CHAPTER 26: CRIMSON WITCH

I moved through the crowd with the kind of confidence that only comes from having memorized every crooked alley on a city map — the black market’s layout lodged in my head like a bookmarked strategy guide. I’d been here in-game, in imagination, and now in the flesh. It felt almost funny.

A short, fat man with a red nose and a grin that didn’t reach his eyes greeted me at the entrance. "Evening, dear sir. Looking for— ah— help? Companions? Entertainment?" His voice was oily, practiced.

"What do you think?" I said.

He laughed too loudly. "A sense of humor. Come in, come in." He guided me past stalls where someone sold cracked blades, another sold dubious potions, and a man in a hood balanced a small beast on his shoulder like a merchant’s hat. The market pulsed with low-light lanterns, smoke, and the smell of frying oil.

"So, any specifics? Or browsing?" the greeter asked when we reached a quieter corridor of cages.

"I need a worker," I said. "Household. Cooking, cleaning — someone who can run things when I’m not around."

He nodded and led me past a row of cells. "Domestic type, eh? Over here then."

The cages were lined up like grim market stalls. Inside were people of every kind: humans, a few beastkin, eyes hollow or defiant, hands cuffed, each with a tag around their neck. The man’s voice dropped to a practical whisper. "These are debt slaves. Not criminals in the usual sense — people who couldn’t pay back loans after bandit raids, failed crops, that sort. A lot of them actually walk in, hoping to work off what they owe."

That line — people walking in — made it easier to swallow. Not right, not ethical, but easier.

I scanned the faces slowly, letting the system in my head — the old-game instincts — do the sorting. Then I saw her: early twenties, straight-backed even in rags. There was a tiredness in her face, but her shoulders didn’t fold. She watched me with cautious amber eyes.

I tapped the mental command I’d been using since the system first blinked at me in the academy. A translucent panel appeared only to me, floating before my vision.

[Name: Lily]

[Race: Human]

[Age: 24]

[Personality: Resolute, Industrious, Quietly Proud]

[Condition: Malnourished]

[Skills: Cooking Lv.5 | Cleaning Lv.4 | Laundry Lv.3 | Simple First Aid Lv.2]

Jackpot.

"Good eye, that one," the merchant said, following my gaze. "Lily. Used to cook for a merchant caravan until bandits hit them. Couldn’t pay the debt for their lost cargo, so—well. Ended up here."

"I’ll take her," I said before I could talk myself out of it.

The man blinked, surprised. "That quick? You don’t want to see the others?"

"No need. I already made up my mind."

He grinned, greedy and satisfied. "Decisive customers are my favorite type." He squinted. "Price’s ten gold."

Ten gold. A laugh bubbled up — because I knew what ten gold meant here. Most people went pale at three. I narrowed my eyes. "You think I’m an idiot? Ten gold for a domestic hand? How much do you charge for a fighter? A pair of arms and a neck?"

He paled a fraction, then tried to recover his swagger. "Look, lad—"

I held up two fingers. "Two. No more."

He harrumphed and began the haggling dance: an insult, a flinch, a lowered voice, a final concession. After a minute he gave in and spat, "Fine. Three gold. Done."

Three gold. Still a purchase, still wrong, but not a robbery. I counted out the coins and watched his greedy face light up. He pushed a small parchment at me. "Sign here."

It was the kind of contract inked in legalese that smelled faintly of threat. The man insisted I sign in blood; the ritual was perfunctory and theatrical — a prick to draw a drop, a smear, the parchment absorbing it with an unpleasant quiet. The paper vanished like vanished promises the moment I put my thumbprint on it. A soft chime sounded in my head when the magic took hold.

A faint mark flared on Lily’s chest, just above her heart — a pale sigil that pulsed like the memory of a wound. The merchant’s tone turned casual again. "It’s a binding mark. Keeps her from running off or says no to your orders without consequence. Standard."

She stepped out of the cage, the brand on her chest fading from bright red into a deep, permanent mark. Her wrists were raw where the shackles had rubbed, but her posture didn’t crumble. She bowed so naturally it was clear she’d done it hundreds of times.

"...Thank you for purchasing me, Master."

Her voice was soft — quiet, yet dignified enough that it stabbed at my chest.

I exhaled slowly.

Business done — or so I thought — I turned to leave.

But halfway toward the exit, I froze.

I’d been idly flipping through status windows on the way out—habit from grinding side quests, checking for hidden gems among the "trash" slaves. Most were blanks: low stats, broken spirits.

Then...a floating status window hovered in the darkness at the farthest corner of the room.

I hadn’t noticed anyone there — no figure, no outline — but the system never lied.

Someone was there.

And the stats displayed on that window?

That was what made my heart drop.

[Name: Alicia Valemont]

[Race: Human]

[Age: 17]

[STR: 22] / [AGI: 11] / [INT: 45]

[Mana: 80]

[Skills:

— Fire Magic Comprehension Lv.9

— Mana Sense Lv.3

— Mana Control Lv.2 ]

’...No way.’

A chill prickled down my spine.

The Crimson Witch.

A future calamity mage who, in the late game, burned entire battalions into charcoal.

What the hell was she doing here?

The fat broker followed my line of sight and scoffed. "Ah. That one."

His expression twisted in disgust. "Worthless thing. She won’t even speak. No manners. Can’t do chores. Useless in a fight. Face ruined. Not even good to sell to brothels. No value at all."

"...How much?" I asked.

He blinked. "...You want her?"

"Yes," I said simply.

"One gold," he said quickly — too quickly — like he couldn’t wait to get rid of her.

I tossed him a coin without bargaining. He snatched it mid-air like a starving rat.

He went to the bars and banged them roughly.

"Hey! Your useless nap is over. Someone actually bought y—"

"Enough," I cut him off — my voice flat, cold.

He froze.

I stared at him without blinking.

"She belongs to me now. If you insult her again..."

I stepped closer, let the murderous edge bleed into my tone.

"...the consequences won’t be verbal."

His forehead broke into sweat instantly. "Y-Yes sir! My apologies!"

The cage opened.

From the darkness — she emerged.

Long crimson hair. Glassy red eyes. Face as perfect as porcelain — ruined by the deep scar running jaggedly across her left cheek.

Expression dead.

Like a doll whose heart someone had smashed.

She looked at me blankly — no hope, no fear, no expectation.

...I didn’t say anything.

Sometimes silence is kinder.

I turned and walked away.

Lily walked behind me.

The crimson girl followed — footsteps soundless, like a phantom.

We reached the surface, boarded a carriage, and as the city lights flickered past the window — I stared at their reflections.