The Jilted Noble Lady's Windfall

Chapter 8

Marianne extended her hand toward Lucius, who, after a moment of confusion, pulled a delicate little fan from his pocket. Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, he handed it to Marianne.

Taking the fan, Marianne dramatically shielded her lower face with its ornate surface and raised an eyebrow at the slave trader. “Given how precious this merchandise is, I imagine the price won't be pleasant either.”

Hearing Marianne's words, the slave trader merely chuckled. “Well, I did warn you—you get what you pay for!”

“Enough. Just tell me the price!” Marianne eyed the pure-white slave sitting with legs spread in the cage, wondering if he suffered from the same mental defect as the mixed-blood mermaid earlier. “What's his flaw?”

The slave trader, who had been preparing to quote an exorbitant sum, stiffened before quickly regaining composure. “How could a rare commodity have flaws? This is a one-in-a-thousand exception.”

“Hmm... really?” Marianne stared at the slave dealer feigning composure, lowering the folding fan that partially obscured her face. “Then you'd better make sure to note that in the agreement later.”

The slave dealer silently breathed a sigh of relief, only to be caught off guard by Marianne's next words: If you dare deceive me, I won't hesitate to hire the ‘Cleaners’ to hang you from Saigant's city walls, or demand an explanation from the slave market's overseer."

Marianne now fully adopted the haughty, insolent demeanor of a spoiled young lady: “I wonder if... the Emperor of Odin would be willing to intercede for you then.”

Closing her folding fan, she propped it against the slave trader's chin, relishing his trembling expression. “Or perhaps... the slave market manager wouldn't want to do business with Archique anymore?” “Your Highness... you must be joking!” “ The slave trader's tongue trembled for a long moment before he found his voice. ”Who would risk lives over a single slave..."

Having worked in this trade for years, the slave trader had certainly encountered difficult customers before. Yet adults had their own reservations, so what he feared most were young clients like Marianne.

After all, youth! Impulsive actions were understandable.

Threatening was one thing, but having the means to follow through was another.

Marianne was a foreigner—a young, wealthy foreign noblewoman. Even if she did hire the “Cleaners” to kill the slave trader, the Emperor of Odin wouldn't punish his former fiancée. At most, there'd be a mild rebuke in diplomatic correspondence. Who'd have time to care about a slave trader's fate? At most, he'd mutter, “He brought it on himself.”

What a miscalculation.

The slave trader suddenly realized he'd likely stood at the pinnacle of this trade too long, rubbing shoulders with too many high-ranking officials and nobles. Unconsciously, he'd begun to see himself as one of the masters.

Little did he know these were cruel beasts cloaked in fine garments.

Even a slave trader accustomed to the stench of blood should never forget the words his mentor imparted when he first entered the trade.

“Never reason with clients, especially major ones.”

The slave trader suddenly recalled the mentor's face, long buried in the depths of his memory.

"Those who find amusement in taking lives are not people normal men can persuade. "

“If you anger them, you won't even get a proper burial.”...

“What... don't you have anything else to tell me?” Marianne said, somewhat disappointed that the slave trader hadn't uttered a word in ages. “Seems the one the manager recommended isn't the best after all.”

Lucius chimed in beside her, “Should we remind the manager to raise their standards for vetting slave traders?”

Marianne chuckled, “That's not our concern.”

Finally snapping out of it, the slave trader quickly composed himself and forced a smile. “My deepest apologies for letting you witness my discourtesy.”

With that, he resumed his presentation of the pure-white mixed-blood slave as if nothing had happened: “As you can see, he possesses the diverse advantages of a high-grade mixed-blood, but like most of his kind, he carries an irreparable genetic defect.”

“Get to the point. Cut the nonsense.”

“...In short, this item has a screw loose.”

“Mental issues?” Marianne furrowed her brow, observing the pure white slave who'd stood as stiff as a board since she entered. She wondered if he lacked even the most basic sense of shame.

Or perhaps he simply didn't comprehend the concept of shame at all.

“Yes. This slave's physical prowess, combat aptitude, and magical talent rival those of arena reserves. But in stark contrast, his intellect is abysmal—he can't comprehend anything beyond simple commands.”

As if to prove his point, the slave trader reached a hand into the cage. The blank, pure-white slave then rubbed his head against the trader's palm like a dog, displaying an utterly devoted expression.

Lucius couldn't help but retch. "Is he even a sentient being? He's practically a tamed beast."

“Isn't that just perfect?” Marianne, quite pleased with the pure-white slave's loyalty, reached out to touch him. Instantly, he bared his teeth at her.

This only made Marianne more satisfied. “Too clever is no good. After all, sometimes a knife should stay quietly in its sheath.” "

Seeing this, the slave trader swiftly slapped the pure-white slave across the face, barking, “Shut your filthy mouth! Don't offend the customer!”

He then turned anxiously to Marianne, terrified his slave might have offended her—both Archique Grand Duchess and the Emperor of Odin would hold him accountable.

After all, if anything happened to Marianne within Odin's borders, who would believe there was no foul play involved?

“Are you all right?” The regretful slave trader pondered how to placate Marianne's anger, only for her to abruptly change the subject: “How much for this one?”

The slave dealer paused, then realized he'd struck a chord with Marianne's curiosity. He held up three fingers.

“Three million talents? You're greedy.” Marianne raised an eyebrow, surprised the dealer dared to name such an exorbitant price.

“Perhaps he meant thirty thousand talents.” Lucius, though never having purchased a slave himself, knew that camp prostitutes typically traded for between ten thousand and fifty thousand talents.

And rare specimens like high-grade half-breeds shouldn't command a higher price than a promising gladiator prospect.

“Perhaps I should relay this price to Odin's emperor,” Marianne remarked, glancing at her nails with casual indifference. “It might prompt him to reflect on Saigant's slave market—how much tribute it yields him annually, and... taxes.”

When she uttered the word “taxes,” Marianne deliberately lowered her voice, ensuring the other understood she meant business.

The slave trader dared not gamble on whether Marianne would relay what happened here to Odin's young emperor.

After all, they'd lived under the same roof for three years—who'd believe they felt nothing for each other?

Otherwise, why would Odin's young emperor send Marianne so many gifts after annulling their betrothal?

This showed how crucial information asymmetry could be in certain situations.

“...Two million six hundred thousand talants... I can't go any lower.” The slave trader wasn't eager to pass up this opportunity to make a killing.

After all, as a seasoned dealer specializing in “luxury goods,” he couldn't sustain his business through low margins and high volume.

“If absolutely necessary, I'm willing to throw in some top-tier mixed-blood stock that rivals the finest quality.” Gritting his teeth and stamping his foot, the slave trader led Marianne away from the high-grade hybrid warehouse back to the regular high-grade stock.

“This one,” he gestured, “is a Wood Elf I secured through considerable effort from the Adventurers' Guild... Said to carry half-Gray Elf blood. Even within the entire elven world, she's considered one of the most promising prospects.” The slave trader first pointed to a blond male elf nailed to the wall, then pulled back the black cloth covering another cage, revealing the true form of another premium specimen.

“Drow?” Marianne gazed at the flowing silver hair and deep brown skin within the cage, finally grasping the slave trader's true capabilities.

“This is truly... astonishingly fine merchandise.”