I’ve visited the slave market a few times before in the game, though the system wouldn’t allow players to buy any, for obvious ethical reasons. Nonetheless, there was a specific quest however that let us sell a poor man indebted to the slavers in exchange for a pretty penny.

Never would I have imagined that I’d be that poor bastard.

My wrists bore the crude weight of iron shackles, their unforgiving grasp restricting my freedom .I stood in the shadow of Viya, my gaze fixed upon her as she haggled with a familiar face, the slave merchant, Ehrman Strauss, also known as the man whom we sold that indebted bastard to.

Although on the older side of life, he was able to pass for a man in his late twenties without any question.

His attire consisted of a rich, crimson tunic that caught the eye and contrasted strikingly with his pure white trousers.

Strauss's sharp eyes that reflected the deep sea traced every inch of my figure and the pristine quality fabric that clung to my frame. Our glances converged for a fleeting moment before he reengaged in conversation with Viya.

I looked around the market place bustling with activity, a cacophony of voices and bartering filling the air. Slaves of all kinds, from various ethnicities and backgrounds, were on display like wares in a grand bazaar.

To think that I’ll be joining them... I thought.

Struggling with the unfamiliar local language, the option of deception remained firmly out of my grasp. Moreover, their obvious physical superiority made it clear that any overt display of hostility would likely lead to my death.

For the time being, I had to go along within the confines of the slave enterprise. The idea of exacting revenge would need to take a backseat for now, postponed by the harsh realities of my predicament.

Viya’s voice scaled by the minute as she fiercely negotiated my price with the merchant.

The slave merchant, a tall, burly man with golden locks of hair and a perpetual sneer, met Viya's demands with feigned reluctance.

It was quite something to see them bargain so intensely over the ownership of my life.

As the bargaining continued, I glanced towards the other captives, their faces etched with despair.

As I pondered upon the topic of slavery, my thoughts turned to Aristotle's viewpoint on the matter. His argument put forth the belief that some individuals were inherently inferior and therefore could be rightfully enslaved.

Although I agree with the premise of it, the problem would arise in how to identify those who are inferior and those who are superior.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

For example, myself.

Although my superiority over the vast majority of the human race should be evident, I’m still being sold as a mere slave.

Slavery on a scale that’s conducted in this world will also be inefficient and unproductive.

Although intelligence and competence are largely decided by nature, there exists the undeniable influence of nurturing and upbringing, capable of enhancing or diminishing these qualities.

This muddles the already complex task of categorizing those who may be considered inferior.

“Ai!” Suddenly, Viya let out a yell, swiftly tucking away the trio of gleaming gold pieces that had exchanged hands with the merchant.

Three ducats, to be accurate, with one ducat roughly being equal to a month’s worth of work for the average farmer.

An insulting price for the likes of me.

Viya relinquished the keys to my shackles to the merchant, and then turned to depart.

In one last lingering gaze, her eyes locked onto mine. A faint, knowing smirk played upon my lips as I watched her. She gracefully walked out of the door.

The slaver then said something in his native language, his voice soft, his hand caressing the fabric of my uniform before tugging my arm and beckoning me into the building.

Walking through the intricate hallways and corridors of the auction house, my eyes caught sight of things that I couldn’t notice on the game before.

The beautiful paintings hung throughout the place that looked like mere pixels from the screen, the different, intricate rooms the player wasn’t allowed to enter, or simply the immaculate illumination within the house.

Upon entering one room, I encountered a rather modest sight – a small bathtub stood there, flanked by a simple jug and a water bucket.

Bare to the bone, I found myself positioned upon a platform, shoulder to shoulder with the other enslaved individuals. My optimism had clung to the faint hope that Strauss might have spared my attire, yet he, too, had stripped me of my clothing.

As my length exceeded all the other individuals on the stage, I stood out quite a bit.

Hours had passed, it seemed, until a man of discerning taste approached the platform. His eyes, keen and calculating, scrutinized every inch of my exposed form.

One thing that made him stand out from the rest of the crowd was his entourage of guards protecting the man.

He looked familiar, but I just couldn’t put my finger on it.

With measured interest, he addressed Strauss in the local tongue.

Strauss, a seasoned merchant who could gauge a potential buyer's wealth and intentions with a single glance, began the bargaining dance once more. The buyer's insistence was palpable, evident in the rapid exchange of words, the gestures, and the occasional raising of voices.

As time dragged on, the back-and-forth negotiations felt like an eternity. The weight of my fate hung in the balance, and I could do nothing but watch.

Finally, a deal was struck, celebrated with a firm handshake and a satisfied nod from the buyer. I had been claimed by this discerning individual, my future now firmly in his hands, and yet the words exchanged between them remained a mystery to me.

As he approached me, a shiver of recognition coursed through me. It became clear why his face was so familiar.

In the game, this man was notorious, an infamous plantation owner who seemed to have drawn inspiration from the darkest chapters of American history. Hundreds of virtually enslaved characters filled the fields and quarters, working harder than anyone else.

Failing to complete quotas would result in a punishment, its severity depending on his personal opinion of you.

Often nicknamed the ‘The Brute of The West’ for his wartime exploits that would turn the geneva convention into a bingo.

His smirk grows in intensity as he stands in front of me, a rope in his hands.

Robbrecht Pissingert.