If the party had been bewildered upon arriving at the Slave Market, some were still dazed when Yoda was led away.
But by the time the Paladin was clamped in adamantite handcuffs, all understood everything—and despair washed over them.
Hadn't they agreed this was just an act, playing servants until safely inside the city? Why were two companions sold off without warning??
Even as the ropes were untied, Tegal had glanced back at his Master. Now, shackled and met with that indifferent—almost pleased—gaze, a flicker of clarity sharpened the Paladin's eyes.
With a roar, he lunged at the vile drow priestess.
He didn't know her crimes, but trading slaves? That alone was evil incarnate!
And the Master—oh, if only he stood a chance against that man, he'd make the bastard regret selling him into chains!
Retrospect burned: this Master was clearly the third evil one in their team. He should've known!
The fourth? That little witch, with her pitiable act, luring them into signing that so-called "Master-Servant Contract." A scheme, prearranged!
As veins bulged on Tegal's neck, the drow guards in full mithral armor reacted. Blades flashed, shielding Priestess Quenthel, ready to teach the fool a lethal lesson.
Tegal didn't care. Rage drove him forward—even one strike would be worth it. But before he moved, searing electricity coursed through his back, locking his muscles.
Hatred surged—at his stupidity, his weakness. He gritted through the first shock, only for more to follow. His chainmail worsened it, spreading the current.
House Baenre's second daughter and her guards watched, amused.
Punishing slaves was mundane. But breaking a Paladin? Now that was rare.
The relentless shocks stiffened Tegal's body. He toppled, dust rising as he hit the ground.
Only when the Paladin lay twitching did Anthony relax. Turning to the unfazed noble, he offered a sincere apology: "My regrets, lady. A Paladin's pride is… stubborn. I've tried taming him, yet progress eludes me."
Inside, he seethed. Why must this brat resist? Phase Two doesn't need you! I talked you up, found a buyer, and you ruin it? Five thousand gold—gone!
If the deal collapsed, that meant a ten-thousand-gold loss. More than this fool could earn selling his own backside.
Anthony's fury went unnoticed. The priestess merely studied him, then waved her guards back. "I understand. Paladins and their… rigid morals. Your tale grows more convincing, mage." To her warriors: "Carry him gently. This pretty one's worth five thousand, after all."
Anthony caught the tossed silk purse and gave its contents a cursory glance. Damn. Truly worthy of Menzoberranzan's foremost family—four vibrantly colored gems, and among them, a diamond that glittered like a pigeon's egg.
Though the diamond appeared similar to earthly gems, in this world, such stones were no mere ornaments. They pulsed with genuine magic.
A flawless diamond? One of the core components for crafting True Resurrection, a ninth-tier divine spell. Whenever one surfaced, temples scrambled to acquire them at exorbitant prices. A commodity monopolized by the powerful.
This gem alone could fetch double if sold to the Church of Waukeen. Satisfied with the Underdark's obscenely wealthy, Anthony leaned down toward the still-twitching paladin—whose eyes burned with hatred—and smirked. "Don't glare so fiercely. Perhaps this is Tyr's trial for you? I'd be heartbroken if you turned into a Blackguard just to hunt me down."
The venom in Tegal's gaze dimmed, though his jaw remained clenched. Anthony chuckled and cast Cure Light Wounds on him. Finally, the paladin exhaled, shutting his eyes and mouth in resigned defeat as the drow guards hauled him up.
Watching the group depart, Anthony waved and called out in Common: "Do keep him alive~ Play with him all you want otherwise!"
The Second Daughter of House Baenre laughed. She tilted Tegal's chin up, forcing their eyes to meet, and spoke in flawless surface Common: "Tell me, little lamb—did your mage wish for me to be gentle, so you'd cling to life? Or did he hope I'd grow suspicious and carve you apart?"
"Pfuh—" Tegal tried to spit at the priestess, but the barest twitch of his cheeks earned him a brutal backhand. The blow snapped his head sideways, splitting his lip as blood trickled down.
The priestess lifted her six-headed serpent whip. The animated vipers hissed, fangs bared, but Quenthel only smiled, saccharine. "A century since any male dared such theatrics. Pray your worth matches five thousand gold, paladin. Or that your god grants you resilience." A flick of her wrist made the serpents coil. "Otherwise, this game will end… prematurely."
With his esteemed guests now gone, Anthony couldn't help but feel a surge of smug satisfaction.
Those two younger cousins of his, who'd left the nest over a decade earlier, weren't exactly weaklings. Yet now, one had likely been stripped from scales to sinew for every last bit of profit, while the other—a red dragon—had neither treasure nor a proper lair to call his own.
And him? He'd only been out for three days.
A bag of holding? Check.
His first fortune? Secured.
Even those ultra-rare gems his mother barely owned? Now twenty glittered in his possession.
Inside that bag of holding sat a set of mithral armor worth over ten thousand gold—just waiting for the right buyer.
All this wealth—now this is what I call living!
The difference between the two boils down to one simple fact: those idiot dragons love bullying Humans to flaunt their power.
But this is no longer the age of giant dragons. Nowadays, Toril is crawling with legends—every fool with a shred of talent struts around until a party of high-tier adventurers decides to hunt them down like some boss mob.
As for Anthony, he prefers to use his brain. Stay low. Play smart.
Sure, most of his plans are improvised, lacking any real foresight.
But so far, the overall effect has been pretty good.
His success? All thanks to the wise counsel of an elder.
Keep quiet and rake in the gold!
Anthony has carried those words with him ever since, and they've served him well.
Once his mission is complete and he returns to Barovia, he'll take those three statues with him—set them up proper so that noble presence can enjoy some well-deserved offerings.
Lost in his thoughts, Anthony suddenly snaps back to reality at the sound of commotion.
A dark mass approaches from the east—what looks like a storm cloud is, in fact, dozens of Drow warriors clad in all manner of battle armor.
They swagger as they walk, shoulders rolling, heads bobbing—utterly obnoxious.
Yeah. They look like a bunch of bored, overfed thugs with nothing better to do than show off.
The lead Drow wears a wide-brimmed pirate hat adorned with a red feather, draped in a garish, multicolored cloak. His right eye hides behind an eyepatch studded with five emeralds and amethysts.
The weapon at his waist isn't the usual sword or scimitar favored by Drow warriors—it's a rapier, its hilt forged of gold and inlaid with multicolored gems.
Wherever his gaze falls, nobles and commoners alike avert their eyes, quick to bow in deference.
At the sight of these warriors, the crowded paths of the slave market part once more. Anthony catches hushed whispers, deliberately stifled:
"Isn't that Jarlaxle Baenre? He usually wastes his time in the wealthy western district. Why's he dragging his pack of mercenary thugs here?"
"Who knows? Maybe someone pissed him off?"
Jarlaxle Baenre? The name rings a faint bell.
But Anthony doesn't dwell on it. He signals Zad and Dagger with a follow me gesture, then tucks Little Witch under his arm and bolts.
Zad and Dagger exchange a glance. After a brief hesitation, they follow their Master's lead and flee.
Sure, this Master might be planning to sell them off. But in this strange city teeming with terrifying legends, what other choice do they have? Stick with the devil they know.
As he runs, Anthony's brain races, digging through distant memories.
He can't quite recall what role this Jarlaxle guy plays in Menzoberranzan.
But if he bears the name Baenre and struts around like this, he's got to be dangerously competent.
Skilled. Flashy. A mercenary. Add the bystanders' mutterings, and the pieces click into place—one likely profession:
City Watch.
Oh hell no.
Anthony knows he hasn't crossed Jarlaxle. Hell, he just sold a paladin to some priestess of House Baenre.
Given that paladin's stubbornness, there's no way he'd spill Anthony's secrets so fast. And that Overdeity wouldn't let him leak trial mission details either.
But Anthony's here for human trafficking—without a slave-trading license. If Jarlaxle's here to cause trouble, he's looking at charges of illegal business and tax evasion.
Neither crime is capital in a city that permits slave trading. Worst case? Detained for interrogation, fined, then released—after coughing up the owed taxes.
But Anthony isn't about to hand over his hard-earned gold. Not when he just pocketed 20,000 gold coins. Even a 5% tax rate would cost him 1,000 gold.
That's no small sum.
With the right connections at a magic shop, that's enough for a *Belt of +2 Dexterity*.
Anthony sprints, Little Witch and two unsellable liabilities in tow.
Outrun the taxman, and no one can take your gold!
When Jarlaxle finally arrives, the scene leaves him stunned.
He'd heard a surface-dweller archmage was in town and brought his crew to make an impression—maybe trade news from the surface.
Instead, he witnesses the archmage in full flight.
"Damn, that surface mage's got stamina," Jarlaxle muses. "Never seen one run so fast."
He watches a moment longer, then resolves to advise his legendary archmage brother—the one who lit the stone pillars with everlasting flames.
Even a mage of legendary prowess shouldn't neglect physical training. Otherwise, if some Drow female takes the lead in bed, and he's drenched in sweat after two thrusts?
The disdain in her eyes would be unbearable.
Jarlaxle chuckles at the thought, then heads in the direction the archmage fled.
Hmm. Looks like he's making for the Black Pit Arena.
Wait—does this archmage want to be a gladiator?
Now that's interesting.