I set a brisk pace as I headed toward the slave merchant’s estate. It was roughly 1pm, the peak of the midday heat. While the area immediately surrounding the dungeon entrance was relatively quiet—most raiders were either deep in the corridors or still sleeping off the previous night’s exhaustion—the main market district was a different story entirely. The streets were a cacophony of industrious noise. I walked past blacksmithing stalls where the rhythmic, metallic ring of hammers against anvils provided a steady backbeat to the city's life. Shop owners were busy shouting for customers, errand boys scurried through the dust with brooms and pails, and the scent of grilled meats and pungent spices hung heavy in the warm air.

  When I arrived at Zaydanov's establishment, I was greeted with a level of professionalism that exceeded my previous visit. A servant guided me immediately to a private waiting room, a comfortable space furnished with dark wood and velvet-lined chairs. After only a few minutes, the door opened and Zaydanov himself entered, followed by a servant carrying a silver tray with two steaming cups.

  “Welcome again, sir,” Zaydanov said, his voice smooth and welcoming. He took a seat opposite me, gesturing for the servant to set the tea down. “Am I correct in assuming that you have successfully resolved your financial constraints?”

  He was a merchant through and through, getting straight to the point without the need for excessive pleasantries. I appreciated the directness. I knew that if I had shown up empty-handed again, he would have likely viewed me as a nuisance—a window-shopper wasting a professional's time. Fortunately, the morning's run through the ninth floor had been more than enough to bridge the gap in my savings.

  “Thank you. If your bottom price for your stock hasn't shifted since we last spoke, then yes—I am here to finalize a purchase today,” I said, maintaining a calm, confident exterior despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach.

  Zaydanov’s expression brightened instantly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I am delighted to hear that, sir. We have sold a few of the individuals I showed you previously, but several remain. We also received a new shipment just this morning, though they have only just begun their foundational education, and I would be ashamed to show them to a customer of your caliber in their current state.”

  I nodded. I didn't have the time or the desire to wait for a "new batch" to be trained. I needed someone who is capable of at least stepping into the seventh or eighth floor with me. “In that case, I’d like to review the options available from our last meeting,” I said. My mind was already set on the catkin I had seen before, provided he was still available.

  Zaydanov nodded in agreement. “Of course, sir. We shall proceed to the viewing room as soon as we have finished our tea. My men will need a few moments to ensure they are presentable for your inspection. In the meantime, please enjoy this brew. It is a rare blend from the Hazaroth Union, a sovereign territory far to the north of the Targonia Kingdom. We have received quite a bit of praise regarding its profile.”

  I followed his suggestion and took a sip. It wasn't an "otherworldly" flavor—it didn't taste of magic or stardust—but it was undeniably a high-quality tea. It was deep and earthy, with a subtle floral aftertaste that left a genuine soothing sensation in my throat as I swallowed. Considering the medieval technological level of this world, securing a preserved tea from a distant northern union must have been a logistical nightmare.

  “This is excellent,” I remarked. “Easily the best drink I’ve had since arriving in the city. I’m surprised you serve this to every customer. It can't be cheap to import.”

  Zaydanov looked genuinely flattered, leaning back in his chair with a pleased hum. “I am a merchant, Mr. Han. It is my fundamental duty to provide my clients with the best hospitality and the finest merchandise. While it is true that foreign goods carry a premium, I maintain certain... connections. Those relationships allow me to make such luxuries affordable enough to share with my most valued patrons.”

  I found myself feeling a growing respect for the man. Regardless of the nature of his trade, his dedication to the "craft" of merchandise was undeniable. On Earth, I had always respected people who were masters of their field, whether their work was virtuous or morally gray. There was a certain dignity in the effort required to become truly experienced at something.

  “I’m impressed by your dedication,” I said. “Even though you are ultimately motivated by profit, you ensure your customers leave with a good impression of your house. That’s a rare trait.”

  Zaydanov smiled, acknowledging the compliment with a slight incline of his head. He seemed to understand the subtext of my words. “I am happy to hear you say so, sir. Now, if I am not overstepping my boundaries... may I ask what line of work allowed you to secure such a sum so quickly? I was under the impression it would take you several weeks to close the gap.”

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  “It’s no secret,” I replied casually. “I already had a significant portion of the funds saved. I simply spent the last few days hunting in the deeper floors of the dungeon to finish the amount.”

  “Ah, I should have guessed,” Zaydanov chuckled. “You were the one who brought in that bandit leader, after all. For a man of your capabilities, I suppose the lower floors are little more than a stroll in the park.”

  As we finished the tea, we drifted into a bit of city gossip. Zaydanov confirmed what the dungeon guard had told me—that the current record for the delve was the 53rd floor. However, he added a layer of detail I hadn't heard before. Apparently, the guards' commander—the knight who reached the 53rd floor—was not actually the strongest man in Targashar.

  There were knights within the castle walls, personal retainers to Viscount Narevon Azarhald, who were whispered to be significantly more powerful. Some of them belonged to ancient noble lineages and possessed family heirlooms—enchanted weapons and armor—that allowed them to surpass the common commanders. Most notably, the Viscount was served by three "High Knights."

  “High Knight?” I asked, the terminology striking me as a specific job-tier.

  “Indeed,” Zaydanov explained. “It is a tier above the standard knight. And I’ve heard rumors that in the capital, there are even 'Royal Knights' serving the King himself. The Viscount doesn't send his High Knights into the dungeon because it isn't profitable for him to risk his personal guard. He is content to let the common raiders map the floors and bring back the loot, taxing the guilds while keeping his best steel close to home.”

  It made sense. Politics and power were the same in every world. Why risk your best assets on a gamble when you can let others take the risk and simply take a cut of the winnings?

  Zaydanov checked a pocket watch and stood up. “Mr. Han, if you are ready, the slaves are prepared for your inspection. Shall we?”

  I stood up and followed him through the winding corridors of the estate. We eventually stopped in front of the same heavy door from my first visit. When he invited me inside, I saw that the stock had shifted. Last time, there were over five candidates who met my criteria. Now, there were only three: two females and one male.

  I dismissed the female slaves almost immediately. While they looked healthy enough, their price range and build suggested they weren't trained for the high-intensity front-line combat I required. If I ever reached a point where I wanted "companionship" in a different sense, I would wait until I could afford a higher-tier slave. For now, my focus was strictly on dungeon survival.

  That left the male slave. He was a catkin, just like the one I had noted during my previous visit. He was lean, with powerful legs and the sharp, focused eyes of a predator. He was cheaper than the wolfkin I had seen last time, largely due to what Zaydanov called a "language issue," but his combat stats were allegedly superior.

  I hope I won't regret this, I thought.

  I looked at the catkin. He was standing straight, his tail still, his gaze fixed on the wall behind me. The price was 15 gold and 50 silver coins. Even though slavery was a historical fact on Earth and a common reality here, a sudden, cold wave of uneasiness washed over me. I was about to buy a life. It was a jarring, uncomfortable realization that sat heavy in my chest.

  If I’m going to survive in this world, I have to adapt to its common sense, I reminded myself. At least until I have the power to change it.

  “We shall move to the administration hall to finalize the transfer,” Zaydanov said, sensing my decision.

  I followed him to a spacious room filled with desks and legal parchment. Zaydanov explained that all the slaves in his house were already branded with his merchant mark. To transfer ownership, he had to update the slave’s status. This process was also why slave merchants were taxed less than other business owners; they were expected to provide education and housing for the "stock" until they were sold.

  “We are ready, sir,” Zaydanov said, a magic-imbued quill in his hand. “May I proceed with the binding?”

  I paused, looking at the catkin who had been brought into the room. His expression was unreadable. After a few seconds of silence, I nodded. “...Sure.”

  Every person in this world seemed to have an "Intelligence Card"—a status window that could be summoned by those who called it. Zaydanov activated a specific skill, and a faint, white glow emanated from the mark on the left side of the catkin’s neck. I watched as the magical interface shifted, the ownership field updating from "House Zaydanov" to "Han."

  The sensation in the room was palpable—a brief, humming energy that signaled the completion of a binding contract. Once the payment was counted and secured—fifteen gold coins and fifty silver clinking into Zaydanov’s coffers—the merchant offered me a broad, toothy smile.

  “It is done. Congratulations on your newest acquisition, Mr. Han. I’m sure he will serve you well in the depths.”

  “Thank you,” I said, my voice sounding a bit more nervous than I would have liked. “It was good doing business with you.”

  I looked at the catkin. He was now officially mine. I had completed the purpose of my visit, but as I turned to leave the estate with my new companion following silently behind me, the weight of the day felt far heavier than it had when I was fighting orcs. I had a companion, but I also had a responsibility.

  [Edited]