Slave Traders I

Darius stepped out of the underground cavity inside the forest, the sunlight dimming as it filtered through the trees. The academy's towering spires loomed in the distance, but his mind was already ahead, focused on the upcoming exam. With his new sword in hand, he had a chance to pass the final challenge by not relying on mana to win.

As he moved closer to the edge of the forest, his pace steady, something made him stop. A faint sound—a muffled cry—cut through the stillness, barely audible over the rustle of the wind. Darius' steps faltered, his instincts sharpening. His pulse quickened, and a thought crept into his mind. The path ahead was clear, but the cries tugged at him. Someone was in trouble.

He glanced over his shoulder at the town, now within sight, then back toward the shadowed tree line where the sound had come from. Part of him wanted to keep moving, to stay on track toward the academy. But the cries grew louder, desperate and weak.

Even though he knew he was powerless in this kind of situation, he convinced himself that he was only going to survey the surroundings and report to the knight guards if someone was in danger. His hand gripped the hilt of the sword, the cool metal grounding him as he veered off the path, slipping into the underbrush. The dense foliage swallowed him, and with each step, the cries became clearer—agonized voices, humanoid voices.

Darius' heart thudded in his chest as he pushed through the thick brambles, his senses on high alert. The air felt heavier here, as if the entire space was inhabited by a different presence than a moment ago. Every instinct told him something was wrong. Still, he pressed on, stepping lightly, careful not to alert anyone, while holding the sword tightly in his hand in case of a surprise attack.

Finally, he reached a small clearing hidden deep within the woods. His breath caught in his throat. There, beneath the dimming twilight, stood a group of ragged men, their faces twisted with greed and cruelty. At the center of the camp were cages—crude iron prisons that held men, women, and children from a mix of species and races. Among them were elves, their sharp features unmistakable, and dwarves, their stout forms conspicuously out of place.

He instinctively ducked behind a thicket, peering through the underbrush. Just beyond, hidden in a clearing, was a sight that made his blood run cold: a group of human traffickers—slave traders, their grim camp surrounded by mercenaries. He spotted a young elf, her bright eyes reflecting the soft light of the torches, and dwarves, their broad shoulders sagging in defeat. Even more astonishing, a few demi-humans—beasts who had gained sentience through exposure to the world's natural mana—were shackled like animals. They looked wild yet aware, their gazes filled with both rage and helplessness.

Darius' breath hitched at the sight. Demi-humans were almost mythical, with only 5% of beasts ever achieving self-awareness. These were no ordinary captives.

The weight of history settled on Darius' shoulders as he observed the scene. The sight of the elves, dwarves, and demi-humans reminded him of the delicate balance between their races and the humans. Years ago, after the War of the Demon Emperor, humans had realized their limitations. Despite their advancements in mana usage, it became clear they couldn't defeat the demons alone. In their desperation, they sought alliances with the elves of Elfiem and the dwarves of Dwargon.

The elves had initially refused, disdainful of how humans manipulated mana. To the elves, mana was sacred, a pure force meant to coexist with nature, not be twisted into technological advancements or spells. However, they eventually agreed with the condition that a branch of their own world tree, Yggdrasil, which had been critically damaged during the demon invasion, would be allowed to grow on the mana-enriched land of Duterra. The elves discovered that Duterra was much richer in mana than their world and, after researching, they discovered the presence of other mythical beings who had enhanced the world's mana using their own life force.

After almost a decade of assessing the human race and searching for their guardians' traces, they discovered what had happened to the dragon king. They believed that, with the guardian of Duterra—the once-powerful dragon king—no longer making his presence known, they could steal the mana of Earth to heal their sacred tree. The scheme had been uncovered by the Sage of Time of that era, and in retaliation, a bloody purge followed. The holy knights and an army of humans had executed the high elves responsible, driving a wedge between elves and humans.

Though the elf commoners had been spared, mistrust festered. Humans began smuggling elves from their homeland as slaves, and this had only worsened relations. Now, elves were allowed to attend the academy as part of the strained alliance to mend fences, thanks to the Sage of Time's intervention, but the bitterness between the races lingered.

The dwarves, on the other hand, had been more straightforward. While they found humans physically weak and unwise, they saw value in their numbers and ingenuity. Their guardian, the titan Chronos, had allied with humanity in exchange for access to Earth's core, where the dwarves built their underground settlements. In turn, humans were granted passage to Dwargon, fostering a more cooperative—if somewhat distant—relationship.

Now, Darius stood on the edge of the camp, watching helplessly as traffickers barked orders. His heart raced. The elves and dwarves were here not by choice, and the demi-humans… they were even rarer prizes, sold for profit or experimentation. The traffickers didn't care who they captured as long as they could make money off them.

Darius glanced at the sword in his hand. He hadn't intended to get involved in something like this, but he couldn't just walk away, especially after seeing the swarm of wyverns heading toward the camp. He realized that once the traffickers boarded those wyverns, his chances of saving the slaves would be slim.

He exhaled slowly, determination solidifying within him. If there was one thing he hated most, it was bullies—people who misused their power and authority to make others suffer simply because they could.

Moving swiftly, Darius skirted the camp's perimeter, studying the layout. There were about a dozen traffickers, well-armed and alert. He spotted the leader standing by a larger cage that held two demi-humans—one with the horns of a beast but the body of a man, and another with feline-like eyes and ears. They looked on the verge of collapse, likely from prolonged mana suppression.

Darius crouched low behind the thick trunk of a tree, his mind racing as he observed the scene in front of him. He wasn't here to play the hero or do what was right. This was about survival. His gut told him that getting involved could complicate things, but if he could take out the leader quietly and free the stronger captives—the demi-humans, elves, and dwarves—he might just walk away unscathed.

His eyes flicked to the sword on his back, its ability to repel mana providing him with a crucial edge for the upcoming confrontation. The traffickers were probably relying on magic to keep their captives in line. Without that advantage, they'd lose control. Still, he needed to be careful. If these slavers ever traced the attack back to him, it could spell trouble later on. He had to remain a ghost in this whole affair, an invisible hand pulling the strings.

His plan was simple: sneak in, take out the leader quietly, and free only those captives who had the strength to handle the situation. The rest of the prisoners could fend for themselves once the chaos erupted. Darius would make sure to slip away unnoticed before anyone could connect the dots.

Breathing steadily, he waited for the right moment. The leader barked orders, completely unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows. Darius gripped the sword, feeling the weight of his decisions more than the blade itself. He wasn't here to save everyone—just to ensure he walked away unscathed.

He crept closer, testing the weight of the sword in his hands. Malik had never fought with something this heavy before, but he had no choice. If these people were taken any farther, they'd be lost to a life of slavery and suffering.

Darius moved like a shadow; his footsteps muffled by the dense underbrush as he closed in on the slave traders' camp. His heart pounded in his chest, not from fear but from the adrenaline of what he was about to do. The leader of the traffickers stood at the center of the camp, barking orders at his men. His voice was harsh and grating, the kind of voice that had grown used to power.

Darius scanned the camp, watching how the men moved, where the guards were stationed, and how the leader positioned himself. His strange eyes tingled with that familiar sensation, the subtle shift in his vision allowing him to see the flow of time—the small but critical moments of weakness in every living being.

The sword hummed lightly against his back, its presence comforting yet imposing. He crept closer, blending into the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment. The leader stood at a fire pit, his attention focused on a map sprawled out on a wooden table. His back was to Darius, his guard seemingly down. But Darius knew better—this man was dangerous, and one wrong move could alert the entire camp.

He closed his eyes for a second, steadying his breath, before stepping out from the cover of the trees.

He closed his eyes for a second, focusing on the pulse of the leader's energy. His strange vision kicked in, revealing the intricate web of time around the man. Every motion, every breath was clear in his mind. And then he saw it—the exact moment when the leader would be at his weakest. There was always a brief lapse, a fraction of a second when the man's body would be out of sync with the flow of energy surrounding him.