Finley strolling with no destination. No plan.

  Just forward.

  The land stretched endlessly beneath a dim sky, fields scarred by old battles and half-buried weapons rusting in the soil like forgotten gravestones. Mana flowed openly here—he could see it now, thin currents threading through the air like invisible rivers.

  This was Eldryss.

  He pulled his cloak tighter, that he found earlier, golden hair hidden beneath the hood, his presence suppressed so deeply even the wind seemed to ignore him.

  “I need to study this world first.”

  Then suddenly the system's warning flared.

  [Host Alert — Hostile Intent Detected]

  Finley stopped.

  The ground ahead trembled.

  From between the broken trees emerged something wrong—too many limbs, hide stitched together with hardened bone plates, eyes glowing a dull crimson.

  A Gravebound Ravager.

  It sniffed the air, nostrils flaring, then let out a shrill, scraping shriek.

  Move, Finley instincts screamed.

  The creature lunged.

  He barely sidestepped, claws tearing through the earth. The impact alone sent shockwaves rippling outward.

  "I'm still a bit unfamiliar with how to move in this body but this body has insane reflexes,” he muttered.

  The Ravager twisted unnaturally fast, muscles coiling, and struck again.

  This time—

  Finley raised his arm.

  The claws met his forearm.

  And stopped.

  The monster shrieked in confusion as its talons failed to pierce skin. Finley stared at the shallow scratch—already closing, flesh knitting together like time itself was reversing.

  [Regeneration — Passive Triggered]

  “…I didn’t even activate anything. hmm wait, I need to try something.” he smirked.

  The Ravager reared back and unleashed a blast of corrupted mana, a sphere of compressed destruction hit Finley head on.

  The trees behind Finley are obliterated, dust swallowed everything.

  For a moment, there was nothing.

  Then—

  Finley stepped forward through the smoke, clothes torn, skin unharmed.

  “There's no doubt about it, this body is truly absolute.”

  He clenched his hand.

  What happens if I attack?

  He didn’t want to kill it.

  But he needed to know.

  Finley swung a punch.

  The air screamed.

  The space between them shattered.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The Ravager exploded—bone, flesh, scattered across the field in a violent, silent implosion.

  The system chimed once.

  [Output Scaling — Passive Effect Applied]

  Finley stared at his hand.

  “…This is crazy..”

  Then suddenly memories flooded in—Caelum tearing through armies, reducing enemies to nothing not out of necessity, but because resistance offended him.

  Finley clenched his teeth.

  “No,” he said sharply. “I won’t be that.”

  He forced his breathing steady and pulled his presence even lower, suppressing every violent instinct embedded in the body.

  —

  When Finley walked for more than half an hour.

  The land slowly changed—paths became roads, ruins gave way to watchtowers, banners fluttered in the distance.

  Then he saw it.

  Massive walls of white stone reinforced with mana sigils. Towers that pierced the sky.

  Gates wide enough for armies.

  The heart of civilization.

  The capital of the Vareth Dominion.

  Aurelspire.

  Finley dragged his feet forward, exhaustion finally catching up—not physical, but mental. Every step toward the city felt like walking into the jaws of a beast.

  This was the kingdom that once honoured Caelum.

  Then feared him.

  Then helped kill him.

  Guards stood at the gate, spears glowing faintly with enchantments, eyes sharp and suspicious. Finley lowered his head, golden hair hidden.

  One guard glanced at him, frowning.

  “You!,” the man shouted. “State your business!”

  Finley swallowed.

  “A traveler,” he answered quietly. “Looking for work… and shelter.”

  The guard studied him, gaze lingering just a second too long—then shrugged.

  “Get inside before nightfall. Monsters roam after dusk.”

  The gates opened.

  As Finley stepped through, the weight of the city pressed down on him.

  People everywhere. Laughter. Trade. Life.

  And beneath it all—

  Whispers of a dead hero.

  Finley exhaled slowly.

  I made it inside, he thought.

  Then Finley walked through the inner district, cloak drawn low, eyes downcast, ears open. Stone streets echoed with footsteps, laughter, coin clinking against coins. Merchants shouted prices, guards barked orders, and above it all hovered the low murmur of rumor—soft, eager, poisonous.

  That was when he heard it.

  “—today, at dusk. A real one.”

  Finley slowed.

  “Don’t joke. You said that last time.”

  “I swear on my tongue. An elf. Silver hair. Untouched.”

  His steps stopped completely.

  The word elf cut through the noise like a blade.

  “Where?”

  “South market. Black banners. Private auction—high coin only.”

  Laughter followed. The ugly kind. The kind soaked in anticipation.

  Finley’s stomach twisted.

  Then Caelum’s memories start to appear again.

  “Urghh.”

  Chains. Collars. Elves dragged through mud, eyes hollow, even Caleum himself sexually assaulting the elves.

  “You’re truly terrible.”Finley gritted his teeth, his hand pressed against his face, as the bitter memories surged.

  Their rarity made them valuable. Their beauty made them hunted.

  This world allows this, Finley realized.

  No—this world profits from it.

  As he continued walking, the whispers multiplied.

  “Elves live longer. Imagine—” “They say their ears are perfect, their beauty is stunning and their body is exquisite.

  “Oh I simply can't wait to finally have one, I can barely contain myself haha.”

  As Finley heard every single word, he couldn't help but think,“These kinds of people are almost making Caleum's actions sound reasonable.”

  By the time he reached the outer ring of the market district, the air had changed.

  It was thicker.

  Darker.

  Black banners hung from iron poles, embroidered with sigils designed to suppress mana and will alike. Armed men stood guard—not soldiers, but professionals. Slavers. Their eyes scanned the crowd with cold efficiency.

  A platform stood at the center, raised and reinforced with runic plates.

  The cage upon it was covered by a heavy cloth.

  Finley didn’t need to see through it.

  He felt her.

  A presence—faint, restrained, trembling like a candle about to die.

  The crowd gathered.

  Men. Women. Nobles hidden behind veils. Merchants pretending indifference. Adventurers with too much coin and too little conscience.

  Coins exchanged hands. Numbers were whispered.

  Finley’s fists clenched.

  This disgusts me, he thought. Every single one of them.

  He suddenly recalled the bullying he suffered and the feeling of being unable to do anything.

  He staggered slightly, catching himself against a stone pillar.

  Finley came to the realization that he wished to save the unfortunate slave.

  "But how can I save that slave? I'm penniless, and attacking these people is out of the question. I refuse to compromise my plans.”

  “But if I do nothing–”

  The cloth shifted.

  A gasp rippled through the crowd as a pale hand curled around the cage bars, fingers trembling.

  Finley’s breath caught.

  The auctioneer stepped forward, voice amplified by magic.

  “Esteemed guests,” he announced smoothly, “today’s final offering is… exceptional.”

  The cloth was pulled back.

  Silver hair spilled down like moonlight, tangled and dirty. Long ears trembled beneath a suppression collar etched with crimson runes. Her eyes—clear, emerald—burned with fear and fury alike.

  Finley felt something snap inside him.

  Not power.

  Resolve.

  “I don’t know how yet, he thought, heart pounding, but I won’t let this end here.”

  His gaze flicked to the guards. The slave. The auctioneer. The crowd.

  He needed time.

  Information.

  A crack.

  A low, eager hum rippled through the crowd as the auctioneer raised one gloved hand, his smile sharpened by magic that carried his voice.

  “Starting bid,” he announced smoothly, “one hundred gold.”

  The number landed like nothing.

  Coins clinked almost immediately.

  “One-fifty.”

  “Two hundred.”

  Finley stood at the edge of the crowd, hood shadowing his face.

  “These people...”

  The elf remained silent inside the cage.

  Her hands gripped the bars, knuckles white, shoulders trembling beneath a thin, torn garment designed not for warmth—but for display. The suppression collar glowed faintly, pulsing every time her mana stirred, forcing it back down like a knee to the throat.

  “Three hundred!” someone called eagerly.

  A noble laughed. “Four.”

  The auctioneer’s eyes gleamed.

  “Ah—excellent taste tonight.”

  “Five hundred,” a merchant said casually, sipping wine. “She’ll fetch triple in the northern houses.”

  A ripple of approval followed.

  “She’s unbroken,” another voice said. “She won’t last.”

  The elf flinched.

  That single movement—small, involuntary—was all it took.

  The crowd erupted.

  “Six hundred!” “Seven!” “Eight—!”

  Finley’s fists shook.

  Stop it, he told himself. Don’t move. Don’t draw attention.

  He swallowed hard.

  The bidding climbed higher.

  Gold became meaningless.

  This wasn’t commerce—it was indulgence.

  A robed figure raised two fingers. “One thousand.”

  The place went quiet for half a breath.

  Then applause.

  “One thousand golds!” the auctioneer declared, delighted. “Do I hear more?”

  The elf’s eyes searched the crowd—as if begging.

  Searching.

  For anything human.

  Their gazes met for the briefest instant.

  Her eyes widened—a bit of with hope.

  As if she sensed something in him.

  Something that person is different from the people here.

  Finley looked away, heart pounding.

  “Tch.., what should I do?, i really wanted to save her.” Finley told to himself.

  The gavel hovered.

  “Final call.”

  That was when the idea came.

  “If that person buy her…that's when I make my move”

  Finley exhaled slowly.

  “I don't need to save her here , I will save her after so that there won't be too many people.”

  The gavel slammed down.

  “Sold!”

  Applause thundered.

  The winning bidder stepped forward—a man draped in crimson silk, rings on every finger, eyes crawling over the cage like insects.

  “Prepare her for transport,” he said lazily.

  Finley’s nails dug into his palms.

  “I’ll save you no matter what, he vowed silently.”