The afternoon sun was fierce, baking the cobblestone paths until they were scorching to the touch. A rhythmic, heavy thumping and the creaking of wheels against the ground drifted from the northwest, shattering the quiet of the town's afternoon.
"My Lord!" A guard hurried into the stone house, his face grim. "A large party has arrived outside the town. Judging by their banners and what they're escorting... it looks like a slaver caravan."
A slaver caravan? Leylo nodded. Calculating the time, they were right on schedule.
"How many are there? What are their demands?" Leylo stood up. Moonlight stopped playing and lifted its head, its golden vertical pupils fixed on the door.
"About fifty or sixty guards, all armed and looking quite seasoned. They're escorting... roughly four to five hundred slaves, held by cages and ropes. Their manager wishes to enter the town to rest and purchase some supplies," the guard reported.
Leylo pondered for a moment. "Let them in," he decided quickly. "Tell the sentries to remain vigilant. Notify Ed and Bolin to bring men over to maintain order."
"Yes, My Lord!"
Before long, a column permeated by sweat, dust, and an indescribable aura of oppression slowly rolled into Blackstone Town. At the front were a dozen guards on scrub horses, wearing leather armor with scimitars at their waists. Their eyes scanned the curious townspeople with professional indifference and caution.
Following them were several massive wooden cage-wagons, their wheels emitting a harsh, grating noise. The cages were packed with slaves of various ethnicities and ages. Most were barely clothed, their expressions numb and eyes hollow, as if they had completely surrendered to their fates. A pungent odor filled the air. Between the wagons, more slaves were strung together by thick ropes, driven along by guards like cattle. These men looked slightly stronger, yet they too walked with bowed heads and leaden steps, their shackles rubbing against skin and leaving trails of blood.
At the rear were over a dozen supply wagons and another twenty or thirty guards. A slightly portly middle-aged man in relatively decent silk clothes rode a sorrel horse, flanked by guards—the manager of the caravan.
The townspeople instinctively cleared a path, their whispers replacing the previous bustle. The excitement brought by the Pegasi hadn't fully faded, and this cruel, realistic scene forced them to see the darker side of the world. Some women turned away in pity, while the men remained mostly silent, their gazes complex.
The portly manager dismounted, a practiced smile plastered on his face as he walked toward Leylo. He bowed from a few paces away. "This must be the Lord of Blackstone Town? I am Andrew, the manager of this merchant caravan... ah, rather, this company. Passing through your territory, I wish to request the convenience of letting our men and 'goods' rest and replenish our food and water."
His phrasing was careful, calling the slavers a "company" and the slaves "goods."
"I am Leylo, Lord of Blackstone Town." Leylo nodded, his calm gaze sweeping over Andrew and the cold-faced guards behind him. "Blackstone Town welcomes all guests who follow the rules. You may rest in the designated area. Supplies can be purchased from my men at a fair price."
"Many thanks, My Lord! Truly!" Andrew's smile widened as he thanked him profusely. "We won't cause any trouble; we'll be gone as soon as we resupply."
Leylo offered no further comment, turning his gaze toward the slaves. Most kept their heads down, numbly enduring the sun and the guards' shouts. Suddenly, his eyes stopped on an exceptionally tall barbarian youth. The boy was chained to the side of a cage-wagon. Unlike the other wilted barbarian slaves, though his torso was bare and covered in scars and grime, his back was straight as a spear. Beneath messy brown hair were eyes burning with a fire of fury and defiance, glaring at the guards like a trapped lion cub.
He looked young—about fifteen or sixteen—but his frame was unusually sturdy, with clear muscle definition. Even in such wretched conditions, one could sense the immense power and potential within him.
"Manager Andrew, you have quite a harvest this trip," Leylo remarked casually. "Where did you acquire so many 'goods'?"
Andrew showed a hint of pride. "Replying to My Lord, we've just returned from the edge of the Northern Barbarian Steppes. Luck was on our side; we ran into a few tribal conflicts and 'picked up' some bargains." He spoke lightly, as if discussing a mundane business transaction.
Leylo understood. Conflicts between barbarian tribes were common, and the losers often became slaves—the cruel law of the steppes.
"Speaking of which, Blackstone Town is newly established and in dire need of people," Leylo shifted the topic, his tone flat. "Reclaiming fields and building houses requires a lot of labor. I see quite a few strong barbarians among your 'goods.' I wonder if Manager Andrew is willing to part with some?"
Andrew's eyes lit up. He thought the local lord was just providing a convenience, but here was an unexpected deal. In the slave trade, a buyer was the most important thing. "My Lord is joking; as long as the price is right, everything is negotiable." Andrew rubbed his hands together, his attitude becoming warmer. "What kind of 'goods' does My Lord require?"
"I have no interest in the weak ones," Leylo interrupted, his gaze flicking back toward the barbarian youth. "I need those who can actually work. For instance... those barbarian braves."
Andrew followed Leylo's gaze and took the hint. He walked into the middle of the column and shouted, ordering the guards to pull out several of the strongest barbarians into a line.
"My Lord, look!" Andrew pointed to them like a salesman. "These are hand-picked barbarian warriors. Though they are captives, they lack no strength! Whether it's quarrying stone or felling timber, they are top-tier hands!"
About a dozen barbarians were pulled out. Most were wounded, their eyes filled with humiliation and hate, but they were indeed much stronger than the others. Leylo stepped forward, inspecting them like a discerning buyer, checking their musculature and bones.
The youth Leylo had focused on was among them. As Leylo approached, the boy snapped his head up, bloodshot eyes glaring. A low growl vibrated in his throat, a warning.
"Oh? This one has quite a temper," Leylo noted coolly, stopping Andrew from lashing out. "What is your name?" Leylo asked the youth.
The boy glared and said nothing. Andrew stepped forward to scold him. "This brat is called Thor, the son of a chief from a small tribe within the Bear Clan," Andrew explained. "He's young but incredibly strong; he's already injured several of my men."