11 Refugee Camp I

In the city centre of Southern Germund, a bustling crowd shifted through the streets. From a distance, their movement appeared hypnotic, a mesmerising, chaotic flow of bodies.

The air was a cacophony of noises: wails of pain, cries of loss, and the constant hum of desperate bargaining.

War had left nothing but tragedy in its wake. It seemed as though every survivor who hadn't sworn a binding oath had gathered here from across the southern regions.

The headcount must have been in the thousands, if not tens of thousands.

At the heart of the city stood a statue of the war god, Ares, carved from a glassy black obsidian of unknown origin.

The figure held a double-edged sword pointed skyward, clad in full armour adorned with a ram emblem. A cloak cascaded behind it, caught in an unseen wind.

The craftsmanship was so immaculate, so surreal, that the cloak seemed almost authentic, fluttering in an unfelt breeze. The sculptor must have been an arcane caster.

Underneath the imposing statue, the downtrodden sought refuge. Makeshift tents crowded its base like a sprawling slum, leaving only narrow paths for people to traverse.

The once-pristine streets surrounding the statue were now lined with vendors hawking their wares. Desperation clung to the air as people bartered feverishly, exchanging prized possessions for necessities. Items once deemed valuable — marbles, jewels, and fine stones — had become worthless in the shadow of war. Now, food, medicine, and clothing were the only commodities that mattered.

Nearby, a heated argument broke out. A middle-aged man shouted about the worth of his tapestry, his voice rising above the banter as he tried to convince a vendor of its value. The vendor, unimpressed, dismissed him with a shrug, offering only enough rations to last a week if consumed sparingly.

To the left stood a grand stone building, its tall oak doors displayed proudly amidst the chaos. A sign above the entrance read House Tasmania, an inn catering only to those who could afford such luxury.

As Jack, Lupus, and their caravan of survivors reached the camp's edge, they exchanged farewells before parting ways.

"Take care, you guys!" Lupus waved with a sweet smile.

The group dissolved into the horde of miserable citizens, leaving Jack and Lupus to navigate their own path.

"Hmm… Jackie, what's now?" Lupus asked out of the blue, a hand shielding her eyes as she surveyed.

"Um… you asked me?" Jack pointed at himself, uncertain.

"Yeah… I'd rather not sleep in the tent. I need proper sleep for my mana regeneration!" Lupus added with a wink.

Mana regeneration? That's even that… Jack pondered, turning to her, "Well, I wagered, we can try that part of the camp. Maybe there's a hotel or something."

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"Right! Why didn't I think of that? You're so smart!" Lupus nodded vigorously.

"No issue, Lupy." Jack said.

And the plan was solidified: to find shelter for the night and food to rejuvenate their weary bodies.

The camp itself was a grim scene. The stench was almost unbearable. Unwashed bodies, rotting refuse, and the faint, sickly-sweet scent of death.

As Jack and Lupus pushed their way through the tightly packed masses, the oppressive heat made matters worse. Sweat trickled down Jack's neck, pooling under his orange jumpsuit.

He glanced at Lupus, noticing her black corset and thick, heat-absorbing clothing.

Oddly, she seemed unaffected, barely sweating at all. Instead, a subtle, soothing aroma lingered around her, like baby powder mixed with sun-kissed fur.

"Slaves! Slaves for cheap!" a merchant's guttural voice bellowed from nearby, his words punctuated by the spit escaping through the gap where his front teeth should have been.

Jack froze, his stomach turning at the sight. Refugees were one thing, but this? He had momentarily forgotten that, in this corner of the country, men and women were still treated as possessions.

Involuntarily, Jack shot the merchant a look of disdain. The man was built like a bear, his arms easily three times the size of Jack's scrawny thighs. His chest was firm and muscular, though a protruding belly suggested a love of indulgence. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight, and his dark green eyes scanned the crowd with predatory intent.

Their eyes met. The merchant's lips curled into a wide, toothless grin.

"Hola, señor!" he called out, his voice thick with an unfamiliar accent. He rubbed his hands together, his gaze flickering to Jack's orange jumpsuit.

Clearly, Jack stood out.

Before Jack could respond, the merchant gestured eagerly toward his wares. "Please, spare a moment to browse, sí? Just a moment!" He bowed awkwardly, his behaviour hovering between mockery and courtesy.

"Sorry, I'm not interes—" Jack began, but Lupus interrupted him.

"All right," she said cheerfully, stepping toward the merchant.

The hulking man loomed over her, his shadow casting a dark contrast against her ashen complexion.

"Señorita, please, be my guest!" he proclaimed with exaggerated pride, his theatrical display designed to captivate his customer's attention.

Slave traders were among the worst of society's scum, despised and distrusted by all, yet this man carried a peculiar charm, a presence so oddly affable it bordered on likeable.

Behind him, a small group of slaves stood in a line. Five of them, dressed in ragged tunics and trousers, wore identical expressions of despair.

Among them were two frail women, one short man, one tall man, and a Wildren girl who stood out from the rest.

The cast alloy collars around their necks marked them as bound by the Slave Circlet, enchanted with arcane magic to subdue and control.

"Caught your eye, hasn't she?! Lother's wares are the finest quality for the price!" the merchant proclaimed with an ugly laugh. Jack forced a wry smile, masking his disdain.

Lupus's gaze lingered on the Wildren girl, who was roughly her height. Round, black-tipped ears protruded from her dirty blonde hair, and her dull purple eyes stared blankly ahead. The spark of life, the fire of freedom, was absent — a privilege reserved only for the free.

"That one," Lother, the slave trader, said, his grin widening. "I'll give you a very good price!" His tone dripped with persuasion.

For him, charisma was as vital a weapon as arcane power was to a mage.

Lupus stepped closer, reaching out to touch the girl's lips. The slave hesitated but obeyed, opening her mouth to reveal perfectly white teeth, like a human's.

"Strange..." Lupus frowned, her expression darkening. She turned to Lother. "What's wrong with her fangs?" she asked sternly.

"Well… um…" The merchant stammered, his gaze darting to the side as if searching for an excuse written in the air.

Lupus spun the Wildren around, inspecting her. "And where's her tail? She's missing her pride lioness tail, too," she pointed out, her tone deadpan.

The girl shuffled nervously, fidgeting.

"What's your name, lovey?" Lupus asked the girl, a motherly care lacing her tone.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.