Chapter 23: The Young Thor

The afternoon sun was fierce, baking the stone slab road until it was scorching hot.

The dull, rhythmic sound of footsteps and the crunching of wheels on the ground drew nearer from the northwest, breaking the town’s afternoon tranquility.

"Lord!" a guard exclaimed, rushing into the stone house with a grave expression.

"There’s a group outside the town, and it’s a large one. Judging by their banner and what they’re escorting... they look like a Slave Capture Team."

Slave Capture Team?

Raylo nodded. He figured it was about time for them to arrive.

"How many are there? What do they want?"

Raylo stood up. Moonlight stopped playing as well, lifting its head and turning its golden, slitted pupils toward the door.

"There are about fifty or sixty guards, all carrying Weapons and looking battle-hardened. They’re escorting... around four or five hundred slaves, held in prisoner carts or tied together with ropes. Their Steward hopes to enter the town to rest and purchase some supplies," the guard reported.

Raylo pondered for a moment.

"Let them in."

Raylo made his decision quickly.

"Tell the guards to remain vigilant. Send someone to inform Ed and Bolin, and have them bring their men to maintain order."

"Yes, Lord!" The guard accepted the order and departed.

Before long, a procession reeking of sweat, dust, and an indescribable, oppressive air slowly filed into Black Stone Town.

At the head of the procession were a dozen or so guards on scrawny horses, clad in Leather Armor with Curved Sabers at their waists. They scanned the curious, gawking townspeople with vigilant eyes, their faces etched with professional indifference and wariness.

Following them were several massive wooden prisoner carts, their wheels rumbling and screeching horribly.

The carts were crammed with slaves of all ages and complexions. Most were in rags, their expressions numb and their eyes vacant, as if they had completely despaired of their fate.

A thick stench hung in the air.

Between the carts, more slaves were strung together with thick ropes, herded forward by the guards’ shouts like cattle.

These ones looked slightly more robust, but they too walked with their heads bowed, their steps faltering. The shackles on their wrists and ankles chafed their skin, leaving behind bloody welts.

At the rear of the column were a dozen carts laden with supplies, along with another twenty to thirty guards, some on foot and others on horseback.

A slightly heavyset, middle-aged man in relatively fine silk clothes rode a bay horse. Surrounded by guards, he was clearly the Steward of this Slave Capture Team.

The townspeople parted to clear a path, their earlier clamor replaced by hushed whispers.

The excitement over the Pegasus had yet to fully fade, but this cruel, starkly real scene served as a potent reminder of the world’s other side.

Some of the women looked away, unable to bear the sight, while most of the men remained silent, their expressions complex.

The portly Steward swung himself off his horse, a practiced smile on his face, and strode quickly toward Raylo.

While still a few paces away, he clasped his hands in a salute. "You must be the Lord of Black Stone Town? I am Andrew, the Steward of this merchant... ah, no, this party. We’re passing through your lands and were hoping to ask you for a small convenience, to allow our men and our ’cargo’ to rest and replenish our food and water."

He chose his words carefully, referring to the Slave Capture Team as a "party" and the slaves as "cargo."

"I am Raylo, the Lord of Black Stone Town."

Raylo nodded, his calm gaze sweeping over Andrew and the indifferent guards behind him.

"Black Stone Town welcomes all guests who follow the rules. You may rest in the designated area. Any supplies you need can be purchased from my men at a fair price."

"Thank you, Lord! Thank you, Lord!"

The smile on Andrew’s face widened as he thanked him profusely.

"We won’t cause any trouble, I assure you. We’ll leave as soon as we’re resupplied."

Raylo remained noncommittal, his gaze shifting to the escorted slaves.

His eyes swept over them slowly. Most of the slaves kept their heads down, numbly enduring the scorching sun and the shouts of the guards.

Suddenly, his gaze landed on an exceptionally tall Barbarian youth.

The boy was chained to the side of a prisoner cart. Unlike the other listless Barbarian slaves, and though his bare torso was covered in scars and grime, he held his back ramrod straight.

Beneath a mess of short brown hair, a pair of eyes burned with a fiery, unyielding rage. He was glaring daggers at the surrounding guards, like a trapped lion cub.

He didn’t look old, perhaps only fifteen or sixteen, but he had an exceptionally large frame and clearly defined muscles. Even in these terrible conditions, it was easy to see the immense Power and potential he possessed.

"Steward Andrew, you’ve had quite a haul on this trip."

Raylo said casually, pulling his gaze away.

"Where did you acquire so much ’cargo’?"

A hint of pride touched Andrew’s face. "My Lord, we’ve just returned from the edge of the northern Barbarian plains. We got lucky—stumbled upon some tribal conflicts and ’picked up’ a few bargains."

He spoke casually, as if discussing the most ordinary of business transactions.

Raylo understood.

Conflicts between the Barbarian tribes were common, and the losers often became slaves. This was the cruel Law of the plains.

"Speaking of which, Black Stone Town is newly founded, and I’m in dire need of manpower."

Raylo changed the subject, his tone flat.

"Clearing farmland, constructing buildings—it all requires a great deal of labor. I see you have many strong, able-bodied members of the Barbarian Race among your ’cargo.’ I wonder if Steward Andrew would be willing to part with some?"

Andrew’s eyes lit up.

’I thought this Lord in his remote little town was just offering us a place to rest. I didn’t expect to find business here.’

The most important thing in the slave trade, after all, was finding a buyer.

"You jest, Lord. As for my ’cargo,’ everything is negotiable for the right price."

Andrew said, rubbing his hands together, his attitude becoming even more eager.

"I wonder, what kind are you looking for, Lord?"

"I’m not interested in the weak ones."

Raylo cut him off, his gaze again subtly flicking toward the young Barbarian.

"I need ones who can actually work. The strong ones. For instance... those able-bodied young Barbarians."

Andrew followed Raylo’s gaze and immediately understood.

He walked into the middle of the procession and shouted for his guards to pull out the strongest-looking Barbarian slaves and line them up.

"Take a look, Lord!"

Andrew said, gesturing to the slaves as if presenting merchandise.

"These are all hand-picked warriors from the Barbarian Race. Even though they’re captives, they have strength in spades! Whether it’s for Kai Mountain, quarrying stone, or felling forests, they’re all masters of the trade!"

A dozen or so Barbarian slaves were pulled out. Most were wounded, their eyes full of humiliation and hatred, but their bodies were indeed much more powerful than the other slaves’.

Raylo stepped forward slowly, carefully inspecting the slaves.

Like a discerning buyer, he scrutinized their muscles and bone structure, even reaching out to squeeze one’s arm.

The young Barbarian who had caught Raylo’s eye was among them.

When Raylo stopped in front of him, the youth snapped his head up. His bloodshot eyes glared fiercely at Raylo, and a low growl rumbled in his throat in a show of defiance.

"Oh? This one’s got some spirit."

Raylo spoke calmly, stopping Andrew.

"What’s your name?" Raylo asked the young Barbarian.

The youth just glared at him, not speaking a word.

Seeing this, Andrew immediately stepped forward to berate him.

"This kid’s name is Thor. He’s the son of a chieftain from a small tribe within the Wild Bear Tribe," Andrew said. "He’s young, but incredibly strong. He injured several of my men."