"Damn it, every one of these is premium merchandise I handpicked myself. At the Nightingale Brothel, they'd sell for at least this much!"
"Hmph… that's the price."
…
A burst of shouting jolted Slade awake. Fighting through a pounding headache, he forced his eyes open and was met with the sight of icy iron bars, and several ragged figures who looked little better than beggars.
"I… wasn't I in a hospital room? Where the hell is this?"
His eyes darted around, trying to make sense of the situation.
The bars before him weren't railings at all, but a heavy iron cage enclosing him from every side.
Inside, several young men and women huddled together in silence. Their yellowed skin and tattered clothing made them look like refugees from the slums.
Outside the cage, however, the atmosphere was completely different.
The courtyard buzzed with noise. A group of burly, shirtless men sat around drinking and bragging loudly, their crude laughter echoing through the air.
Twisted crimson tattoos of demonic hands sprawled across their bodies, giving them an intimidating presence.
They spoke a language Slade had never heard before, yet somehow he understood every word instinctively, as though it had always been etched into his mind.
Hold on… he was in hospital. How did he end up in the hands of human traffickers?
As the haze in his mind slowly faded, Slade realized something even stranger.
His body… had recovered?
For the past seven or eight years, terminal illness had ravaged him, leaving his body weak and failing.
Now, although he still felt somewhat frail, there was none of the suffocating helplessness he remembered. Instead, he felt an almost forgotten sense of freedom.
He lowered his gaze to his hands. Thin and bony, yes, but not the hands of a dying man.
More importantly… they weren't his hands at all.
Those hands had been with him for over twenty years, through countless lonely nights. Even when illness eventually rendered them useless, they could never have become this small and fragile.
Had he transmigrated? Possessed someone else's body?
Unable to find any answers, Slade pushed the questions aside. Surviving the present crisis was far more important.
Still…
Did the universe really just dump him here with nothing?
Where were the transmigration perks?
The cheat abilities?
The overpowered hacks?
"System?"
"Deep Blue, allocate points!"
"Open beginner gift pack!"
"Gene lock, unlock!"
Slade muttered under his breath while cautiously scanning his surroundings, desperately trying to trigger something, anything.
Nothing happened.
No glowing interface.
No mysterious voice.
No cheats whatsoever.
…Seriously? No hacks at all?
Then why throw me into another world?!
What, was he supposed to conquer the world with his face alone and become some legendary pretty boy?
The others in the cage stared at Slade's constant muttering with expressions full of pity.
Another one driven insane.
"Hey, the brat's awake. Youngest one in this batch too."
A man with yellow, crooked teeth pointed at Slade and snickered at his companion.
"Look at that skin, clean him up a little and he'll fetch a high price. The madams at the Nightingale Brothel eat this kind up."
"Shame the boss keeps such a tight leash on us. Otherwise, we could've had some fun tonight."
Yellow Teeth sighed regretfully. He scratched himself inside his pants a few times before pulling out his hand, grabbing a chunk of roasted rabbit meat from the table, and shoving it into his mouth.
The meat carried a faintly wild, gamey scent that somehow made it even more flavorful.
As Yellow Teeth leered at him with an almost predatory gaze, a chill ran down Slade's spine.
If he really fell into the hands of that man, he'd prefer to die.
Right now, he was nothing more than someone else's "property," with no freedom in sight.
If he didn't find a way out, he might actually end up being sold to the so, called "Nightingale Brothel" to indulge in their "luxury."
Slade cautiously moved closer to the few young men and women who seemed like they might share his plight, whispering,
"Where are we? Why are we here?"
The group exchanged glances, their faces filled with fear, but none offered an answer.
They were in no position to help someone else, they were all fighting for their own survival.
But one girl, no older than fourteen or fifteen, stared at Slade's delicate features with sympathy in her eyes.
If that innocent face ended up in the Nightingale's Den, it would be nothing short of a nightmare.
"This is the Blood Hand Gang's hideout. I heard they often kidnap women and children. We were taken by them, and it looks like they're planning to sell us to the Nightingale's Den."
As she spoke, her face grew pale, her gaze dropped, and tears began to spill down her cheeks.
Slade didn't have the time to comfort her. He kept his head low, pretending not to notice, while his mind raced with ideas for escape.
A human trafficking gang? Pleading for mercy would probably do nothing, if they had any compassion, they wouldn't be in this business to begin with.
Fighting them? That was out of the question; this weak, malnourished body couldn't even rattle the cage.
Paying for freedom? He had no money and no allies in this strange new world.
Maybe… he should just join them?
Could someone like him, so frail, even be accepted into their ranks?
Slade's brow furrowed deeper. Since his physical abilities were lacking, he'd need to prove his worth in another way.
His gaze swept the courtyard once more, landing on a thin man in the corner, who seemed responsible for keeping the books. The man furrowed his brow in concentration as he fiddled with a crude abacus made of black iron and animal bone.
The loud drinking and boisterous banter around him grated on his nerves, and it was clear that no one in this gang had much intelligence. This "bookkeeper" was the only one who seemed to have any kind of brainpower.
Judging by the sour, frustrated look on his face, managing the ledger seemed like a task beyond him.
This could be his opportunity.
Taking a deep breath, Slade summoned all his remaining strength and climbed up to the edge of the cage, gripping the cold iron bars as he shouted out.
"Someone! I want to see your leader! I can make him ten times more money than you'd get selling me!"
His voice was hoarse from thirst, and his shout was nearly desperate.
The others in the cage recoiled in surprise, quickly moving to the furthest corner to avoid drawing attention.
The courtyard went silent. The gang members turned to look at Slade as if he were insane.
The yellow, toothed man paused, then sneered, "Little brat, are you out of your mind? You think you can make money?"
"I'm not crazy," Slade replied, locking eyes with him. "I can do the math! I can fix all your messed, up accounts! I'll even teach you how to make money work for you!"
"Make money work for you? Kid, are you serious? Are you some kind of hidden wizard?"
Yellow Teeth's words sparked laughter from the group, and even the bookkeeper, who had started to pay attention to Slade, couldn't help but smile.
But Slade's sharp mind caught the important part, "wizard."
Could there really be wizards in this world?
Were they the kind covered in feathers and paint, yelling like wild savages in the forest? Or were they true practitioners with actual powers?
This world was proving to be more mysterious than he had ever imagined.
"Really! We can make money through lending, it's the fastest way to earn," Slade insisted.
"Lending?" A scarred man perked up, intrigued. "Kid, do you even know what lending is?"
"Of course I do!" Slade shot back confidently.
Slade knew this was a pivotal moment; he had to prove himself with something substantial.
"For example, if you lend out ten silver coins, you'll get twelve back in a month! The extra two are the interest," he explained confidently.
"If the borrower can't pay back in time, they'll owe fourteen coins the next month! The interest compounds, money makes more money, far faster than collecting protection money!"
The scarred man listened, his expression suggesting interest, though his simple mind couldn't quite grasp the concept. He couldn't even calculate the interest for a month, let alone understand compound interest. Trying to explain that to him was like trying to teach a pig to sing.
Slade shifted his attention to the accountant, who gave a subtle nod, as if he understood what Slade was saying, though it was unclear whether he truly did.
The other thugs exchanged uncertain glances. Most of them had no clue what Slade was talking about, but the words "ten becomes twelve" and "compound interest" seemed to strike a chord deep in their greedy hearts.
Yellow Teeth stopped mocking Slade and scrutinized him carefully. After a moment, he turned to one of the men beside him and said, "Go tell the boss."