A man was approaching—slowly, cautiously. The sleeves of his robes were stained red at the hem, and his skin shone with a sheen of sweat. He stopped a respectful distance away and bowed deeply.
Charles turned his head toward Bernie, whose face turned white. Bernie jolted as if struck by lightning, his breath catching in his chest.
"You. Merchant," Charles said softly.
"Y-y-yes, my lord," Bernie croaked, voice wavering, knees nearly buckling as he took a shaky step forward, clutching his sleeve to steady himself.
"Get your camp in order. You're not done yet."
Charles didn't explain what he meant, but Bernie felt a cold certainty settle in his gut.
Somehow, the meaning echoed within him with chilling clarity.
This silver-haired demon wasn't done with them, and Bernie felt a chill at the prospect of what came next.
What came next would shake the caravan—not just disrupt them, but undermine everything they had believed was certain, leaving Bernie and the others unmoored.
It might change the fate of the slave industry in the northern duchy—Bernie's mind raced between hope and dread at the enormity.
"Thank you, my lord," the man said, voice quivering. "For saving our lives. I am Bernard "Bernie" Lothan, licensed merchant under the Crown Guild of Traders. May I ask the name of our… benefactor?"
Charles raised a brow, offering a mild nod.
"Charlemagne," he replied smoothly. "Charlemagne Ziglar."
Bernie's jaw twitched, and his eyes widened for an instant before he forced his face into a respectful blankness.
The Ziglar name was one of the three Great Houses of the Northern Dukedom. Its weight was greater than that of siege towers. Now, a silver-haired youth atop a mythical dragon had just dropped it as if it were nothing. That made it all the more unnerving.
"My lord, I… I had no idea," Bernie stammered, bowing even lower. His hands trembled visibly as a chill crawled up his spine—a raw mix of terror and anticipation. Was this salvation or the beginning of a nightmare? This man, whoever Charles truly was, held Bernie's fate in balance.
"Please forgive any prior offense—"
"There was none," Charles said coolly. "Unless you count hiring an under-defended caravan and getting ambushed in the middle of prime bandit territory."
Bernie flinched, shoulders jerking reflexively at the rebuke, lips pressing together in a thin line.
Charles smiled again, just a little sharper.
"You have my thanks," Bernie said quickly, voice trembling as he tried to gather his composure. Needing distraction, he insisted, "Please, allow us... show hospitality. We are setting up a temporary camp nearby—to rest, clean the battlefield, tend to the injured, and… regroup. I would be honored if you and your party would join us."
Charles waved his hand.
"Go. I'll follow in a moment."
Bernie bowed again, anxiety barely concealed, and quickly backed away, hoping to compose himself.
The work has already started around them. The other guards moved with skilled, shell-shocked discipline, picking up the remains of their dead friends and saluting each one before covering them with fabric.
Despite the presence of death, the camp began to breathe again: food cooking, fires lit, guards sharpening weapons, healers moving between the wounded, muttering restoration spells.
And above it all loomed the presence of her.
Nimbus stood massive and radiant, her scales shimmering like sapphire stormglass under the noonday sun. Even silent, her aura exuded primal majesty. The dragon's presence was both protector and executioner. Her dominance kept the camp utterly obedient.
Except she wouldn't budge.
Charles approached the great beast, gently patting her thick-scaled leg with one hand. "Alright, that's enough dramatic looming. Time to shrink down and go back into the ring."
Nimbus let out a snort that rolled like thunder.
She shook her head, an exaggerated gesture of indignation. She glared at him with molten blue eyes, narrowed as if to say: You want to stuff me in a ring after that glorious entrance?
Charles sighed. "You can't exactly lounge around the camp and frighten everyone into wetting themselves."
Nimbus huffed again. Her wings flared once before she shimmered in a pulse of radiant lightning.
And then—
POP!
In an instant, the terrifying azure tempest dragon compressed into a two-foot-long miniature version of herself. Her scales still shimmered, her eyes still glowed, but she now resembled a coiled, living plush toy.
She looked like a mythical creature turned Pokémon with the regal pout of a princess forced to ride in a child's stroller.
Around the camp, the transformation was met with a mix of awe and reverence, as whispered gasps escaped everyone who witnessed the spectacle.
Charles sighed, scrubbing his face with a hand, exasperation pinching his brow as if he were dealing with an unruly child after a grand entrance.
"...You're kidding."
The tiny dragon leapt up and wrapped herself around his neck and chest like a sentient scarf, then purred like a spoiled cat after stealing the lord's seat.
"Unbelievable…" Charles murmured.
Rob strolled over, grinning like an amused uncle witnessing a toddler's tantrum. "Well, that solves the travel logistics. Shall I get her a ribbon and a name tag, my lord?"
Charles rolled his eyes. "Not. One. Word."
Nimbus snorted smugly, her purring intensifying.
Charles adjusted his cloak around Nimbus and headed toward the central tent Bernie had erected for talks. As he walked, the path was lined with wary glances, half-bows, and unblinking stares—apprehension and awe mixing in the air. Even seated and miniaturized, Nimbus's presence kept people rigid, her aura undiminished—now focused and sharper than ever.
The clearing chosen for the temporary camp was a quiet valley nestled between weather-worn cliffs and half-wilted conifers. It felt as if the landscape itself had grown weary from watching caravans spill blood across its paths for generations.
The scent of damp earth mingled with the metallic tang of blood. Healers' herbs brought a pungent aroma. Smoke from cookfires curled upward and joined the fading haze of battle. Guard rotations resumed.
The quartermaster barked orders for inventories to be rechecked. Healers moved from one wounded man to the next like tired spirits trying to hold back death with gauze and whispers.
The tension that had gripped the air an hour earlier now clung like a ghost—quieter but ever-present, nerves stretched taut beneath forced calm.
The massive wagons—fifteen in total—lined the outer rim of the encampment in a defensive semicircle. They were no ordinary transport: reinforced steel linings layered with defensive runes, complex suppression arrays along the axles, enchanted wheels designed for speed and maneuverability even on cursed terrain.
Ten wagons bore the barred sigils of slave containment. Each was layered with multi-tiered seals capable of suppressing even Core Realm cultivators. Four wagons carried provisions, tools, and medical supplies.
One central command wagon, armored and crested with a red wax seal, sat elevated on a rocky perch—Bernie's mobile nerve center.
Inside the slave wagons, the silence was a fragile thread pulled taut.
Each compartment shimmered with glowing suppression glyphs—soul-binding, energy-sapping, obedience-conditioning. Chains with runic anchors coiled around limbs and necks. All sixty slaves sat in stillness, exhausted, resigned, and certain that survival required silence.
The elite batch had been handpicked from multiple regions. Raids at borders, political fallouts, bankrupt clans, black-market auctions, and once-noble families sold to survive all contributed.
Five noble elves sat in the second carriage. Their gazes, sharp and disdainful, belied their dirt-caked skin and torn robes. Their spiritual auras, once regal and commanding, now flickered behind layers of suppressive haze.
Three dwarven masters—builders, smiths, and artificers whose names had once been respected in dwarven courts—sat in another room with their arms crossed and chains too tight around their wrists to even scratch.
The other eight carriages were full of possibilities: elven druids with glyphs burned into their skin, alchemists with broken lenses and missing fingers, and rune carvers whose calloused hands twitched as if they were etching sigils. Young, untrained elves sat next to master dwarves who had been around for hundreds of years.
Ten cultivators sat perfectly still, their Core Realm foundations muted by collars carved with jade that drained spells.
A warband's worth of skilled labor, magical power, and knowledge—neutralized, awaiting resale or ruin.
A fortune locked in steel.
And Charles wanted everything. But this big move wouldn't go unnoticed in the complicated dance of the duchy's politics.
Rumors of Ziglar's sudden, bold purchase would spread through noble courts and dark alleys, sparking speculation and drawing the attention of rivals.
The balance of power between the Great Houses could change if rival groups came together to fight a new player. Charles knew that what he was doing was just the first step in a game that could change the slave trade in the Northern Duchy.
When Charles entered the tent, Bernie was already inside, standing beside a small wooden table laid with maps, accounting scrolls, and bloodstained paperwork. A servant placed a dish of dried jerky and a steaming pot of leafbrew between them and immediately withdrew.
Bernie gestured awkwardly toward the table. "Please, Lord Charlemagne, sit."
Charles did.
So did Nimbus, curling into a smug heap on his lap.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, silence thick with caution.
"I assume you have questions," Charles began.
Bernie nodded quickly. "Yes, yes, of course. But… before anything else, please allow me to express my sincerest gratitude again. I—"
Charles held up a hand. "You already thanked me. Let's talk about what matters."
The air grew colder, a sharpened edge of tension settling over the two men.
Bernie swallowed. "Very well…"
His eyes flicked toward Charles's face again—too youthful, too unblemished, and yet the air around him was wrong. He'd seen warlords. He'd negotiated with corrupt magistrates. He'd brokered deals with black-market smugglers. None had given him the impression that one wrong sentence might end him faster than blinking.
This man was dangerous.
"You've already scanned the caravan, I assume?" Bernie offered.
Charles didn't nod. He simply waited.
Bernie pressed forward. "It's a high-tier transport—commissioned under a tri-faction agreement between the House of Nevrin, the Black Crescent Exchange, and the Guild of Whispered Chains. I… I operate independently, but this shipment is an elite batch of contracted slave stock. All sealed, fully soulbound, certified by—"
"I know," Charles said quietly.
Bernie faltered. "...Then you must know this shipment is valued at—"
"Six point nine million gold coins," Charles replied flatly, ice threading through his words.
"Your estimate was off by twelve percent, by the way. Your markup margins are inconsistent between races and professions."
Bernie's eyes bulged a little as he tried to take in the correction while his mind was racing.
Charles leaned back and absentmindedly brushed Nimbus. "I want all of them."
A moment of silence.
"Excuse me?"
"I'll be blunt," Charles said, his tone casual but sharp as a diamond blade.
"I'm taking the entire caravan. Everything. The slaves. The wagons. The supply inventory. Even the formation plates, the reinforced carriage wheels, the unused suppression collars, and yes… even that nice set of rune quills you're hiding under your desk."
Bernie blinked. "...All of it?"
Charles smirked, leaning forward slightly. "All of it. Except your lives."
Bernie swallowed.
He hadn't dared to hope.
"All of them," Charles repeated. "All sixty. Delivered to East Wing Manor. No partials, no substitutions. I'll pay above market value—plus a million-gold commission to cover expenses, hazards, transport, and future silence."
Bernie gaped.
"I'll pay in coin. No bank trails, no guild records, no Kingdom-led taxation audits. You will deliver them. And you will consider this the beginning of a very lucrative relationship."
Bernie stared, as if unsure whether to fall to his knees or burst into song.
"You… you're serious."
Charles leaned in slightly.
"I'm Charlemagne Ziglar," he said softly. "When I say I'll build an empire… I mean it."
Bernie sat rigid in his command tent, the contract between his fingers quivering more from disbelief than nerves.
Across from him, Charles leaned back against a plush traveling chair offered by one of the servants. He looked relaxed, even casual, as if this were a routine business brunch instead of a transaction involving over seven million gold coins worth of human assets.
Bernie licked his lips. "You… you said you would pay above market price."
Charles nodded. "That's right. Market value plus projected resale margins, operational costs, hazard fees from today's incident, and a seven percent logistics markup. That adds about a million extra gold. Paid now. In full."
The merchant stared at him, his brain temporarily disconnected from his body.
"...You'll pay everything now?"
"Yes. Gold. Not promissory notes. Not bank trails. Not guild tokens. Clean, off-ledger coin. My men will help transfer the funds discreetly to your personal vaults."
"You don't want a transport contract or insurance clause?"
"I want absolute silence," Charles replied. "You'll deliver the slaves to the East Wing Manor of House Ziglar. No other details required. If your men need medical support or escort, we can provide it. But this deal never happened on paper."
Bernie's throat bobbed. He'd dealt with nobles before. Arrogant. Entitled. Petty. But this was something else.
"You're really… the Duke's third son?" Bernie asked, finally, half-hoping the youth would laugh and reveal it as a prank.
Charles reached into his cloak and casually placed a sigil-emblazoned seal ring on the table.
It pulsed once.
A projection flickered above the ring—his full name, rank, bloodline signature, and crest. House Ziglar. North Davona.
"Is that sufficient?" Charles asked.
Bernie could only nod.
The silence between them felt heavier than any collar outside.
"Then we're agreed?" Charles asked.
"I… yes," Bernie managed. "Of course."
Charles leaned forward, eyes gleaming with that cool, polished sharpness only born in boardrooms and battlefields. "Good. Now listen carefully."
Bernie straightened, sweat beading across his brow.
"This will be the first of many transactions," Charles said. "
You will acquire more slaves for me. Not just any, but cultivators. Builders. Alchemists. Strategists. Rarebloods. Your job is to find them, procure them, and deliver them—quickly. I want loyalty brands to be clean and uncorrupted. I want trainable, skilled, or soon-to-be-skilled. You'll receive above-market pricing every time. No haggling. Just performance."
"I… understand," Bernie said.
"If you meet expectations, I'll place you under the official protection of House Ziglar. Future shipments will travel under my seal. No bandit would dare attack you again. No rival merchant would move against you without consequence."
That snapped Bernie from his trance.
Protection from House Ziglar?
Guaranteed income?
A private buyer with no overhead, full liquidity, and one of the most dangerous creatures he'd ever seen perched like a scarf on his shoulders?
This was beyond a dream.
It was a miracle.
"I… I swear, my lord, I will meet your expectations. I will go beyond them."
Charles offered a slight smile.
"I know you will."