1. Picking Up the Unsold Slaves

That damned unfamiliar ceiling.

A ceiling of rotting wooden planks, sloppily nailed together in haphazard rows.

It was bottom-shelf trash among bottom-shelf trash—wooden splinters might drop at any moment and lodge themselves in my eye. An ownerless cobweb even hung in one corner.

Right in the center, some beggarly-looking characters were written as well.

…Hm.

On closer inspection, the letters weren't written on the ceiling. They were floating unnaturally in midair.

I waved my hand to brush them away.

―Whoosh, whoosh.

……?

What the hell.

Why won't this thing go away?

"Get your set discount on the low-grade potions stocked this morning! Three for two silver!"

"Everyone gathered up? Let's head to the guild and check the request board."

The brick buildings packed densely together all had their own charm, weathered through who knows how many repairs. The daytime streets overflowed with people everywhere you looked, brimming with life. Humans, elves, dwarves, lizardmen, halflings, beastkin of every imaginable kind—where had all these races even come from?

"So this is Elend, the city that's friendly to new adventurers! It's packed with them, and there's a weapons shop, a potion ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shop, even a spellbook store!"

As I made my preparations for the day along the shop district, a group of adventurers passed by in front of me—wide-eyed rookies who had only just left their hometowns.

"Everyone looks so impressive. Some of them have already classed up into Swordsmen or Mages instead of plain adventurers. Look, here's one too… Gah."

The moment they saw me, they twisted their faces into open disgust.

"Slave Merchant? Hey, how the hell do you show your face walking the streets in broad daylight?"

Hot-blooded, as rookies tend to be.

It hadn't been a day or two since I'd dealt with this, but having strangers pick a fight out of nowhere was still exhausting.

"I'm not a slave merchant. Get lost."

"Not one, my ass. What do you take me for, illiterate? Filthy bastard."

Even when insulted, I'd grown quite used to it by now, so my blood didn't boil the way it had right after my transmigration. I had become a lukewarm tea, pleasant enough to sip.

The reason was simple.

Even now, a single line of text was shining proudly above my head.

This nametag, displaying one's job and name, was a passive that every single person in this world carried above their head.

The problem was that this nametag wasn't visible only to me. Just like in the game, anyone and everyone could see it.

"This isn't a nametag I chose to wear. I know exactly what a slave merchant does—people who treat someone's life as merchandise, break them, and sell them off just to put food in their own mouths."

"What? And someone who knows that…."

"Don't worry about it and get moving. Curious rookies die fast."

"Wh-who're you calling a rookie? You're just playing at being an adventurer…!"

The rookies bristled.

All I could manage was a scoff.

"Don't take the giant frog subjugation quest. That's my honey pot."

I couldn't be bothered to argue further, so I ended the conversation there and carried on toward the Adventurers' Guild.

Behind me, I could hear the rookies muttering.

Yes, that's it. Take the giant frog subjugation as your very first quest.

rookies usually get devoured on their first try, and honestly, the sight of you all showering in sticky frog mucus would do wonders for my mood.

"Tch."

A game interface—job and name display—carried over intact into the world I'd been transmigrated ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into.

Was this really okay?

Worse yet, in the original story, wasn't I a slave merchant who gets chopped into seventy-two pieces and killed before the main plot even begins?

What on earth had I done so wrong?

Had my review, sounding the alarm against the garbage companies that mass-produced cookie-cutter shit games and singling this work out as their flagship, been read into the National Assembly or something?

Had I used sly malicious screenshots to defame the heroines as non-virgins in the shipping wars against the unicorns on the community forums?

Back when speedrunning was all the rage, had I single-handedly discovered a bug at a tournament, cleared the game with a 32-second ending, and soured the whole atmosphere?

…No. I really didn't do any of that.

Those are this game's famous incidents and scandals—I was never the perpetrator.

Frankly, I'd barely played this game at all. I tried the demo once and never even bought it.

And yet the reason I knew this game so well was simple.

I was what you'd call a wikinit.

This game had an infamous reputation, but its lore and Easter eggs were actually quite fun.

I watched a short review video, got interested, and read through the wiki several times from cover to cover. That was the whole story.

In other words, a theorycrafter.

I never gave other users or the developers any reason to hold a grudge against me, so why were the words Slave Merchant nailed above my skull, forcing a mental hardcore mode on me? Why, I ask you.

"I'm not going to be a slave merchant."

My conscience, at least, was intact. If the slaves I sold got Body-Modded into horrors by some psychopath necromancer, or had their skulls bashed in and turned into drooling idiots, doomed to till salt fields until they dropped dead—

I wasn't thick-skinned enough to swallow bread bought with that money.

Thankfully, at the moment of transmigration I owned no slaves, and I had only just acquired the Slave Merchant job.

So I decided to make my living the ordinary way, as an adventurer.

I arrived at the Adventurers' Guild. Stepping into the interior, which felt something like a spacious café, the scent of aged wood washed over me.

"Do you have any requests I could handle? Solo."

"One moment, please."

When I spoke to her, she began flipping through the request forms for me. The receptionist, at least, handled requests and payments with brisk professionalism, which made things easy.

"That man's alone again today? His quest completion rate is great and he's pretty strong—should we try inviting him to our party? He's handsome, too."

"Are you insane? You didn't see his job?"

"Ah… right. My eyes must be going. That was a close call."

Voices from other adventurers drifted over from behind me.

Naturally, not a single adventurer would party up with me once they saw my job, so I always handled requests alone.

"Master Wicker, may I ask you something?"

The receptionist who'd been showing me the request forms struck up a conversation. A rare occurrence.

"What can I do for you?"

"Your nametag's job—why don't you change it?"

"If I could, I would have long ago. I assumed I'd end up as Adventurer Wicker myself."

"You didn't?"

"It turns out this world ranks jobs by their honor and baseness."

It did.

And it was that damned Goddess, that miserable wretch, who had decreed the rankings.

The nametag that floated everyone's job and name above their head was also, apparently, an exercise of the Goddess's divine power or whatever she wanted to call it.

"Honor and baseness… yes, there are."

"Noble jobs are marked with stars, and lowly ones with skulls. The Emperor and the Hero are 5-Star."

"That's right."

"Of all the jobs a person possesses, the nametag only displays either 'the most noble' or 'the most base.'"

"So it's not something you get to choose. Then how lowly is Slave Merchant, exactly?"

I shrugged and gave a dry laugh.

"4-Skull."

"Which means…."

"If I want to wear any other respectable job on my nametag instead of Slave Merchant, I need to hold at least a 4-Star job. There are only about thirty of those in existence, you see."

"What are they?"

"Let's see. [Wiki]"

A simple search window appeared in my status screen. As a perk of being a former wikinit, I could access this game's wiki.

Though my level was still low, the information available to me was only a tiny fraction of the whole. In exchange, I at least had advantages like never needing to buy maps.

"Job list, 4-Star."

A list popped up as soon as I entered the keywords.

"First on the list is the Saintess. Perhaps I should offer up some faithful prayers to the Goddess."

Though before that, I'd need to slice off the thing dangling between my legs.

"Or there are options like Merchant Guild Head, Guildmaster-General, Academy Principal, Duke, or Holy Knight Commander."

"No good, then."

"No good at all. Please just give me a request."

If only I could change this one line on my nametag, I'd take on even the most brutal requests they had.

Thin and quiet, long and unremarkable—I wasn't even an extra in the original story's academy arc, so I wanted to live a silent, peaceful life.

Work an ordinary job, earn ordinary money, and while away my remaining years at a modest manor.

The Demon King would be dealt with by the hero's party on their own, leaving the world at peace—so why should I lift a finger?

Musing on such things, I went about slicing through giant frogs as my requests specified.

As I kept at it, the rookie adventurers who'd picked a fight with me earlier came tumbling out of a frog's belly.

Just as expected, they'd been devoured and were taking their mucus shower. It was cute enough that an involuntary snort escaped me.

The rookies, looking like something out of a hardcore tentacle doujin, wept and vomited for a long while, then fled the moment they saw me.

You're so worthless you wouldn't even fetch a price at auction, so there's really no need to be that scared of me.

I cleared out the rest of my requests, collected my pay, and stepped out of the guild into the deepening dusk.

A year had already passed since my transmigration.

I'd made D-rank adventurer and even classed into Swordsman, but until I could put away a tidy nest egg, I was still stuck eating rye bread and rum at a cheapo inn.

The streets fell quiet at night, too. Once the sun went down, unpleasant things tended to come out—mostly bandits, necromancers, that sort of vermin.

People without the means to protect themselves, unlike adventurers, were always safely indoors. It reminded me all over again just how safe a country Korea had been.

I was taking the long way around the city's outskirts toward the inn when a commotion reached me from deep within a back alley.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I moved closer.

"Damn it, I had no idea a demonkin was mixed up in this deal! Ruined, completely ruined. I have to hand over the goods and get out of here, fast."

Slipping into the dark, narrow alley, I found a hooded man tearing at his hair in a frenzy.

That guy's going bald in no time.

A slave merchant?

Behind the man, I could see a cart and a small iron cage.

The slave merchant spotted me and broke into a broad grin. In the darkness, his gold tooth floated there, gleaming.

"Ah, there you are at last! You're my link to the next city, right? The goods are right here. Hurry up and sign, take the slave brand, and be on your way!"

"You've got the wrong man. I'm not a slave merchant. Not interested—going home."

Anyone who's rolled around on battlefields knows the smell of blood soaks into you. I didn't even want to look at the wares of a slaver. Getting out before sparks started flying was the smart play.

Then the man grabbed my shoulder.

"You are a slave merchant! Just take these little brats off my hands! The pay's good, but a deal like this is where I draw the line!"

Hold on.

Little brats?

I turned and stepped up to the cart. Small shapes huddled inside. In the darkness, eyes of every color blinked up at me.

I leaned in for a closer look.

Three of them. All skinny and small, and unmistakably terrified.

My mood soured instantly.

"Hey. Even in this world, trading child slaves is illegal. And in a back alley, no less—what exactly are these for?"

"What's it matter? Just close the deal like we agreed! Since when did you care about any of that? You're in the trade too, so you know how it is—turning a profit means selling brats off to perverted nobles if you have to!"

"What? Do you people just break the law as a matter of course?"

The slave merchant sneered at me instead, as if I were the ridiculous one.

"You new to the trade? With that mindset, you'll starve to death in a month. Me? I once delivered an entire village, every last soul, to a cannery that processed people ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into meat!"

"…What did you say?"

Was my ear playing tricks on me?

Taking my silence for interest, the slave merchant in front of me got worked up, shoulders bouncing, bragging like it was some war story.

"Their village had been torn apart by monsters, see. I tricked them with promises of job placements, got them all to sign slave contracts so they couldn't resist. Oh, and it was me who let those monsters loose in the first place. They were so stupid it was hilarious."

The man chuckled, reminiscing over his fond memories.

"Take it from a senior in the business. Got it? So hurry up and sign, take the slave brand, and go!"

One thing became clear to me.

"A signature, you say."

People's hatred of slave merchants was more than justified.

"Here's your signature. Exsanguination."

Shing— Schlick!

Without a moment's hesitation, I drew my sword and beheaded the slave merchant.

Blood sprayed powerfully from his severed carotid as he gurgled, then he crumpled to the ground and breathed his last.

"Is this the only kind of person who becomes a slave merchant? No wonder I ended up like this."

Filthy piece of trash.

I didn't even want to touch the money on his corpse.

I approached the cart and peered inside.

Three little ones sat within.

Children with black, yellow, and white hair respectively.

They had no names, it seemed—all three nametags read simply Slave.

"Hang in there, you three. I'll get you out right now. I'll take you somewhere safe—the guild, at least."

The three of them still eyed me warily.

That was when it happened. Light flared from the slave merchant's corpse on the ground, and in an instant it streamed into my body.

"What the—?"

At the same moment, an alarm flashed across my status screen.

What is this?

Merchant kills merchant, and the slaves transfer ownership?

…Hold on. Before any of that.

These three have names.

Names I know very well. How could I not? They were entries I'd read on the wiki countless times.

"Uh…."

Cold sweat broke out across my skin as I turned to look at the three children.

They looked wildly different from the figures I knew. But only now did the images finally overlap.

The Black Knight—a ruthless killing machine that carved out hearts along with heads, whose swordsmanship no one on the continent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could match.

The Lich—incarnation of the undead legions, who would drive you to suicide on sight and toy with your very soul afterward.

The Beast King—tyrant at the apex of strength and martial arts, who had butchered and crushed hundreds of thousands single-handedly.

The strongest vassals of the demonkin army, who offered their loyalty to the Demon King.

And there was a term for those three taken together.

"…The 'Death Triangle,' sirs?"

At this very moment, my death was sealed.

Conscience had been one reason, yes—but I had also avoided entangling myself with slaves all this time for the express purpose of steering clear of them.

I am Wicker the Slave Merchant.

The time is now thirteen years before the main story begins.

And in the original story, Wicker the Slave Merchant is torn limb from limb and murdered by the Death Triangle—the very slaves he kept—upon their awakening.