The Merchant

Atlas adjusted the weight of a wooden crate beside him, shifting some of his goods into place. The scent of dried herbs and freshly cut wood filled the air around his small shop, a modest stall nestled between a blacksmith and a tea vendor. He wiped his hands on a cloth and turned to his companion, Meyu, who was carefully tallying their inventory.

"You know, we're running low on ironwood. That sells fast during winter," she murmured, her dark eyes flicking over the parchment in her hands.

Atlas grinned. "We're running low on a lot of things. But if we haggle well, we'll restock by the week's end."

Meyu scoffed, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Haggling? You mean swindling."

"It's only swindling if they realize," he shot back with a smirk.

She shook her head, a faint smile touching her lips. "Sometimes I wonder why I stick around."

Atlas glanced at her, his expression briefly serious. "Because I bought you fair and square, remember? And then, out of the kindness of my heart, I freed you. You're here because you want to be."

Meyu rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes, my noble saviour. You're still not getting a discount on your own merchandise."

Before Atlas could respond, movement near the square caught his attention.

At first, he thought nothing of it. Just another passerby, a young girl who couldn't look older than 16—if he were to be honest—looked rather fair. But then his sharp eyes caught sight of the two prominent figures chasing closely behind her. That was unusual. Nobles rarely mixed with common markets, and those who did never walked unguarded. The presence of these figures piqued his curiosity.

"Atlas?" Meyu's voice pulled him back, but he barely heard her. His gaze had already shifted toward the commotion ahead. The slave auction.

He had passed by it countless times before, never paying much mind. He wasn't a saint, he bought Meyu as a slave and the city's rules weren't his to change. But this time, something made his stomach turn. A child, barely clinging to life, being paraded on the auction block. This was too much even for him.

Meyu followed his line of sight and sighed. "You're thinking about doing something stupid again, aren't you?" Depends on your definition of stupid," Atlas muttered, already reaching for his pouch.

Her voice was softer this time, lacking its usual teasing edge. She crossed her arms, her fingers clenching at her sleeves as she followed his gaze. "Slavery is cruel, Atlas. I know that better than anyone. But this... this is more than just cruelty. This is depravity." Her voice shook slightly, her usually steady demeanour cracking. "When I was a slave, I saw what they did to children like her. The punishments, the conditioning, the so-called training—it's not about making them obedient. It's about breaking them completely. Turning them into something less than human. She exhaled sharply, her fists clenching. "And the ones who resist? They don't last long. They disappear. Or worse... they become examples." She becomes more somber and visible pain can be seen on her face, ''All the children I met died and the fact she survived is..."

Atlas turned to her, the sharpness in his usual wit dulled. He had known Meyu's past in fragments—never spoken outright, never elaborated upon. But he had seen the scars, the moments where her confidence flickered, the way she always scanned a crowd for potential threats. Now, those pieces came together with sickening clarity.

"Meyu..." he started, but she shook her head, eyes burning with something between anger and sorrow. "Don't. Just do what you have to do. But if you walk into that crowd, you'd better make damn sure you win."

His fingers grazed the weight of his coins.

He wasn't sure why he was doing this.

Atlas took a slow, measured step forward, weaving through the throng of merchants and spectators. The slave auction had already reached an alarming height—one gold coin. A fortune for most, the equivalent of a year's hard-earned wages. His brows furrowed. Atlas had money, far more than the average merchant, yet he lived a deliberately modest life to avoid drawing the attention of the higher-ups. Wealth meant influence, and influence meant trouble.

The auctioneer's voice boomed over the restless crowd. "One gold coin! Do I hear one and five silvers?"

Atlas grimaced. He had at most thirty gold coins to his name. He could afford to bid, but if the price soared too high, even he would struggle.

Just as he was preparing to raise his hand, a sudden scream cut through the market's noise.

"You sick bastards!" A female voice, raw with fury and grief.

Atlas turned sharply, his gaze locking onto a young woman—no older than sixteen—her face flushed with rage, tears brimming in her eyes. She struggled violently, thrashing against the grip of two men trying to restrain her. One, an older man with an air of quiet authority. The other, a sharp-eyed warrior who radiated the presence of a trained fighter.

"Let me go!" the girl—Meilin, if Atlas caught it right from the murmurs naming her from a sect—snarled. "How can you just stand there while this happens?!"

Her captors murmured hurried apologies, their expressions tense as they tried to subdue her without drawing too much attention.

Atlas tilted his head. He had assumed she was a noble, given the way she carried herself, but now… something didn't add up. Nobles turned a blind eye to these things. They didn't throw themselves into the fray like a commoner with nothing to lose.

Intrigued, Atlas stepped closer, keeping his gaze on the stage while his ears tuned in to the unfolding chaos behind him. If he was going to make his move, it had to be soon.

He raised his hand. "Two gold coins."

A hush fell over the crowd. The auctioneer's eyes gleamed with excitement. "Two gold coins! Now that's a serious bid! Do I hear two and five silvers?"

Before anyone could counter, a furious voice rang out. "You sick, depraved bastard!"

Atlas barely had time to react before Layla's rage-filled glare locked onto him. Her entire body trembled with fury, her tear-streaked face twisted in disgust. "You're just as bad as the rest of them! Buying and selling people like cattle!"

Jiang Wei moved swiftly, covering her mouth before she could draw even more attention. She thrashed in his grip, muffled curses still escaping as he lifted her with ease. Her father stepped forward, approaching Atlas with a stiff, composed expression. "I apologize for the outburst," he said, though the words felt hollow. His gaze lingered on Atlas with something close to disdain, as if he found the entire interaction distasteful. "She does not understand how things work here."

Atlas met his stare evenly, suppressing the urge to scoff. This man, whoever he was, had the air of someone who saw himself above others. The apology was nothing more than a polite formality, devoid of sincerity.

Still, Atlas said nothing. He simply nodded, his focus returning to the auction. If she thought she had seen the worst of life, she was mistaken. Because unlike her, he had no illusions about how the world worked.

The auctioneer slammed his gavel down. "Sold! To the gentleman for two gold coins!" The crowd murmured, some disappointed, others approving of the hefty price paid.

Atlas stepped forward as the child was pushed towards him. She was small—far too small for her age, her body frail and thin like brittle twigs. Hollow eyes stared out from a gaunt face, her skin marred by hidden bruises peeking from beneath the tattered silk draped over her shoulders. The sight of her made Atlas's stomach churn, and for a brief moment, he felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed it back.

The girl, however, did not resist. Instead, a single thought echoed in her hollow mind: Whatever this master is going to do to me, it can't be worse than what I've already endured.

Atlas took her by the wrist gently, guiding her away from the stage as the crowd resumed their business. Eyes followed him, judging, whispering. He could feel their disgust, their curiosity, but he ignored them. He knew the truth—he wasn't like them. He wasn't taking her as property; he was saving her, just like he had saved Meyu.

He led her through the winding streets back to his shop. As they arrived, Meyu looked up from her work, her sharp gaze softening the moment she saw the child. Pity flickered across her face, but she forced a smile, crouching down to meet the girl's empty eyes. "Hey there, little one. You're safe now."

The child stared at Meyu, her thoughts dull but observant. She was... beautiful. Her skin smooth, her hair long and well-kept, her stance strong. She was tall too—so much taller than herself. An envious whisper formed in her mind, but she was too exhausted to hold onto it.

Atlas exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Meyu, I need you to help me find that girl—the one who lost her mind back at the auction."

Meyu arched a brow. "The noble-looking one? I remember her face. Shouldn't be too hard to track down."

And she was right. It wasn't long before they found Layla again. The tall authority figure was trying to calm her down and Atlas slowly walked in their direction with Meyu and the child.

When Atlas approached, Layla turned, her expression twisting into something venomous the moment she laid eyes on him. Hatred burned so intensely in her gaze that it sent a rare shiver down his spine.

The child, standing quietly by his side, felt nothing at all. Layla took a step forward, her voice dripping with pure malice. "What do you want now? Come to gloat about your purchase?" Her eyes burned with disgust, piercing through Atlas as if he were the lowest form of existence.

Atlas sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. His mind worked in rapid succession, analyzing every word, every movement, every possible reaction. Layla was sharp—just as sharp as he was. If he gave her a weak argument, she'd tear through it in an instant. He needed to be precise, logical, and, above all, undeniable.

"I didn't buy her to keep her. I bought her to free her," he said, carefully controlling his tone, making sure it was neither defensive nor pleading. Just fact.

Layla scoffed, folding her arms. "Right. And I'm supposed to believe that? Just like that?" Her voice rose, laced with venom. "You're no better than the rest of them! A man who sees people as commodities and pretends to have a conscience when it suits him! If you're such a do-gooder, why didn't you free everyone? Surely you can, but no—you choose to act only when it suits you. You pretend like you're some kind of hero, but in reality, you're just a fucking coward!"

Atlas didn't flinch. Instead, he absorbed her words, twisting them over in his mind like a puzzle. Layla's distrust wasn't baseless—it was built on experience, on the knowledge that men like him existed in droves. If he wanted to convince her, he had to give her something solid.

Meyu, who had been standing beside Atlas, stepped forward, her expression calm yet firm. "Atlas isn't like them," she said, lifting her arm to reveal the faded but still visible slave mark on her wrist. "I was a slave too. He bought me. And then he freed me."

Layla's eyes snapped to Meyu, and a new kind of fury overtook her features. "Then why are you still acting like one?!" she shouted, her voice trembling. "Why are you standing by his side, defending him?!"

Meyu held her gaze, unflinching, but this time, her voice softened. There was no anger in it—just a quiet understanding. "Because even when I was a slave, he never treated me as one," she said, her tone almost motherly. "He treated me as a friend. He never raised a hand against me, never locked me away. He burned my contract the day he bought me. He destroyed my chains with his own hands. The only reason I stayed was because I wanted to."

Atlas took note of Layla's slight hesitation. There. Doubt. It was a small crack in her otherwise ironclad stance, but it was enough. Now, he had to widen it.

"You want proof? Fine. You'll have it." His voice was smooth, deliberate. "I won't ask for your trust, Layla. But winter is coming, and if I am what you say I am, then you'll see it soon enough. Watch me. Watch everything I do. If by the end of winter, you still believe I'm a monster, then say it to my face."

Layla's jaw tightened, her mind warring with itself. Finally, she exhaled sharply. "Fine. I'll be watching. But don't expect me to trust a single word either of you say."

Atlas merely nodded, his mind already working on his next move. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

Before he could react further, a sudden impact struck the back of his head. Darkness swallowed his vision as he crumpled to the ground. Jiang stood over him, shaking out his hand as if knocking Atlas out had been nothing more than a chore.

Meyu gasped, stepping forward in alarm. "What are you doing!? He's a good man!"

Jiang swiftly restrained her, gripping her arms as she struggled. "We're taking him back," he said flatly.

Layla exhaled sharply, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear as she looked down at Atlas's unconscious form. "He wanted me to see what kind of man he is," she murmured, her voice eerily calm. "Then I'll see for myself—at the sect."

Nearby, the child stood frozen, her gaze darting between the arguing adults. Their raised voices, the tension in the air—it was all too familiar. The way they snapped at each other, the way one moment was quiet and the next erupted into chaos, it sent her spiraling into memories she wished had stayed buried.

Her parents had fought like this. Shouting, blaming, and in the end, selling her off as if she were nothing. The sound of their voices blended with the present, overlapping in her mind, distorting reality. Her breathing became shallow, her small hands trembling as her vision blurred.

A sudden wave of dizziness overtook her. The voices, the sounds, the memories crashed into her all at once, suffocating her. She swayed on her feet, her body unable to handle the surge of fear and exhaustion, and before she could utter a word, the world around her went dark.

Lin Wuye was the first to react, his sharp eyes catching the child just as she collapsed. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and scooped her into his arms. "We don't have time for this. I'm taking her to Master Daokan's sect."

Layla's gaze drifted to the frail body in her father's arms. The child's thin frame, the bruises barely hidden beneath tattered fabric, the way her limbs seemed too light, too weak—it sent a wave of nausea rolling through her. She had suffered too. She knew what it meant to be powerless, to be at the mercy of others who only saw her as something to be used. For a moment, her hands trembled at her sides, her breath uneven. The weight of old memories pressed against her chest.

She said nothing, only nodded in silent agreement. A gentle hand settled on her head—her mother's quiet reassurance. Layla barely reacted, still staring at the unconscious child as her father adjusted his grip and turned away.