Primordial Villain with a Slave Harem

Chapter 94: Average Slave Merchant Life

I pull sharply on the chains in my hand, indifferent to the cries of the slaves attached to them. Theyʼre the leftovers, the ones too pitiful even for the stingiest of buyers. Their fate tonight is the local decrepit slave stable, a place as foul as they are. The stable is a rent-able hellhole, and itʼs all they will get from me.

Only the truly worthless spend their nights there, watched over by soldiers who wield their power with brutal efficiency and cruelty over the slavesʼ heads.

The good ones, the ones I sell for at least a gold coin can enjoy the confines of my home. Well, its basement at the very least.

Then thereʼs my wife. Sheʼs made it clear she has no interest in me beyond partnership in our business. Her eyes wander to the younger slave boys, and she flaunts her preferences in front of my eyes shamelessly, obviously mocking me for some reason I donʼt understand. Itʼs a slap in the face, a constant reminder of my diminishing importance and power even in my own home.

The trouble began at home. My relationship with Julia, my wife, had always been a strained alliance rather than a partnership. We both shared a ruthless practicality when it came to business, but beyond that, we were worlds apart. Our marriage was cold, a formality that barely masked mutual disdain. I suppose thatʼs why I turned to Marla, hoping to fill a void that had been growing ever larger.

When we first acquired her, Julia and I were in agreement about her potential. Marlaʼs beauty and battle talent marked her as a rare find, the kind of product that could command top coin. But as the weeks dragged on without a buyer willing to meet our price, temptation got the better of me.

Turning to Marla was supposed to be my solace, but itʼs only added to my frustrations. She was supposed to be my escape- a beautiful, obedient creature who knew her place. Now, sheʼs nothing but a financial liability, and I can only curse myself for it. How was I supposed to know she was so mentally fragile that she would break after some rough play?

I wasnʼt even overly sadistic in our sessions, knowing Iʼm playing with fire- or rather, an expensive product, but my caution still wasnʼt enough. She is a shell of her former self, Iʼve basically created a real, living object out of her accidentally.

I finally shut the stall for the day, feeling the weight of the world and the chains in my hand. Itʼs all routine now, dragging the low-value stock to the stable, their cries and complaints like the chirping of insects- barely noticeable and easily ignored.

With those wretches secured for the night, I turn to the only thing of real value I have left- my gold coin slaves. There are five of them, Marla included, each worth far more than the rest of the lot. I link their chains, threading a sturdy rope made out of orcsʼ harvested groin hair through the loops on their collars.

I dare not leave them in the stable; their worth is too high to risk in such a place.

The night air hangs heavy as I drag my five prized slaves along the winding path to my home. The streets are dimly lit, casting long shadows that stretch and twist across the cobblestones. The chains clink in a rhythmic, almost taunting manner, a constant reminder of the burden of my pathetic existence.

As I pull these golden geese through the darkened alleys, my mind drifts bitterly to the Aleron family- their grand mansion like a jewel set perfectly in the heart of the slave district. They have it all, those bastards. Riches beyond measure, influence that stretches across the county, and a home that towers over mine in both size and stature.

Meanwhile, I trudge back to my mediocre little dwelling on the outskirts of the district, a full twenty minutes from the market- twenty minutes too far for my liking.

My house is a humble, aging two-story structure. The paint is peeling, and the roof is in desperate need of repair. Itʼs nothing compared to the opulence of the Aleron estate, with its sprawling gardens and marble halls. My home is just another testament to the smallness of my existence- a place where dreams go to wither and die.

Even my successful son refuses to help his parents out, what an ungrateful little brat… Buying us a mansion in the middle of the district is the least he could do after we nurtured him for so long. I canʼt help but sigh, accepting that his education is just another one of the failures on my long list of mistakes.

When I finally arrive, Iʼm greeted by the worn face of my old butler slave, who shuffles out to meet me. His back is bent with age, his eyes dull and lifeless. Without a word, he takes the chains from my hands, his fingers shaking slightly as they wrap around the metal links.

”Take Marla and wash her,” I bark at him. ”Then send her to my bedroom.”

The butler nods, leading the chain of slaves away as I head toward the master bathroom. Inside, the room is cold and unwelcoming, the cracked tiles and rusting fixtures mocking my every step. I strip off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a heap, and step into the tepid water of the bath.

The grime of the day swirls around me as I wash, the dirt and sweat mixing into a murky film that clings to my skin.

After a brief and unsatisfying wash, I dry myself and make my way to the bedroom. When I step out Iʼm greeted by two of our guards, naturally, they are also slaves. However, these bastards arenʼt even close to hitting level 10… Maybe I should send them to the labyrinth to do some grinding. ṝἁ𝐍ỘВĚṡ

As I open the door, Iʼm met with a sight that stabs at my already dying pride.