After buying a loaf of bread for 2 coppers from a stall, Mog hurried back to his home through the narrow alleyways of the slums. While there was still light during the daytime, the streets were still relatively safe. However, when night fell, things could get ugly.

The streets were poorly lighted, with barely the occasional torch from time to time, especially in the slums. The occasional chamber pot falling from the eighth or ninth floor with enough force to crack the pavement. Dangerous thugs, thieves, and human traffickers roaming the night, seeking their next prey. The red-caped rich scions and bigots of large families, traveling together with a retinue of guards and followers (Most of them were slaves.) And, of course, the drunks and thrill-seekers of the night, raring for a brawl. Some shop owners might even suspect you are a thief by simply walking next to their shop and attack on sight. Such were the dangers of the night in the great city of Lamaria.

While vigilante guards patrolled the night, they were mostly to put out fires and prevent them from spreading. In other words, even if someone was attempting to murder you, you were alone, especially people of the slums.

By the time Mog arrived at his house, it was almost dusk. Unlike most of the slums that were already converted to high-rise insulas¹Slum apartment complexes that combined a shop downstairs, this old house and its yard was part of the old and decaying part of the city. There were already city plans on evacuation-rebuilding it with another insula. Mog, as the landowner, would receive two apartments as compensation when they do it, so he was ok with it. At most, he will transport his father's ashes urn to another location.

However, because of this, thugs kept harassing him, trying to buy the land for cheap. He even had suspicions that they were in cahoots with the city planning, trying to maximize their profits. The thugs didn't dare do much when Rizor was still alive since Rizor was a C-rank freelance adventurer. Even in his advanced age, he was a force to reckon with. Now, after his death in the recent winter, the thugs started to rear their ugly heads again, looking at the weak Mog like a fresh piece of meat.

As Mog was too weak and had no connections to rely on, he could only grit his teeth and bear with it. 

After entering the house and locking the door, Mog placed the loaf of bread on the wooden table in his house. He then went to the kitchen panel and took out a ceramic jug filled with water under it and an empty ceramic drinking cup and placed them on the table before sitting on one of the two chairs and eating.

After eating it and drinking some water with the ceramic cup, he went to his hay bed and took out from underneath it a small wooden chest and a woolen blanket.

Opening the chest, he looked at its contents; A bundle of miswak sticks, a small closed urn, a small knife, two flintstones, a few copper and silver coins, and two metal sticks with a strange protruding and hooked end(lockpicks). He took out a miswak with a frayed ending, which he chewed this morning, and the urn.

Inside the urn was a type of paste made out of a mixture of a bit of olive oil and a herb called Pampica. This mixture that cost 5 coppers for a small urn that could last for a month served as the toothpaste of the Lamarian people. The inexpensive Pampica plant had many qualities that prevented gum diseases, cavities, plaque, and other oral problems, and it even had whitening effects on the teeth. The oil had preservative qualities, held the mixture together, and also had a few health benefits. Due to how inexpensive it was, being inedible, and because Lamarians took oral hygiene extremely seriously, everyone used it, including the rich and the poor. Even Mog, a poor orphan and half-blood who was tight on money, made sure to use it. Dental problems were the last thing most people wanted, including him.

A more expensive addition was to use a mage spell to reinforce the teeth once every week, but that was a few silvers per cast. Unless you were a mage, had a mage as a slave or companion, or you were filthy rich, no sane man would use it.

Taking the stick, he dipped the fibery part into the mixture and used it as a toothbrush. The miswak stick was from a Salvadora persica tree, and everyone used it to brush their teeth. It not only served as an effective brush, but due to its long frays, it also served as an effective dental floss.

After he finished brushing his teeth, Mog filled the small ceramic cup with some water, swished some in his mouth, and spat the mixture out through the window. Once done, he used the knife to cut off the part of the miswak he used and touched his saliva, and then placed it in the newly filled cup to be immersed in water until morning.

A bundle of miswak branches merely cost a copper coin for a bundle of 10, and they could easily last two months. Even the biggest scrouge would use it. There was also the slightly more expensive boar bristle toothbrush that required less maintenance. But Rizor mainly used miswak and believed it was healthier, so Mog also used it. As old Rizor lived to the fine age of 79 with all his pearly white teeth intact and no cavities, it showed just how effective it was.

After he finished, he placed the now-sealed urn and the knife back inside the chest and closed it. After placing it beside him, he glanced outside the window and, seeing that it was almost dark, he covered himself with the blanket and went to sleep. By the time he wakes up, it would already be dawn. He knew that he needed the rest for the energy needed to train his body, bring back food from the plaza and water from a nearby water source, and pickpocket at noon tomorrow. After that, it is eating lunch, bathing, and going back home. That was his daily routine for his survival and self-development.

However, what Mog thought would be a normal night would turn into one that would change his life...

 

 

 

 

As the night drew deeper with only the shine of the moon and stars and the scant few torches and lamps lighting the city of Lamaria, few people roamed on the streets. Among them, two shadows drew closer to an old and dilapidated house, one that even slaves would not wish to sleep in.

One of the shadows snuck in through the only window in the house. However, he made a slight noise when he entered. A greenish-grey-skinned youth, a half-orc, that slept on a common hay bed was startled awake.

"Wha?!"

However, before he could do anything, he was hit on the head with a wooden stick, making him go dizzy, his ears ringing. He then felt that he was being tied up and gagged.

As Mog was losing consciousness, he heard his door being opened and two voices speaking with each other.

"Is it done?"

"Yeah, piece of cake, and he is still breathing. So we do it as we planned?"

"Yes. You take the kid to the Dark Auction. I will take his civilian necklace to the officials and the replacement to switch the life imprint. It's so easy to replace these dirt-bloods that I almost feel sorry for them. You only need to find some random freedman and offer them full citizenship for playing their part, and nobody stands up to them, especially orphans like this."

"Bhahaha! But it's still easy money. We should be thankful that he refused to move. We get to sell him as a slave and keep all the money while the city planning can get a bigger share on his land."

"Yeah, thankful! Hahaha..."

And then Mog lost consciousness.

 

 

 

After an indefinite amount of time, Mog woke up with a killer headache and a burning feeling in front of his chest.

"Ugh... What... Where am... I?"

He opened his groggy eyes and noticed that his surroundings were relatively dark. After his eyes adjusted a bit, he started looking around.

He was in a large stone room with metal bars blocking the only exit. From the said exit, some torchlight came through, illuminating the room a bit. Inside the room, over a dozen half-naked children were wearing only crotch wrappings, even the females. All of them were either half-bloods or full-bloods of other races, and all of them looked listless as if their soul left them. He also noticed that on their bare chests were slave crests.

Just as he was processing what was going on, he heard a young voice behind him, "Woke up?"

Mog struggled to get up from the floor, "Y-Yeah, Where ugh..." However, a wave of pain from his head hit him.

"Stay down. Rest a bit. You have a head injury. Right now, you are at the warehouse of the Dark Auction. Also, you are just like the other kids before your eyes. You are a slave now, waiting to be auctioned off."

Mog widened his eyes and looked downwards. Indeed, there was a black slave crest on his exposed chest. Despair started to well inside him. What did he do to deserve this?

Just then, the door of the cell got unlocked and opened up. A thug entered the room and pointed at a handsome half-elf boy a little older than him.

"You! Come with me, your up."

The half-elf looked like a death row prisoner as he quietly followed the thug outside without complaints. The thug then locked the cell again. Nobody in the room resisted and just continued to wallow in despair. Mog didn't blame them. They simply couldn't because of the slave crest.

Mog rolled around and looked at the child who spoke to him. The child was a full-blooded orc kid around his age, being greener, bulkier, taller, with bigger teeth, and just being uglier, both in human standards and in general. The hair on his head was mostly shaven off, except for a short ponytail. He had some sword scars on his relatively muscular body, signifying that he trained in swords before... Or was simply treated badly by some sadist. On his chest, just like Mog and the rest, he had a slave crest. He sat down cross-legged and crossed arms, his back straight as a rod.

Mog asked to the point, "What is the dark auction?"

The orc kid let out a bemused smile, "The place where illegal slaves, non-human freedmen, or free citizens, who get abducted, are sold at. You know how some activities are forbidden to force slaves to do, right? Especially children."

Mog nodded, "Yeah, I heard some tales. Special underage children brothels and illegal fighting pits, right?"

The orc kid shrugged, "Yeah, you got most of it. There are a few more, but they are far less common. That kid who got taken just now will probably end up in a brothel until he becomes just used rags. If he is lucky, some rich lord or lady will buy him without throwing him to their dogs as a chew-toy. If he is unlucky, someone with sick tastes and too much money in his pockets will use him as the main ingredient of his next dinner. I will probably end up in some fighting pit. If I am unlucky, I might even end up in the mines, doomed to mine until my last breaths. If my luck is horrible, I will end up on the operating table of some crazy mage raring to dissect a live specimen. As for you..."

The orc kid scanned Mog, "If you were back in my tribe, I guess some women would take you as a boy toy. However, here, you are only considered average-looking from a human standpoint. You have some lean muscles on you, which I can tell have some strength in them, so you will likely end up in the fighting pits or as human bait to monsters."

Mog stared at the kid in silence before he said, "I'm Mog. You?"

The orc boy raised an eyebrow as he replied, "Valor, hah? You will certainly need that to where we are going... I am Latagu, which means lion."

As they were discussing, the thug came again and took another kid. This time, it was a half beastkin girl, looking fully human except for her cat ears and tail.

Latagu sighed, "Except for us two, most of the kids here will probably share the same fate as the half-elf from before. That is also why I even bothered talking to you. If we end up with the same buyer, we will be allies. If two different pit-fighting trainers buy us, and we survive long enough, we will be at each other's throats one day."

Mog stared at Latagu as he said, "Let's hope for the former."

Latagu nodded his head and then fell silent while closing his eyes, seemingly meditating. Mog also closed his eyes and tried to get as much rest as he could.

Occasionally, Mog heard the thug calling one of the kids. As time passed, fewer and fewer kids were present in the cell, and Mog's head injury felt less painful.

Finally, it was Latagu who was called out.

Mog said to him, "Good luck."

Latagu nodded his head to Mog and said, "If we ever meet again, let us hope we don't cross blades."

He was then escorted out, leaving Mog alone in the cell.

Mog, now alone, tried to stand up. After a bit of effort, he stood up and waited for his turn. A few minutes later, the thug came and told Mog, "You're the last one, dirt-blood. Come, it's time to meet your future owner."

Mog took a deep breath and headed out of his cell, facing his ill-omened fate with as much courage as he could muster.