They were herded off the stage like animals, the chains biting at their ankles with every step. Alaric kept his head down, but his eyes were sharp, observing everything.
That's when he saw them.
The next batch being brought in.
Women—young, some barely adults.
Dressed—or rather barely dressed—in thin, transparent fabrics that clung to their skin and left nothing to the imagination.
The chains on their necks glittered like jewelry, cruel mockery of the collars they wore.
He could see the shame in their eyes, the fear and resignation that made them seem as if they had already surrendered to their fate.
They walked silently, eyes hollow, their bodies swaying not by choice, but because the slavers wanted them to.
Alaric's stomach twisted.
"Sex slaves?" he murmured.
His feet halted.
The chain tugged forward—but he didn't move.
Rage boiled in his gut, white-hot and searing.
His entire body stiffened, every muscle tensed as if preparing to lash out.
In his previous life, Alaric had abolished the practice of pleasure slavery—he had fought for years to rid his kingdom of it, believing it to be an abomination.
He had succeeded, outlawing such practices, but he knew the fight hadn't been without its consequences.
They called him soft. Naive. Weak.
But he hadn't cared.
He refused to let anyone—man or woman—be bought for someone else's sick enjoyment.
He had tried to make it so that only war prisoners, criminals, and thieves would be bound by slavery, slowly thinning the ranks over time.
But when the nobles saw their wealth in jeopardy, they would stop at nothing to reverse his progress.
They had no desire for true change. They wanted power, and if that meant using people as tools to satisfy their desires, so be it.
Alaric clenched his fists.
He had been too soft—too patient. He had tried to play the long game, but now he was in this strange new world, seeing these horrors firsthand again.
Disgust clawed up his throat.
His chains were tugged.
"Move," the man barked.
Alaric stumbled forward.
They were again sent back into the dim stone room—the same suffocating box they'd been held in before.
He was shoved inside. The others followed, falling to the floor like broken puppets.
The door slammed shut.
Time passed. Silent.
Then—it opened.
The same bastard from before entered, glancing at a scroll and muttering names.
One by one, slaves were called and dragged out to meet their new "owners."
When his name—no, his new name—was called, Alaric stood without flinching.
They took him, the old man with the forced smile, and six others—men in various states of despair.
They were led into another room, brighter, with a thick scent of perfume and smoke.
At the center, lounging on a velvet sofa, sat a middle-aged man in luxurious robes, his face smug with entitlement.
A silver ring glittered on his fat fingers as he swirled his wine, eyes scanning them lazily like he was shopping for horses.
The staff stepped forward and bound them to the man with.
They took their blood and poured onto a runic symbol, then did the same for the middle-aged man.
Then the transaction was sealed.
The man gave a pouch of coins to the slave handlers.
And just like that—
Alaric, former king of men, was sold.
Again.
------
The sun burned overhead, but the weight of the chains was heavier.
They walked in silence behind their new master, outside the auction house.
The city alive with noise and filth—shouts of vendors, laughter from brothels, the clatter of wagons. No one spared them a glance.
Clink! Clink!
Their chains clinked with every step.
Then the man—their owner—spat to the side and snarled, "Tch. Damn waste. Couldn't even buy a proper fuck doll because of you lot."
He glared back, eyes filled with venom. "If that bitch of a wife hadn't insisted on more labor hands, I'd be having a real good time right now."
Alaric's gaze darkened.
He raised his eyes, sharp and unblinking, and stared straight into the man's soul.
Disgust etched across his face.
The noble stopped walking.
He turned slowly, lips curling into a sneer.
"You got a problem, mutt?" he hissed.
Then without warning, he drew a whip from his belt.
Crack!
The lash tore across Alaric's back.
Pain flared, hot and deep—but Alaric didn't scream.
He gritted his teeth, shoulders trembling.
Another strike.
Crack!
"You better be worth the coin I paid," the man growled. "I spent more on you than any of these others."
Alaric's fingers twitched. He took a step forward.
He was going to lunge.
He didn't care about the pain—he didn't care if it cost him his life.
But then—
The collar on his neck glowed.
A searing, blinding pain surged through his body. His limbs locked. His vision spun.
"Argh!"
He collapsed onto the dirt road, screaming through clenched teeth, the agony crawling through every nerve.
The man cackled.
"Oh? You thought of hitting me?" He stomped forward and whipped Alaric again. And again.
"You're a slave. Nothing. Nothing. You breathe when I say. You piss when I say."
And then, just like that, he turned and marched toward the waiting wagon.
"Move your asses!" he barked. "We're going home."
The others stumbled after him, dragging chains.
Alaric couldn't move.
Until—
A trembling hand reached down.
The elderly man knelt beside him, gently helping him to his feet.
"Don't worry, lad," the old man whispered, his voice filled with quiet sympathy. "You'll get used to it. We all do."
The other slaves around them trembled, their eyes full of fear as they followed their new master back to the wagon.
Alaric's chest rose and fell with ragged breaths. His eyes burned—not just with pain.
But with fury.
Because in that moment, he realized:
They didn't just want to break his body.
They wanted to crush the man inside it.
And he wasn't going to let them.
Not now. Not ever.
He know he's nothing now. But he'll wait.