Joel had to sit for several minutes in one of the chairs, elbows on his knees and hands clasped, taking deep breaths repeatedly. His body remained tense, as if he had just survived an invisible battle, and his chest burned with a mixture difficult to describe: anguish, curiosity, anger, and a deeper unease he preferred not to name.

  Fortunately, Basil and the merchant in charge managed to distract him just as they began to discuss business. The courtesies and technical jargon served as background noise, allowing him to slowly recover.

  The conversation, however, soon took a disappointing turn when the merchant casually announced that most of the city's slave traders had already sold almost all of their available merchandise for the season. The offers had been so attractive—according to him—that buyers from distant regions had flocked there to secure "quality products."

  At first glance, the presence of those elven women at reception might have given the impression that there were still plenty of slaves available. But the merchant was quick to clarify the situation: most of them were already booked or were part of the establishment's permanent staff.

  The man attending to them was obese, with oily skin and a constant smile, dressed in excessively luxurious clothes, laden with rings and pendants that glittered too brightly under the artificial light. With a confident voice, accustomed to selling illusions, he added that they no longer had any male slaves, the type of merchandise that sold most quickly due to its use as heavy labor.

  "We only have women and children left," he said without the slightest hint of discomfort. "The women we have are perfect for domestic chores… and more intimate companionship."

  Basil lost interest almost immediately. His expression became neutral and pragmatic. He only had in mind the company's needs: slave labor for secondary tasks, transportation, and maintenance for the future base of operations that had to be built. None of that fit with their plans.

  Joel, for his part, remained somewhat detached. He was still grappling with the emotional turmoil that had engulfed him since he'd set foot in that place, so he didn't react visibly to what was being said.

  But the merchant knew how to capture any customer's attention. His expert eyes, trained for years to detect interest in even the smallest details, had perfectly noticed Joel's reaction upon seeing the elven women at the reception desk: the brief stiffening of his body, the moment of involuntary attention, the gaze that lingered longer than usual before looking away.

  That's why he insisted. "Even so, I think I should show you what we have left," he proposed with a calculated smile. "I can assure you that these are products of excellent quality."

  With nothing better to do, and perhaps also out of inertia, they both accepted the tour, being led by the merchant into the establishment, through wider and better-lit corridors, where the luxury not only didn't diminish, but seemed to intensify.

  It was there that Joel felt his body ablaze again, as the merchant deliberately began the tour in the section dedicated to sex slaves.

  The space opened up like a gallery carefully designed to impress. Behind glass cases, decorated cages, and elevated platforms, an overwhelming variety of demihuman women were displayed, all of exceptional beauty, with minimal and suggestive clothing, designed to attract attention and provoke desire.

  There were subraces derived from cats and tigers, with erect ears and thin tails; wolf and dog women with intense gazes; others with bear features, with tall and voluptuous bodies; delicate rabbit and fox women, doe women with soft features… and others whose ancestry Joel was unable to identify.

  It was, without a doubt, a spectacle designed for the senses, one he couldn't help but enjoy in some way.

  A part of him, the most human part, reacted with a spark of lust that slipped into his gaze before he could control it. Even Basil, far more pragmatic, wasn't entirely indifferent, his eyes lingering on the busts of some of the most voluptuous slaves with a distracted expression.

  As they moved forward, the merchant continued talking, proud of his merchandise. He explained the physical and temperamental qualities of each race, emphasized that the establishment only worked with virgin women, and stressed, time and again, that there were no better products in the entire northern part of the nation.

  Basil, increasingly skeptical, soon interrupted him. "You said you've sold almost everything," he said, gesturing to the obvious number of women on display, "this seems like quite a contradiction."

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  The merchant chuckled briefly, as if he had been expecting that question.

  “Ah, those,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Actually, they were originally intended for the capital. Their prices are far too high for the general public, and we don’t offer discounts on them. The only reason I’m showing them to you is because you, as a mystic master, clearly have the means to afford them.”

  Upon hearing that statement, Joel couldn't help but ask about the selling prices of these women. The merchant's answer took him completely by surprise, as the prices started at two hundred gold coins.

  It wasn't just any price. It was, literally, the average cost of a level one mystical artifact. A price unthinkable even for many low-ranking nobles, and completely out of reach for most people. And that was just the minimum. The merchant added, with the casualness of someone discussing rare jewels, that the most exotic and hard-to-obtain slaves weren't even priced in gold, but directly in crystals.

  Basil immediately shook his head, from side to side, making no attempt to hide his utter disinterest. "It's madness," he muttered. "No one in their right mind would buy a slave at that price."

  Joel agreed with him… at least in part. It was expensive, absurdly expensive. However, his expression didn't reflect rejection, but rather calculation. A subtle, almost imperceptible detail, but one that made it clear that those prices, although high, were not unattainable for him.

  The merchant noticed it instantly. He smiled, and without asking permission, led them to a more discreet side corridor, away from the main gallery, where the establishment's most exclusive section was located.

  The new room was considerably smaller. There were no ostentatious display cases, no decorated cages, no women in provocative clothing. The atmosphere was understated, almost refined. Inside, there were only five women, comfortably seated in elegant, cushioned armchairs, arranged symmetrically.

  One of them was an elf. The other four were demihumans of the wolf race. All wore modest and tasteful clothing, more akin to high society fashion than that of a slave market. There were no visible chains, and they wore only thicker, more elaborate versions of common slave collars. Around them were books, trays laden with food, and small luxuries designed to make the wait more bearable.

  Joel knew immediately that these were no ordinary women. In their eyes, there were clear traces of past pride, an inner strength possessed only by those who have survived real combat. The quiet confidence of the mystic warriors was present in the four demihumans, each with a relaxed yet attentive demeanor.

  The elf, however, conveyed something different. Her presence reminded Joel of his past encounters with the nobility, back when he still lived as an artist. It wasn't just physical beauty, but a natural, cultivated, and conscious elegance. That combination made her, to him, even more attractive than the others.

  “These are our most valuable goods at the moment,” the merchant said, his pride barely concealed. “Women who are not only beautiful and virginal, but also accomplished mystic warriors. Four adepts… and one expert.”

  At the introduction, the five women stood and offered a courteous, perfectly synchronized bow, accompanied by measured, professional smiles. Even Basil, usually unimpressed, was forced to pay attention for a moment.

  “As you can see,” the merchant continued, exaggerating each word, “they have all been trained in etiquette. They spent a full year in Tritin, being educated in everything necessary to become the finest companions a man could desire. And, of course, they are also perfectly capable of serving as personal guards.”

  Joel scanned the five women, carefully assessing them. However, his attention kept returning to the elf. Something about her didn’t quite fit.

  Her hands were delicate, fine, more like those of someone accustomed to writing or art than to the constant handling of weapons.

  "That woman doesn't look like a warrior," Basil remarked, pointing at her bluntly.

  “She’s special,” the merchant replied immediately, his smile widening. “Not only is she a rather young elf and a mystical adept… she also possesses the rare affinity of life.”

  Those words completely captured Joel’s attention.

  “That guarantees a considerably extended lifespan,” the merchant continued. “And, if she manages to reach the level of master, she has the potential to become a healing specialist. An extremely valuable talent.”

  Joel knew that affinity well. It existed even in the four worlds from which he came, under different names and doctrines, but always with the same essence. An exceptional ability that allowed its wielders to use their own life energy to heal the wounds and afflictions of others, paying the price with their own physical and spiritual exhaustion. The more the ability was pushed, the greater the accumulated damage for the one who used it. It was a powerful gift… and dangerous at the same time.

  For various reasons, it had always been extremely rare to find people with that affinity. And, like almost everything rare and valuable, it had ended up being monopolized by the authorities: kingdoms, mystical orders, magical academies, and, above all, churches. This world was no exception. The best healers with that affinity were watched, controlled, and, in many cases, turned into political symbols or tools.

  However, the problem Joel saw in the elf's case was obvious. Not everyone could teach those techniques. And even fewer would be willing to do so with a slave. Because no matter how beautiful, refined, or valuable she was, she was still someone whose will couldn't be completely controlled. At best, a slave healer was a risk. At worst, a silent killer.

  After all, the slightest variation in a treatment, a deliberate omission, an imperfect execution, was enough to ruin a healing without raising too much suspicion.

  Who, truly important, would be willing to put their life in the hands of someone whose loyalty wasn't completely guaranteed?

  The buyer of that elf would have to be someone special. Not only someone with the necessary resources to allow her to reach the level of a master, but also someone willing to bet long-term. To bet that she would always use her abilities correctly. To bet that she would never make a mistake… intentional or not.

  Because no technique was infallible. And however miraculous it seemed, it could never cure everything with complete effectiveness. Therefore, it was impossible to know if the person performing the technique was truly doing everything possible.

  It was then that Joel's eyes began to glow. Not only from the latent lust that this place seemed intent on fueling, but from something far more significant: a silent and profoundly calculating ambition.

  Because he didn't need the woman for what she might become personally, but for the blood that ran through her veins. Blood that carried that unique affinity. Blood that, once she reached the level of master, could allow Nana to absorb an extraordinarily valuable ability. Perhaps essential for the path he had already chosen to follow.