Chapter 4 - A Favour

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A footnote in history is too small for my ambitions; I demand a chapter.

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If one were to ask Kurosaki Kageyama if the afterlife existed, his response would be curt:

"If you ever find out, please report back to me."

However, if curiosity overcame caution and one ventured to question the man on the existence of God, his answer would come unexpectedly. Kurosaki Kageyama, a man devoid of religious inclinations, would declare with unshakable confidence, "Of course, God exists." This proclamation would not be a calculated PR stunt, nor dismissive quip to silence the inquisitive soul. No, Kurosaki Kageyama was somebody who firmly believed in God.

Yet, the 'God' he spoke of bore no resemblance to an all-powerful deity presiding over the heavens. What Kurosaki envisioned was not a divine being cloaked in celestial robes, but rather a supremely cunning entity who walked among the mortals on Earth. This 'God,' draped in guile and intrigue, was the embodiment of Kurosaki's deepest convictions. A being which reigned supreme in the realm of men, wielding influence and authority unmatched by any other. That was what it meant to be 'God'.

As a child, Kurosaki was captivated by the study of history, for the human record was an enthralling tale of men trying to become God. His teachers quickly recognised his affinity for the past. For young Kurosaki, stepping into the shoes of history's great figures, perceiving the world through their eyes, and rationalising their ruthless campaigns may have been as effortless as drawing breath.

Kurosaki harboured a profound respect for the ancient priests who, millennia ago, claimed the omnipotent gaze of a divine entity. To him, their wisdom was evident, instilling the fear of the almighty in the hearts of mortal men. God became the whispering wind caressing the meadow's grass, the life-giving water coursing through the riverbed, and the humble donation basket within the hallowed halls of the church.

What a delightful use of God.

Their invocation of God was a sublime act—to believe oneself chosen by the divine was the height of arrogance, but to convince others of the same was the pinnacle of human ingenuity. Thus history unfurled before the young Kurosaki, exposing a rich tapestry interlaced with ambition, guile, and the unyielding pursuit of godliness on Earth.

Be it inscribed on ancient stone tablets or proclaimed from an elevated platform, the crux of it all was influence and authority—the fundamental currencies of the world. Empires clashed in the name of their divine patrons, while dictators forged nations under the aegis of celestial mandates. Ultimately, 'God' was merely a word; a title bestowed upon those who excelled in the art of manipulating their subjects.

In the twilight of his youth, Kurosaki was confronted with a disquieting reality. To much chagrin, he found himself in a time when nations chose commerce over conquest. Where the once-mighty empires had receded, the tides of wealth now ebbed and flowed between corporate giants.

The shift was subtle but, Kurosaki understood he could never truly emulate the splendour of the monarchs and conquerors of old. Were he to cloak his ambitions in the colours of a flag, seeking to rally the masses and watch them follow blindly, he would inevitably find himself ensnared within the cold, unyielding grip of the law.

So, if questioned about his decision to be a leader of corporate men, Kurosaki's response would be deceptively casual. He might offer a nonchalant shrug and admit that it was merely a game that entertained him, an engaging diversion from the banalities of life.

But for young Kurosaki, his ambition remained unquenched. It was a challenge. It taunted him. Could he find the limits of power in a world that had cast off the shackles of empire?

In the end, it was over.

To fathom that a mere creature—a lone rat—undid it all was nothing short of maddening. A being who had slipped beneath his notice, wielding influence as inconsequential as an expired autumn leaf. It was akin to a solitary grain of sand slipping through one's grasp, only to be met with retribution for that fleeting loss.

'Isn't it ridiculous?' That was how Kurosaki viewed his situation.

Nevertheless, one could not deny that the rat had achieved an extraordinary feat. The situation was paradoxical. How could one so bereft of power usurp the very rules of the world? If that was the case, then the rat was more of a God-like figure than he was.

'What humiliation…' Kurosaki's thoughts ebbed and flowed as he meandered through the abyss.

From the vastness above to the fathomless depths below, every direction dissolved into an indistinguishable expanse; there was nothing to observe, nothing to discern. There was no terra firma to ground him, no heavenly canopy to shelter him; the very notion of left and right ceased to exist in this boundless void. Sensations that once tethered him to the physical world were absent—no gentle caress of the breeze upon his skin, nor the soothing fragrance of crisp air to fill his lungs.

There wasn't even darkness, for there was no hue to behold. Merely… an all-encompassing void.

'Is this what awaits humanity at the end?' Kurosaki pondered.

If so, then he was grateful he had opted not to waste his days envisioning such a realm, for he could never have imagined that the afterlife was so boring. Kurosaki Kageyama was the kind of individual who abhorred the idea of frittering away time. And yet, here he was, doing precisely that. Even more remarkably, he was managing to squander time in a place where the very concept of time seemed to have evaporated. If this location was indeed hell, then it was one meticulously tailored to his idiosyncrasies.

"…I'm bored."

A voice punctured the stillness.

It possessed a gentle quality, reminiscent of a young girl's timbre, yet it also carried a note of irritation—akin to the sound of someone grumbling through clenched teeth; it was disconcerting.

The voice felt incongruous to Kurosaki's senses. After enduring the absence of any stimulus for so long, the presence of an external sound jolted his consciousness.

Kurosaki was uncertain if he should attempt to reply. In the first place, trying to do so seemed impossible. Not only did he not have a body, but he also lacked ears to receive the strange message. Was he finally succumbing to hallucinations? He had grown accustomed to floating in the abyss, but now he was beginning to sense the creeping tendrils of madness.

Kurosaki did the only thing within his power: he waited patiently and strained to listen. However, the voice itself seemed to have no inclination to speak further. The world receded into silence once more, and Kurosaki was left alone, ensnared by the ever-tightening coils of his own thoughts.

In a fleeting moment, Kurosaki became aware of an uninvited presence.

A force was drawing him downward.

It was unmistakable. Gravity? It hadn't existed a moment prior, but now it persisted. A sense of weight—something Kurosaki had been without for an eternity. As if the void he had been enveloped in was being supplanted by another realm; a dream dissolving, giving way to the harsh light of reality.

'…'

Kurosaki struggled to comprehend the abrupt transformation. But in tandem with gravity, a novel sensation announced its presence. It was concentrated; a pressure bearing down on him from behind. It lingered for only an instant before dissipating.

Pain reclaimed Kurosaki's mind.

Within a heartbeat, Kurosaki found himself no longer cloaked in darkness, but plummeting towards the ground, face-first. The world erupted into a whirlwind of activity, offering Kurosaki no reprieve to brace himself against the onrushing soil and debris.

'Shit!'

The physical world greeted Kurosaki with a muted thud. His face collided with the earth as his vision swam from the impact. He lay inert on the ground, reeling from the bewildering series of events. Gradually, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth roused him from his stupor, and as he attempted to expel it, the acrid taste of grit and dirt assaulted his tongue.

An eruption of laughter boomed from behind Kurosaki, the sound reverberating through the air like a crack of thunder.

"Bored, did it say? Bored?! Has my hearing finally abandoned me? This is the first I've ever heard one whine about boredom."

Coughing up dirt, Kurosaki turned to look at the source of the voice, a middle-aged man; a solid, coarse silhouette that Kurosaki could not place. The man's unkempt beard bristled with mirth, and his eyes, lit by an unhinged fire, held an unnerving intensity. He loomed over Kurosaki's vulnerable form, savouring the sight before him.

Kurosaki's initial instinct was to scramble away, to reclaim his dignity and retaliate against this stranger who found amusement in his misfortune. But a sudden realisation halted his movements: his wrists were bound. Coarse fibres of the rope chafed his skin, a relentless, abrasive dance that left his wrists raw and burning as he struggled against them.

A cursory survey of his surroundings offered little comfort. Though the ground beneath him was unrefined dirt, Kurosaki found himself ensconced within a vast tent, crowned with a fabric canopy and illuminated by primitive oil lamps. It was a modest construction, its walls adorned with straw mats and supported by wooden poles. A thought flitted through his mind: if the Yamato Group adhered to the same industrial safety standards as these people… Oh, the construction costs he could have spared.

There were others present as well; each garbed in uniform leather attire, akin to the burly man. Intriguingly, their weapons were not firearms nor batons, but swords. Lengthy blades dangled casually from belts fastened around their waists, eschewing scabbards. Beyond them, an array of imposing cages were piled upon one another. Squinting, Kurosaki discerned the silhouettes of human-sized figures trapped within.

Kurosaki's mind raced as he tried to make sense of the absurdity he found himself in. Plucked from the abyss—most likely a prolonged coma—and unceremoniously deposited onto the unforgiving earth, only to be awakened by a forceful kick from the burly man. Instead of regaining consciousness in the sterile comfort of a private hospital bed, he had somehow landed on the dirty floor of a human trafficking operation!

However, he was given no time to think as two resounding claps cut through the cacophony. The men hushed, their attention captured.

"Now, gentlemen, I believe our house rules prohibit damaging the merchandise prior to the show," the stocky man turned to address the speaker. A tall, lean figure emerged from behind the tent flaps, clad in elegant attire that contrasted sharply with the sordid surroundings. Unlike the others, he donned a masquerade mask, concealing the upper half of his face. His hair was impeccably slicked back, exuding an air of confidence and authority. "The main event is nearly upon us; see to the preparations."

The stocky man grumbled in response, "Ah, don't be such a downer. This one's gonna end up worthless, can't you see? You, of all people, should know what happens when a slave fails to reach the reserve price." He sneered, the malice in his eyes apparent. "We get to keep 'em, isn't that right? What's the harm in welcoming it to the family a little ahead of schedule?"

The poised figure's eyes narrowed, scrutinising Kurosaki's battered form.

"Hmm," the masked man hummed, his discerning gaze boring into Kurosaki. "Feel free to indulge in your price estimates during your leisure time. Your group has been assigned to security this evening; it is not your place to assume the burden of ownership. We can ill afford distractions, Marcus. I have been lenient with your prior indiscretions, but tonight is of particular importance."

The man's voice was authoritative, and the intensity of his stare remained undiminished by the mask he donned. Under different circumstances, Kurosaki mused, he might've found a friend in this enigmatic figure.

"Yeah, yeah. Fine," Marcus acquiesced, casting Kurosaki a disdainful glance. "Your suppliers have some serious issues to work out if this is the quality they're hauling back from that forsaken continent. Either way, it's of no consequence to me."

"W-Wait just a moment, I'm prepared to negotiate—!" Kurosaki attempted to distance himself from Marcus, but an inexplicable terror gripped him. The burly man's gloved hand encircled the back of his neck, and Kurosaki's body tensed before going limp. Once Marcus had secured his hold, he hoisted Kurosaki off the ground with ease.

"Pfft! This one is amusing—it thinks it can negotiate! Tell me, who's the comedian responsible for sending this one in? There's no chance the Expedition would squander resources on transporting this to the mainland."

The masked man contemplated the probing question, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "…It was a personal favour. Nothing a hired hand should concern himself about."

"Oh, come on, can't you at least tell me where to find the stand-up venue? Or is it a circus this time?" Marcus quipped, undeterred.

As the two went back-and-forth, Kurosaki frantically struggled against the callous man's grip. 'What's with this guy's strength?! Why won't my body move?!'

The sensation of losing control over his motor functions so soon after regaining them was nightmarish; akin to gasping for a single breath before being submerged underwater once more. His muscles remained taut and unresponsive to any command he issued. Kurosaki found little solace in Marcus's nonchalance toward his peculiar reaction to the man's grasp. Like a sack of potatoes, Kurosaki's limbs swung limply from side to side as his captor casually carried him at arm's length toward the exit.

Marcus was halted by a firm hand on his shoulder. "She goes to Auditorium One. Not Two, or Three, or Ten. Auditorium One. You will place her in the unmarked, vacant presentation cage backstage; my handlers will take it from there." The masked man issued his instructions to the mercenary with an air of finality.

A brief, tense silence stretched between them, Kurosaki dangling awkwardly at Marcus' side, bordering on delirium. To the eyes of an unsuspecting observer, the scene might have been almost comical.

"Hmph," Marcus grunted in affirmation, finally released by the masked man to proceed. As they passed through the drapes and emerged outdoors, Kurosaki's vision was bathed in the soft, welcoming glow of the evening light. As his eyes adjusted to the warm, orange sky, he discerned a sprawling encampment of tents, bustling with activity. People shouted orders and scurried about, heaving wooden crates and wheeling goods to and fro. Their attire was curiously plain, with the exception of the occasional worn leather garment akin to Marcus' own.

Kurosaki's head bobbed in time with Marcus' strides, affording him fleeting glimpses of his surroundings. There wasn't an automobile in sight—an observation that struck him as utterly bizarre. Instead, outdated wagons and horse-drawn carts were strewn about, piled high with cargo. Kurosaki's mind reeled at the primitive sight.

'How could it all be so rudimentary?!'

Human trafficking was a multi-billion-dollar industry, underpinned by sophisticated global networks that facilitated the buying and selling of human lives daily. What Kurosaki hadn't anticipated, however, was stumbling upon a scene of such primitive chaos, the kind that would make any seasoned logistics expert's skin crawl.

There should have been semi-trailer trucks, docking cranes, forklifts, and the like. Instead, Kurosaki found himself ensnared by an operation that appeared to have emerged from a bygone era, reliant on carts and wagons propelled by human hands and animal labour. His mind raced, unable to piece together the circumstances that had led him to this predicament.

Marcus granted Kurosaki no time to ponder the nature of the camp, relentlessly plodding through the muck and throngs of busy people toward the rear entrance of a looming building. Kurosaki's next coherent thought came as he was unceremoniously tossed into a cage and locked within. The instant the metal bars clanged shut, Marcus released his grip, and control of Kurosaki's body returned to him.

Though he could now move as he pleased, the confines of the cage precluded any such luxury. It was a cramped space that compelled him to stand upright, affording only his fingers and toes the freedom to squirm.

"Tch. Ridiculous."

Marcus shot Kurosaki a final, disdainful glance, a sneer curving his lips and his head shaking in bemusement. Kurosaki could do nothing but fixate on the retreating figure, powerless to do anything more.

As despair threatened to envelop him, Kurosaki wrestled with the absurdities of his situation, all the while endeavouring to suppress the pain that throbbed throughout his battered form. What had they done to his body while he was asleep? He couldn't fathom what he had done to deserve such treatment. Shouldn't he have been the holy grail of the human trafficking world? The CEO of the Yamato Group, put up for auction? The notion was ludicrous! What had become of the time-honoured method of ransom? His captors could have reaped millions, and at the end of everything, he would have found himself safe and sound at home. He couldn't begin to grasp the thought processes of those who held him captive.

Kurosaki's thoughts meandered, still reeling from the whirlwind of events that had unfolded. With a sigh, he pressed his head against the bars, attempting to survey his surroundings despite the restricted movement of his head within the confined space.

Directly ahead, majestic red curtains billowed mere feet from his caged position, leaving a bitter taste upon his tongue. The masked man had mentioned being brought backstage. Beyond the grand drapes, voices murmured indistinctly, melding into a singular, unintelligible hum. They were anticipating his debut.

Kurosaki averted his gaze from the curtain, allowing his eyes to drift rightward.

As he had surmised, his was not the only cage; others also found themselves in the same position. The inhabitants of these cages were—people. Or were they? It was difficult to discern. From the corner of Kurosaki's eye, he could see the unmistakable shapes of human figures, yet they bore strange protrusions that hinted at animal features. 'Preposterous.'

Stretching his head as far as the cage would allow, Kurosaki caught a clear glimpse of the young woman to his right. She appeared human, save for her vibrant green hair and the pointed ears that adorned her head—an elf? His eyes darted to the other cages beside him, determined to absorb every peculiar detail of their occupants.

'What the hell?'

Each imprisoned individual sported a unique, exotic attribute. To the left, a woman boasted tall, fluffy ears. Beside her, another flaunted a bushy tail. A man with bat-like wings loomed nearby.

'This is madness! My captors are degenerates!'

Adorning a captive with rabbit ears—what kind of twisted joke was this? Kurosaki understood the rationale behind making "products" more appealing, but this was no act of a sound mind. Not only had he been abducted, but he had fallen into the clutches of criminals who harboured a fetish for fantastical half-human hybrids! The scene was like a medieval-themed Disneyland, with him as the overpriced merchandise!

Panic clawed at Kurosaki's chest.

If the others appeared so peculiar, what about himself?

What humiliating 'extras' had they grafted onto his own body?

Before he could uncover the truth, the chatter of the audience members subsided, and a tense anticipation permeated the atmosphere. Kurosaki's heart pounded as he heard the muffled footfalls of someone traversing the stage beyond the weighted drapes.

"Our free city welcomes you, illustrious guests, to the two-hundred-and-fifteenth Grand Exhibition—humanity's most prestigious charity auction!" A man's voice boomed from behind the curtain, filling the vast chamber as the crowd erupted in ardent applause. "We are honoured by the privilege of hosting this year's event and encourage everyone tonight to partake in tonight's presentation!"

Kurosaki strained his ears, absorbing the man's impassioned words as he roused the audience's enthusiasm.

"For tonight, our magnanimous sponsors have assembled a truly exceptional assortment of specimens, encompassing every type and description. From ancient artefacts to exotic beings of boundless potential, our valiant inquisitors and patrons have contributed only the finest selections! All available to you, the discerning connoisseur, for the appropriate price, naturally!"

The crowd roared their approval, swayed by the speaker's skillful blend of excitement and salesmanship. With the introduction concluded, Kurosaki observed a masked employee—one of the handlers—emerge from the shadows to ready the first cage. Approaching the 'elf's' enclosure, the handler grasped two handlebars situated on its sides. It was only as the cage began to move that Kurosaki noticed the wheels affixed to its base. The girl with the pointed ears vanished through the curtains, unveiled to the eager masses beyond.

"Shall we start strong? Our first offering of the evening," the announcer gestured grandly behind him, "a pureblood elf hailing from the distant west!"

A thunderous ovation greeted the man's proclamation as the elf's cage was manoeuvred to centre stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you do not bear witness to such a sight every day. With their numbers dwindling as we speak, who knows—perhaps you shall be the one to save this fading race from the brink of oblivion?!"

Peals of laughter reverberated throughout the chamber.

"Now, now, now—I'm sure you all yearn for the particulars. Very well! At a vigorous sixty years of age, this resplendent specimen boasts a pristine bill of health. No genetic or physiological anomalies, and no prior history of ailment. As expected of a pureblood, it nearly evokes envy!"

A smattering of chuckles emerged, predominantly from the more seasoned members of the audience plagued by their own physical ailments.

"Now, if mere prestige fails to satiate your desires, you may ponder: 'what could this forlorn soul possibly offer?' Worry not, for this exceptional rarity is endowed with an aptitude for the arcane—!"

And the auction persisted, unrelenting.

"—bidding commences at fifty thousand gild—!"

Kurosaki had long since lost track of the number of captives and 'artefacts' paraded upon the stage during the proceedings. It was clear that the auctioneer was a master of his craft, employing his expertise to coax the crowd into escalating bids for each individual. How had he persuaded them that they were purchasing authentic fantasy beings? Either the audience was composed of zealous role-players, the "gilds" they so carelessly flung mere monopoly money, or they were hopelessly gullible beyond comprehension.

Far more astonishing than the host's oratory prowess was the man himself. He appeared to possess a near-boundless energy, peddling the most unremarkable of baubles as if they were divine elixirs. Words cascaded past Kurosaki, unheeded, laden with esoteric jargon and… 'was that a sprinkling of Latin interwoven throughout?'

"—a necklace of [Magna Augurium], wrought by one of the eminent seven gods—!"

On he went, and the crowds ate up every word.

As twilight deepened and midnight receded, Kurosaki's legs cried out for respite; he shifted his weight from one side to the other, trying to alleviate the tension in his muscles. Yet, no matter his efforts, blood pooled in his legs regardless, and lightheadedness engulfed him as the hours ticked by.

As the cages of captives dwindled onstage, Kurosaki ultimately found himself the lone remaining soul backstage. He sagged against the confining bars of his enclosure and sealed his eyes, praying for a merciful end to the night.

'Just get me out of here…'

The external world blurred into obscurity as the auctioneer's endless spiel persisted. The clatter of chains and the cacophony of the audience merged into an indistinguishable din.

"Oh, what have we here?" The announcer cleared his throat. "Ahem, I have been informed that a last-minute item has been added to our list!"

The audience's anticipation was rekindled, and a rustling of intrigue spread throughout the room. Even the auctioneer paused his discourse, allowing the clamour to subside. He resumed:

"Now, I regret to inform that we possess little information on this mysterious piece. However, why, look here! The anonymous donor has provided a reserve price! To the discerning amongst you, this should shed some light on its value! Bidding begins at…"

The host's words tapered off before completion.

His gaze flitted to the amended parchment he'd just received, uncertain of how to proceed; his expression morphed from confusion to shock. He scrutinised the text once more, as if making sure they were no illusion. For the first time during the auction, the host wavered.

"O-One… One gild."

Immediately, disgruntled attendees began voicing their displeasure.

"Impossible!"

"One gild, he says?!"

"A slight upon our dignity!"

From his sequestered position behind the curtain, Kurosaki found himself concurring with the final grievance.

The host cleared his throat in an attempt to mollify the incensed crowd.

"W-Well, isn't this a delightful surprise! Tonight has been full of surprises, don't you agree?" The host inhaled deeply and began anew. "Bidding commences at a mere one gild! N-Now then, what might this mysterious item be? Even I am at a loss to guess."

He snapped his fingers.

"Don't keep us waiting; bring it out!"

Kurosaki's cage jolted to life, beginning its slow journey toward the gap in the curtains. He glimpsed downward through the iron bars and caught sight of a pair of hands that materialised from behind. His eyes widened in surprise; he had no idea how long that handler had been standing there for.

The cage wheeled ever nearer to the stage, the drapes yielding. A stark spotlight bathed Kurosaki in light, inciting a ripple of murmurs among the crowd.

A strangled noise escaped the host's lips.

"…Kugh. W-What is the meaning of this—?"

With a muted thud, the cage ceased its advance, and the handler retreated. At last, it was Kurosaki's turn to behold the faces from whom he'd heard ravenous offers all day.

Filling a massive hall, they numbered in the hundreds or perhaps even thousands, all concealed behind ornate masquerade masks. Majestic crystal chandeliers graced the space, which was punctuated by opera boxes, dwarfing any concert hall Kurosaki had encountered in Japan. The assembly comprised the affluent and the influential, Kurosaki could smell the vanity in the air.

They regarded him with disdain, as though he had personally gone around and gravely insulted each and every one of their mothers and grandmothers. Even behind their plumed disguises, Kurosaki sensed their seething rage and revulsion, and their beady eyes bore down upon him.

'What in the world have I done to them?! I am the one wronged here!'

"Ahhh—!" The host's voice resonated. "Who is responsible for bringing such a lowly creature to this hallowed event?! This is insufferable! Disgraceful!"

No response emerged. Instead, the crowd's whispers swelled.

"…"

Soon the audience began to shift and mutter, and the air grew thick with the sound of voices talking over one another. The host, desperate to regain control, bellowed over the tumult.

"Please, please! I implore you all to calm yourselves!" The host's tone verged on hysteria as the room slipped from his grasp. "Rest assured, this incident will be thoroughly investigated! Handlers, remove it! Remove it at once!" Kurosaki observed the auctioneer's gaze darting between the crowd and the stage, his arms flailing in agitation.

Amid the cacophony, a lone voice pierced the din.

"O-One gild for the black cat."