Slave Auction (3)
“Hand over the money.”
Cliche’s curt words draw laughter from the surrounding thugs.
“Hahaha! Look at this cheeky little brat.”
“Must’ve gotten pickpocketed or something.”
“Hey, kid. Show us your back, and I’ll give you a thousand gold for a cry.”
The burly gangsters wave their vicious weapons around, guffawing heartily. No one takes Cliche seriously.
But there’s one exception here.
The one who can’t laugh.
The Phantom Thief Kid.
“I-I’ll give it to you!”
The Phantom Thief Kid shouts, his face drained of color. He knows. He remembers Cliche from that stroll where he’d gone to assassinate Roin—the terrifying power that didn’t match the boy’s appearance at all. He’d been so stunned by the sight that he lost his wits, got caught by the guards, and thrown into an underground cell.
When he came to and realized he was in prison, the shock had been immense. He’d struggled endlessly to escape, and thinking back still grinds his teeth.
But regardless of his anger, his body reacts honestly. His legs tremble uncontrollably. Cold sweat trickles down his temples, pooling at his chin before dripping to the floor.
Meanwhile, stung by the crowd’s mockery, Cliche furrows his brow slightly. Then, as if annoyed by the hassle, he speaks.
“Never mind. Don’t need it.”
At the same moment, fire and ice begin to sing from Cliche’s arms.
Kurrrr rumble!
His left arm, dyed red, boils with crimson flames hot as the sun.
Craaaack!
His right arm, frozen white, crystallizes with frost colder than the arctic gale.
“...Huh? A mage?”
The thugs’ faces pale. Nobles scream from all directions.
“Hey! Magic! Do something about it!”
They grab the collars of the expensive mages they’d hired as bodyguards, shaking them violently.
“Huh? Magic? It’s not. I don’t sense any mana at all!”
But the mages can’t hide their bewilderment. Some were high-circle mages up to the 6th circle, yet none detect even a whiff of mana from Cliche’s body.
So it’s not magic.
But.
Kurrruk! Boom! Kwaboom! Rumble!Craaaack! Hiss!
The onslaught of fire and ice is real. Lightning bolts of flame and ice hammer down from every direction, as if heralding the apocalypse.
“Gaaaaah!?”
Everyone buying and selling slaves is hurled into a hell of scorching heat and biting cold. It feels like all the chills and burns the slaves endured are now inflicted on them at once.
“You crazy mage bastards! Cast dispel or whatever! No magic nullification spells!?”
“I told you, it’s not magic to begin with! No mana at all!”
“You lunatic! If it’s not magic, then what is it!?”
“It just isn’t. Period.”
Mages start bickering everywhere.
And then.
Kurrrr rumble—
They’re all swept away by Cliche’s natural disaster without mercy.
“S-Spare me!”
The Phantom Thief Kid flings his sword aside and flees in panic. But even with mid-tier Sword Master agility, he can’t dodge the incoming icy winds.
“Ngh!?”
Frost grabs his ankle, and he swallows a gasp. Craaaack! Solid ice forms, clamping his foot. He loses balance and flails wildly.
Charging forward with a furious glare is Georges.
“Objectifying me sexually comes at a heavy price.”
“Wait! Your auction price went up because you’re a woman? No, the opposite!”
“Gender means nothing! I’m neither woman nor man—I’m a knight!”
“No, who even called you here!? You put yourselves up for auction willingly!”
“Shut up!”
Georges ignores the thief’s filthy excuses. She draws the dragon sword at her waist and swings it swiftly.
Shiiik! Shiiik! Shiiik!
[This ain’t a sound from a mouth!]
The dragon sword Zenkaeno lets out a noise like wind or breath and shoots straight ahead.
Clang!
The Phantom Thief Kid parries with his rapier.
“Ha! Even so, against a newbie knight who just got her title...!?”
But he can’t finish his line.
Pwaak!
A clean punch! A red arc in the air! Two front teeth flying at the end of that parabola!
After tossing the dragon sword, Georges follows with a straight jab. The Phantom Thief Kid loses his mind completely.
Even an absolute powerhouse can’t handle such a sudden ambush. Who’d expect a knight to hurl her sword?
“B-Block it! Kill that guy!”
With even their trusted Phantom Thief Kid down, the nobles flail like fire’s fallen on their heads—not their feet. But with their feet frozen solid, they can only writhe in place. If music were playing, they’d pass for balloon dolls outside a new restaurant.
“Hmph!”
The high mages, who’d been watching in confusion, step forward.
“O noble sun! Descend to earth and share your power! Fireball!”
“Fierce northern gale! Ride the winds and manifest before me! Ice Missile!”
The mages chant their personal spells, summoning fire and ice.
But.
“Lame spells.”
Cliche waves lazily, and the mages’ crude flames and ice are swallowed whole by his power. It’s fireflies versus a bonfire.
Kwabooom!
Boiling water and ice shards explode everywhere. Mages hit by fist-sized ice chunks faint without a peep; those doused in scalding water scream shrilly and roll on the ground.
Meanwhile.
“...”
Georges stands slack-jawed, staring at the scene. Mid-tier Sword Masters, multiple high-circle mages, countless soldiers—a force that’d take a whole kingdom’s knight order to subdue.
And here’s one boy thrashing them single-handedly. Unbelievable.
She’d thought he was no ordinary guy when he froze the harbor barehanded, but seeing that power unleashed on humans... it’s overwhelmingly dominant.
[Uahaha! That’s right, now call me master, you filthy pigs! Shiiik! Shiiik!]
The dragon sword Zenkaeno in Georges’s hand seems to be venting all its pent-up frustration from being merchandise. It pokes into tent corners, stabbing the plump rears of hiding slave traders with its tip.
Kwaboom!
Cliche’s power finally obliterates the massive slave market tent. Hail and boiling water fill the air with steam, rising like a massive beacon fire.
“What’s that?”
“What’s all the commotion!?”
Armed forces stationed outside rush in with grim faces.
But they meet the same fate as those inside within seconds.
“Hiiiik!”
Ice carpets the ground, firebolts rain from the sky. Enduring falling embers with ankles frozen is pure torment.
“Wooooah!”
Slaves behind the stage cheer wildly. Most are innocents, eyes teary with gratitude.
“...”
But some slink away, trying to flee. These are the guilty ones.
Yet no one escapes the fortress. Its walls are sheer cliffs, exits and entrances barbed with sharp logs, spear tips, and thorns. The iron gates’ keys are with the fainted traders.
Escaping without keys would require near-miraculous skill. Easy to enter, not so much to leave.
“By now, Rok must’ve noticed. Soldiers will come soon!”
Georges nods approvingly. The thieves and traders are either unconscious or frozen in place—no fleeing for them.
The innocent slaves will be pardoned and get relocation aid. The guilty ones? Prison and trial.
Prince Int, the current prime minister proxy, will handle it smoothly. This could even boost Rok’s prestige—and population.
“Grab some travel money.”
“Yes, sir!”
At Cliche’s word, Georges unhesitatingly raids the traders’ safes without a second thought.
Clink!
She takes exactly what they’d lost, piles the rest for the soldiers to claim.
“This’ll make the country several times richer.”
Plundering the vaults of global criminals means no taxes for farmers for years. Roin’s reputation rises, national dignity too. Eradicating slave traders boosts security, draws immigrants.
“Did a good deed. Hope it’s a nice gift for Roin.”
Cliche nods and turns. Beyond the thieves’ fortress stretches the road to the central continent.
“We blasted a shortcut anyway. Why not head straight? We’ll be there quick.”
“Excellent idea, sir.”
Georges nods. And so, Cliche and Georges resume their journey to Midland.
Whoooosh— Dusty road ahead.
Watching Cliche lead, Georges tilts her head.
‘But I feel like we forgot something. Just my imagination?’
* * *
“Damn it! When’s he coming...?”
The shivering captains. Over a dozen stand at the frozen harbor, staring at their ships.
The sea for kilometers is solid ice—no moving them. Icebreakers would take too long.
They can only wait for Cliche.
But he doesn’t return, no matter how long.
“Damn that pink-haired mage bastard! Did he forget us!?”
A captain grumbles, puffing smoke.
“Hey! Get the ship moving!”
A middle-aged man comes running in a panic. His fancy suit is half-burnt and ragged, body flushed red like frostbite.
The Phantom Thief Kid. He’d escaped the chaos again. A master thief, one of the world’s top two.
But.
“Sorry, can’t sail right now.”
The captain snaps irritably, jerking his chin at the sea.
“...!”
The Phantom Thief Kid tears at his hair seeing the iced harbor.
“Aaaargh! That pink-haired bastard did this to the harbor too!? How much of a menace is he!? He turns everywhere into a total mess!”
He has no idea Cliche froze it because his underling stole Cliche’s money.
Then.
“Excuse me. A word?”
An old gentleman in a bowler hat approaches with a cane.
“When can the ship depart?”
The Phantom Thief Kid explodes.
“Hey, old timer! With the sea like this, how!? Eyes glued shut!? Want some tofu in ‘em!?”
“Heh heh, young man’s got a short fuse. Somewhere urgent to be?”
The old man asks, and the thief snaps again.
“That’s why I’m pissed! Damn it! Rok’s soldiers are probably closing in by now!”
For a moment.
The old man smiles faintly.
“Then I’ll get you there quick.”
“...What?”
As the Phantom Thief Kid scowls and starts to retort.
Shwick—
The old man’s hand moves fast. The cane slices the air.
Snikt—
Something severs. Thud—
The Phantom Thief Kid’s head hits the ground.
“...”
The grumbling captains gape.
“Haste in youth gets you there sooner.”
The old man removes his bowler. A cross-shaped scar across nose and eyes.
Dexter Crowman.
He’s there.
“Weak for one of the ‘Eight Heads,’ huh? To think he’s rated my level. Heh heh.”
Crowman tsks, nudging the head with his toe. He scans the frozen ships and captains.
“Now, prep for departure. Soldiers come, I get tired too.”
At his words, the captain trembles like an aspen.
“S-Sir, as you see, the sea’s frozen solid—we can’t... ”
The plea doesn’t finish.
Silver flash from Crowman’s eyes. Shwick— He draws the sword inside the cane, slashing vertically.
Craaaack!
The thick ice blanketing the sea splits in two!
Splash!
Waves churn between the halves.
“...”
All stare, speechless at the power that cleaved kilometers of half-meter ice.
To them, Crowman just shrugs and says shortly.
“Now. To Midland.”