstable. One might purchase a body, but not loyalty." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Here, however—" his voice grew smooth, like oil poured over silk—"our stock comes only through legal and recognized channels. War prisoners taken by the crown and sold through official decree. Families who sell their children or kin to pay off crushing debts. Criminals who chose servitude over execution. Even indentured workers who failed their contracts."

His eyes gleamed. "Each one is documented. Certified. Guaranteed. We provide not just a slave, but assurance. And above all…" He paused, studying Ethan carefully. "We vouch for their purity. Be it skill, bloodline, or body—you will know exactly what you are purchasing. That, good sir, is something no back-alley mongrel can offer."

The word purity lingered in the air, heavy with implication.

Ethan leaned back, crossing his arms. His expression was unreadable, but the slight curve of his lips showed his interest.

"…Good," he said at last.

The merchant's grin widened, certain now of his customer's intent.