In this new isekai world, most adventurers pick respectable subclasses.
Sword Saints. Fire Mages. Beast Tamers.
I picked Harem-Master.
Yeah… I know how that sounds.
Not exactly the kind of title that earns trust.
I’m a low-level adventurer, a half-giant sorcerer scraping by on kobold hunts outside the starter town.
Loot gathering by day. Campfire by night.
It hasn’t been glamorous.
But after saving every coin I could, today is finally the day.
Today, I can afford my first companion.
Someone to watch my back.
Someone whose back I can watch in return.
Because I’m done surviving alone.
The slave market tent waits at the edge of the road like a bad decision wrapped in canvas.
Weeks of kobold blood bought me one pouch of coins and one terrible choice: walk past the slave tent again or spend nearly all of it getting someone out.
The sun dips behind the market’s tent spires as I approach. Striped canvas, blackened, bruised, rotting at the edge of the market road. Braziers smoke at each corner, incense laced with the tang of blood. Faded lanterns warp shadows across stained walls.
A crooked sign hangs above the entrance:
OBEDIENCE FOR SALE — NO REFUNDS
Locals pretend the tent is not there. As I step toward it, they extend me the same courtesy.
Inside, the air is thick with the smell of blood, sweat, and old magic. Cages line the walls, stacked with beings of every shape and fate.
I barely make it a few steps before a hooded man blocks my path.
The Greasy Slave Trader.
Shark-gray eyes. Too many rings of bone, horn, and enchanted jewels.
“Gold or barter?” he rasps, looking me over. “You don’t smell like nobility, but your eyes speak of need.”
I already know what I can afford, so I flash my coin pouch.
It’s enough for one starter companion. No more.
“Hmph. Starter tier.” His smile curdles. “You get one,” he says, leaning in. “What’s your pleasure, Master?”
I keep my tone level.
“I’m looking for someone inexperienced. Low-level, like me. A demi-human, maybe.”
With a scoff, he waves a ring-heavy hand. Glamour mist parts, revealing darker cages beneath subdued light.
My grip tightens around the coin pouch.
“I’m not here for indulgence. I need a partner. Someone to guard my back while I guard theirs.”
He pulls aside a moth-eaten curtain. The smell of cheap binding oil hits me first. The magic here is thin.
Three cages sit in shadow, less enchanted and more desperate.
“These don’t get a second look,” he says with a yawn, leaning against the rusted bars. “But you? Maybe you’ll whip one into shape.”
His grin twists crooked.
“Or die trying.”
I step toward the nearest cage, unable to make myself look into the other two.
She’s feline, small but not fragile. Her eyes meet mine, sharp, amber, unflinching.
Tail still. Ears high.
A crude dagger lies within reach. Her hands are calloused, her posture quiet but ready.
“May I speak with her?” I ask, keeping my voice respectful.
The Greasy Slave Trader hesitates, measuring me with suspicion. Then he grunts and steps away.
“You’ve got two minutes. If she bites, that’s your problem.”
Straw crunches beneath his boots. The shadows settle again.
From the back of the cage, she studies me. She doesn’t flinch or move closer. But something shifts behind her eyes, faint and raw.
“…You don’t look like most who come here,” she murmurs, her voice hoarse from disuse. “No silk. No barking orders. And you haven’t told me to grovel.”
I meet her eyes.
“My name is Vincent Locke,” I say, bowing slightly. “I’m an adventurer. A monster hunter. A sorcerer. I’m looking for a companion. Someone to guard my back while I guard theirs.”
She blinks at the bow. Her ears twitch, as if she can’t decide whether I’m mocking her or simply strange.
She shifts forward into a crouch, her gaze narrowing with curiosity.
“So… not a leash. Not a collar…”
Her voice is low and steady.
“You want a blade. Not a pet.”
The tension in her shoulders loosens. She leans closer, her nose twitching as she scents me.
“You smell like fire,” she says. “And a little like loneliness.”
I let the fire and loneliness go unanswered.
“Not a pet,” I confirm. “A hunter.”
Recognition sharpens in her eyes. She knows what an adventurer is, even if she has never been one.
“If I come with you, I want food. A warm bed, if you have one. No chains. You treat me fair, and I’ll watch your back.”
A fang flashes in her half-smile.
“…And I want a name worth saying. Not ‘cat girl.’ My name is Kitta, but call me Kit. Say it like I matter.”
Behind us, The Greasy Slave Trader clears his throat.
“One more moment,” I say before the trader can end the conversation.
“I can promise you food, a bed when I can afford one, and no chains. But I can’t promise easy.”
Her ears angle toward me.
“I’m low-ranked. I’ve slept under trees more often than I’ve paid for a room. It took weeks of kobold hunts to fill this pouch, and once I spend it, there won’t be much left.”
I meet her eyes.
“You won’t be following a hero, Kit. You’ll be walking beside someone trying to become one.”
I lean closer, keeping my voice low.
“If you choose me, I won’t treat you like a tool. I won’t spend your life for mine.”
Kit studies my face, weighing every word against the cage around her.
“Neither of us has to be alone anymore.”
The Greasy Slave Trader starts toward us, cutting our time short.
Kit sees him coming. Her jaw tightens, just a fraction. Then her eyes return to mine.
Whatever answer she finds there, it’s enough.
“Okay,” she whispers.
“…Then I choose you, Vincent Locke.”
She rises, glaring at the trader like the cage has already lost its hold on her.
“Open the door,” she half growls.
Then, before he reaches us, she adds under her breath, “Let’s leave this stinkhole before I claw that slaver’s eyes out.”
I nod, then raise a hand to hold the trader off another moment. His growing impatience is written plainly across his face.
“Kit… there’s one thing you need to understand first. I’m a sorcerer trained in the Harem-Master subclass. If you come with me, you would have to willingly submit to a ritual called the Harem Bond.”
Kit stiffens at the word submit, her tail curling behind her, but she doesn’t pull away.
I keep my eyes on hers.
“It’s deep. Nearly unbreakable. He can perform the ritual, but the bond will only take hold if you truly choose it.”
“This bond,” she says slowly, her confidence thinning, “ties me to you. Not just as a follower… but as something more.”
Her eyes drop briefly to the bars between us.
“And if I come to hate you?” she asks. “If you turn cruel? If I realize I made a mistake and want to run?”
Her claws brush the iron, lightly enough to make it sing.
“Would it still hold me?”
I can almost see the choice turning over behind her eyes. The cage she understands. Me, she doesn’t. Not yet.
She lets out a dry laugh, more breath than humor.
“I don’t know you, Vincent Locke. Not at all.”
Her amber eyes rise to meet mine again.
“But I know what waits for me here.”
She swallows.
“I’d rather gamble on you than rot in this cage, or wait for someone who doesn’t bother pretending he isn’t a monster.”
I almost flinch.
Half-giant. Harem-Master. Standing in a slave tent with enough coin to buy her.
I know how this looks.
But her eyes aren’t accusing. They flick past me toward the other cages, the trader, and whoever might come shopping next.
Then they return to mine.
She lets out a slow breath.
“At least you told me what you are.”
She shakes her head, as if clearing away the last of her doubt. None of her choices are good, but this one is hers.
“I’ll do it. I’ll enter your bond, Vincent Locke. Willingly.”
Then she bares her teeth, not quite a snarl or a smile, but something proud.
“But you’d better be worth the power I’m handing you.”
The Greasy Slave Trader reaches us in time to catch the last of it. His mouth twists into a smirk.
“Touching. Real tearjerker stuff. Now… coin, plus extra for the bonding?”
“I have enough for both,” I say, keeping my voice calm and buying myself one last moment.
I turn back to Kit.
“There’s one more thing you need to hear plainly. The bond will make me your Master, and you my harem girl,” I say. “Not property. My bonded companion. We’ll share strength, feel each other, and be drawn into something intimate as well as magical. Permanently.”
Kit flinches at the words. Her ears twitch back, and a faint bristle rises along her tail. Anything that sounds like ownership still has teeth.
I don’t rush her.
The tent falls quiet around us, broken only by the crackle of an oil lantern and the trader shifting impatiently nearby.
Kit remains still, her fingers curled around the cage bars until her knuckles pale.
When she speaks, her voice doesn’t waver.
“You’re not forcing me. You told me what it is. You asked.”
She holds my gaze.
“So yes, Vincent Locke. I understand. You’ll be my Master. I’ll be your harem girl.”
Her fingers tighten once around the bars.
“Just don’t forget. I chose it.”
She exhales slowly and steps back as The Greasy Slave Trader jingles his keys and unlocks the cage.
“Ah, young love,” he mutters. “Or something like it.”
A moment later, the Greasy Slave Trader scatters a handful of spices across the tent floor, then traces a circle through them with the tip of his cane. They flare to life, glowing in thin lines of amber and silver.
“Kneel,” he commands.
Kit flinches at the word, but before she can hesitate, I lower myself opposite her.
She studies me for a moment, then kneels at the circle’s center with one hand over her heart, her eyes fixed on mine.
The trader pricks each of our thumbs, drawing only a single drop of blood. He stirs them together in silver-thread ink, smears the mixture across a strip of cloth, and binds it around both our wrists.
“Speak her name,” he says. “Let the bond be made in magic and will.”
I speak clearly and steadily.
“I am Vincent Locke, Harem-Master. By her will and mine, I choose Kitta as my bonded companion.”
The cloth catches fire.
The flames don’t burn. They race along the binding in warm, bright threads, like silk spun from blood and trust.
Kitta gasps, her back arching and ears flicking as the magic settles through us, not like chains, but like roots.
And then I feel her.
Fear. Curiosity. A sharp flicker of pride beneath it all.
“It’s done,” the Greasy Slave Trader says, scooping up my coins. “No refunds.”
He tosses me a threadbare cloak. I hand it to Kit, and she pulls it on quickly. Barefoot, scrappy, but finally free of the cage.
She steps beside me, her eyes fixed on the open tent flap.
Then the newly formed bond surges between us.
Heat races beneath my skin, intimate and almost overwhelming. Her sharpened instincts brush against my thoughts. My strength, focus, and raw magic pour back into hers.
Kit sucks in a breath and taps one finger against her temple.
“Tch… you’re loud in here,” she mutters. “It’s like someone lit a fire in my skull and whispered, ‘You’re not alone anymore.’”
The words leave us both quieter than either of us expects.
Kit glances toward the exit, then back at me, trying on a crooked smile.
“So what now, Master Locke? You buying another, or are we hunting?”
I take a slow breath, steadying myself against the rush of her presence.
“Let’s get out of here, Kit.”
She doesn’t hesitate. Not anymore.
We step into the pale gold dusk, leaving the tent’s shadow behind.
Muddy streets. Market spice and stable hay. Marrowpine hums with evening life.
A few townsfolk stare at the half-giant sorcerer walking beside a scruffy beastkin wrapped in a tattered cloak.
Let them stare.
Kit stays close, not touching, but always within reach. Her eyes are wide as she takes in everything beyond the tent.
“So,” she says, just for me, “inn or hunt?”
I smile.
“First, we eat.”
Together, we disappear into the evening streets of Marrowpine.