Rewrite That Witch
CH650 · Rewrite

Chapter 650: A Special Slave

“What are those?” Even as he squinted against the glare, Yorko couldn’t stop staring at the stones hanging from the iron cables — the light they poured was clean and steady, nothing like torchlight, filling the cave with a brightness that made the walls and every face in the room visible.

“Several names,” his guide said, her voice low near his ear. “Sun Stone, Light Crystal — here we prefer Magic Stone, since they’re believed to come from demons’ lairs. ‘Black Money’ auctioned a set of them once. The final price ran between two and three thousand gold royals per stone.” She paused. “They aren’t on tonight’s product list. Is this your first time attending, Sir?”

Yorko stroked his nose to cover the discomfort. He counted the stones without intending to. If every one overhead fetched that price, the lighting alone represented more than ten thousand gold royals — a sum deployed simply to impress a room full of people who’d come already impressed.

The guide sensed his unease and drew closer, her breath warm at his jaw. “Every first-time guest reacts this way. It’s ‘Black Money’s’ method of demonstrating what they’re capable of. There’s no need to be unsettled.” She pressed herself against him with the smooth ease of long practice.

Yorko decided he was beginning to like the place.

He’d missed the first two lots while recalibrating. No matter — he’d attended exhibitions with Denise often enough to know the structure: early lots were secondary merchandise, the minor items, there to establish the atmosphere and loosen the crowd’s grip on their money. The main course came later. He settled in, No. 76 arranging herself against him with professional comfort, and waited.

The auction stirred into genuine interest when the first human product was led onto the stage.

She was young, her overall appearance plain except for one quality: her skin was exceptional, pale and smooth. But what stopped Yorko was not that. It was what she was wearing. Garments only nobles could afford. And the bearing she carried despite the circumstances — not a slave’s posture, not yet.

“A slave dressed as a noble to raise the price?” He pinched No. 76’s waist.

“Not a slave dressed as a noble,” the guide corrected, mild and precise. “A noble who has become a slave.”

Yorko went still.

“Genuinely noble,” she continued, dropping her voice further. “Not a distant relation or branch line. A legitimate heir of a significant family.”

“Gentlemen!” The host’s voice reached all corners. “Aphnie Tanfek — daughter of the Earl of Rubble Woods, Kingdom of Wolfheart. Her father fell in battle against the church, making her the legal heir to the Tanfek earldom. A family with three hundred years of history. But I believe many of you are more interested in the jade incident of twenty years ago. This is an opportunity to settle old accounts. Starting bid: three hundred gold royals.”

“Three hundred ten!” someone called immediately.

“Three hundred fifty!”

“Four hundred!”

“You’re all insane,” Yorko muttered. The open auction of a genuine noble heir was a capital offense every kingdom would treat as a mutual assault on their class. Noble blood was protected even in defeat — that unwritten law had held for centuries. Ransom, not slavery. Bloodlines preserved, even in loss, because the bloodline was the point. An auction that openly sold hereditary titles was not just underground commerce; it was a frontal challenge to the idea of aristocracy itself.

No. 76 spread her hands, unruffled. “Only a problem if it’s made known. ‘Black Money’ didn’t destroy these families — the church did. We provide an opportunity for… older grievances to be addressed.”

“And the host mentioned retaliation. The jade incident — these bidders are people the Tanfeks wronged?”

The guide’s composed smile was all the answer she offered.

The lots that followed were all nobles — from Wolfheart and Everwinter both, men and women. Titles and lineages crossed the stage in succession. The male nobles drew a wider range of bidders; the women merchants present — several of them, Yorko noted — seemed to prefer those with practical estate management experience over raw heirs. Competence over symbolism. They were buying the capacity to run a household or operation they’d been shut out of, not the novelty of owning a name.

Yorko now understood why this had to be underground, why the guest selection was so strict. The invitation was not a mark of status. It was shared implication. To attend was to participate; to participate was to have something to lose. The Black Money’s guests were selected precisely because they were already in the same boat — complicit by virtue of being here.

The witch was the tenth lot.

She came onto the stage bound at both wrists and ankles. Even so — even through the thin burlap shift, even with her dark brunette hair loose and tangled and whip marks readable on her bare hands and feet — she was visibly, undeniably more striking than any of the noble women who had preceded her. There was something in the structure of her face that held together despite the exhaustion and the marks on her body — an ineffable quality that made looking at her feel like catching a glimpse of something not meant for ordinary circumstances.

“A nameless refugee witch from the Kingdom of Wolfheart,” the host announced. “She heals herself using demonic power. Reported by vigilant citizens and brought here as a genuine rarity. Think of it: a self-healing witch. You may use her as you choose, and she will recover. ‘Black Money’ offers containment assistance if required. Starting bid: five hundred gold royals.”

“Five ten.”

“Five sixty.”

“Six hundred.”

Yorko held back. Otto’s estimate had been seven to eight hundred — below historical prices for a witch, given Appen’s crackdown suppressing demand. The strategy was patience: wait for the marginal bidders to exhaust themselves, enter only at the end when only the committed remained.

The price cleared eight hundred.

Then a thousand.

Yorko’s palm began to sweat.

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