Chapter 2
Chapter 2
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: Proof of the Evil Spirit's Existence
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House Riddle is one of the Great Merchant Houses.
In simple terms, it means a family that will sell off anything that can be sold.
And.
Throughout history, the most expensive commodity has always been people.
"......Will you be okay without guards? Those beastly fellows might harm Your Excellency."
"Do I look like a child to you?"
"At least take a whip."
"There's nothing stupider than holding a whip while trying to talk."
Ignoring Torsso's dissuasion, I headed to the slave quarters.
The slave quarters were on the same grounds as the mansion.
Since House Riddle possessed such a vast estate,
there probably weren't slave quarters only here,
but most of the slaves were kept in this one.
However, even though it was on the same grounds as the mansion,
the building felt like it belonged to another world entirely.
"......It's stuffy."
"Pardon?"
"The air is stuffy."
"Well, will the slaves bother with proper ventilation?"
Cold. Dark. Gloomy. Bleak.
The building itself was maintained quite cleanly,
but the impression it evoked suited ruins far more than a dormitory.
This was a place where even rats would starve to death.
Just a short walk from this building lay the mansion, brimming with luxurious paintings and golden ornaments,
yet here there were only bare stone walls, without even proper paving.
Outside this building, pristine fountains and vibrant flowers sparkled brilliantly,
yet here not even a crumb of bread could be found.
"......"
Because I had read Karl Riddle's memories,
I had deluded myself into thinking I understood this world to some extent.
Because I had read the novel describing this world,
I had deluded myself into thinking I knew how miserable the slaves' lives were.
No.
This wasn't it.
"......This is a space for storing merchandise."
"Yes. It's managed by overseers to ensure the goods aren't damaged."
This was a warehouse.
So rats weren't allowed to live here,
it couldn't get dirty,
and the merchandise couldn't wander off on its own.
It shouldn't even be called a dormitory.
"The sharp edges are all smoothed down so slaves can't self-harm. Occasionally, slaves try jumping from heights, so we've hung nets over any spots they could fall from. But if we board up the windows or doors, they somehow break through anyway."
"......"
I had thought a dormitory was a space that reflected a person's individuality.
Just as a wealthy person's quarters are filled with symbols of affluence,
a busy person's is cluttered,
an obsessive one's is meticulously organized,
I had imagined a slave dormitory would be filthy and crumbling, mirroring their wretchedness.
Even that notion was a luxury.
There was nothing here revealing any slave's personality.
What this building displayed was simply how well the merchandise was being managed.
This wasn't a dormitory.
It was a warehouse.
What was 'stored' here wasn't people, but goods.
No one truly lived here.
Even a warehouse keeper doesn't live inside the warehouse, after all.
"Show me where the slaves are."
"Yes."
Soon, the door to the room housing the slaves swung open.
"......"
In truth, I had expected to walk a bit farther.
It was too quiet.
Even as the door opened, not a single voice could be heard.
No groans of agony,
no startled greetings at a noble's visit,
not even coughs or the sound of breathing.
"......It's quiet."
"These slaves have been through long-term training. New arrivals are kept deeper inside. The untrained ones pose an escape risk."
The slaves confirmed my presence and quietly rose to their feet, bowing their heads.
It was a disciplined display.
Not a breath could be heard, though they couldn't hide their skin trembling faintly.
They appeared hale enough on the surface,
but scars peeked through the sackcloth draped over them like rags.
Just like a market vendor hiding bruised fruit beneath the pretty ones,
they had been whipped only in places hidden by clothing.
Moreover, the slaves here were all sturdy in build.
Meaning they were the type destined for mute labor.
Unlike slaves attending to a master's personal needs,
these were fated to tick away like gears, performing their tasks ceaselessly.
So they had been trained not to speak.
Like surgically muting the vocal cords of a dog that had no need to bark.
Trained not to speak.
Not castrating the body, but the soul.
"......"
"......"
I took a step closer to the slaves.
They flinched but neither recoiled nor let out a whimper.
They simply stayed put.
Not even the instinct to flee fear remained.
I muttered.
"Don't answer. Just listen."
Knowing they wouldn't anyway,
I spoke to myself.
"You must fear me."
Knowing my words would be violence to them, not solace,
I spoke alone.
"I know how hard it is to forget speech. Crippling the soul must be several times harsher than maiming legs or arms."
No.
Several times wouldn't suffice.
Ten times wouldn't suffice.
Simply,
it wouldn't suffice.
Just someone born in 21st-century Korea,
whining about rising prices,
any pain I could imagine,
no multiple would ever capture it.
So I spoke again.
"No. I don't know. Born into a noble house, receiving meticulous education, fretting only over seizing power or earning more money—I can't comprehend your suffering."
Karl Riddle doesn't know.
The ordinary reader who possessed this body doesn't know.
Karl Riddle was trash not worth associating with,
and the me before possession was someone steeped in modern morality from general education,
but in their ignorance of this pain,
the two were no different.
I don't know.
I truly don't know.
I'm such a shallow person that,
just as Karl Riddle stripped their rights to profit,
I thought spending money to restore those rights would buy their loyalty.
I was no different from that trash, Karl Riddle.
"However, I promise."
But from now on, I won't be the same.
"I will understand you."
If this is pity,
a cheap emotion born of modern habits,
I will pity all the more thoroughly.
If this is deception for survival,
deception to outlast the protagonist,
I will deceive all the more thoroughly.
As deep as their suffering,
I will pity and deceive to match.
"Feel free to see this as a vile noble's cruel jest. Or this fool babbling in a drugged stupor. Don't believe me. Forget what happened today."
I will change from that trash Karl Riddle.
I will survive.
I will remain in their memories as a good man.
When the protagonist someday comes to kill me,
I will be good enough to declare proudly,
that I was such a good man,
that he has no right to kill me.
I will prove that the one now possessing this body
is undoubtedly a different person from Karl Riddle.
I must prove it.
"I will prove it."
I removed the pristine white glove from my right hand.
Karl Riddle was a capable villain.
He possessed an innate eye for appraising merchandise value, flawlessly distinguishing genuine articles from fakes and relics.
The source of that capability lay in a single power he held.
Psychometry
Ability to read the memories of objects.
For a merchant, it was a talent straight from the heavens.
He amassed great wealth with it.
Buying valuable artworks and relics cheaply,
seizing the weaknesses of shady dealers,
discerning the trustworthy from the dubious.
To him, it was merely useful information.
"Extend your hand."
"......"
The slave extended his hand.
I grasped the slave's hand.
The slave's memories flowed into me.
"You have family."
At the word 'family' that burst from my lips,
the slave's expression twisted for a moment.
Almost simultaneously,
Torsso drew his sword and aimed it at the slave's throat.
This childhood friend of mine also doubled as Riddle's bodyguard.
I paid no mind to the tense atmosphere.
I didn't release my grip.
I simply continued speaking.
"Your family are commoners, not slaves. You sold yourself into slavery to save your starving siblings? One sibling has talent for studies. Your sale price could've bought not just food, but even tuition to send them to the Academy. Then your family would never starve again, you thought."
"......"
"I'll set aside a space in the quarters for learning letters. There'll be textbooks and books—after work, come anytime to study."
Currently, the slaves working the estate are paid in Talants instead of meal vouchers.
These slaves squander it all on black bread and the like.
Even if paid more Talants, it'd at best upgrade to white bread.
Therefore.
I would make an offer they couldn't refuse,
one tempting enough to hope for, even if it might not be kept.
"Save exactly ten Talants, and you can write a letter to your family."
"......Pardon?"
The slave unwittingly opened his mouth.
The slave's soul stirred back to life.
"So it's best to study ahead of time."
Ten black breads.
Forgo just that, and you can send word to family.
To family from whom no news came,
whom you could only desperately believe were faring well,
now you could speak.
"A slave who learns letters increases in value as merchandise."
Believe it.
They would have no choice but to.
Wasn't this exactly the kind of lie worth falling for?
"......"
No reply came,
but I didn't need one.
The trembling in the slave's hand had stopped.