THE GENERAL'S DISGRACED HEIR-Chapter 316: DEALS IN DARKNESS

The remaining thugs froze, their expressions shifting from confidence to uncertainty as David released their companion, who crumpled against the wall clutching his shattered arm.

"As I was saying," David continued in the same calm tone, "I have nothing worth taking."

A heartbeat of silence passed before all three attacked simultaneously.

David moved with economical brutality, each strike targeting vulnerable points with surgical precision. A heel-palm thrust crushed the second attacker's larynx, leaving him on his knees, desperate for air that wouldn't come. The third received a devastating kick that pulverized his kneecap, sending him sprawling with a shriek cut short by a follow-up blow to the temple.

Drav, more cautious after witnessing his companions' swift defeat, circled with a longer blade drawn. "Who the fuck are you?" he growled, fear bleeding into his anger.

David didn't bother answering. When Drav lunged, he countered with a textbook Taekwondo combination—a low kick to unbalance followed by a spinning back-fist that connected with sickening force. Drav collapsed, blood streaming from his shattered nose and split cheek.

The entire confrontation had lasted less than twenty seconds.

David straightened his tunic, surveying the damage with clinical detachment. One dead or close to it, three incapacitated. He felt no particular satisfaction or remorse—simply mild irritation at the interruption.

He approached Drav, who was trying unsuccessfully to crawl away, and placed a boot firmly on his chest. "Since you've cost me time, you can at least make yourself useful," David said, increasing pressure until the man gasped. "Tell me about this district. Who controls it? Where would someone go for information that isn't available through... conventional channels?"

Terror had replaced the hostility in Drav's eyes. "Rook's territory," he wheezed. "We just work small sections. The big operations run through The Tarnished Cup two streets east."

"And unusual merchandise? Items not commonly available in the markets?"

"The... the Underbridge Market. Midnight to dawn, beneath the Beggar's Bridge." Drav coughed, blood staining his lips. "Please... we didn't know. We wouldn't have—"

"You've been helpful," David interrupted, removing his foot. "Spread the word that this area is no longer safe for your kind of work."

He left them broken in the alley, continuing his exploration with the same measured pace as before. The entire incident had barely elevated his heart rate.

As David emerged onto a wider street, a peculiar sound caught his attention—a rhythmic clapping accompanied by raucous laughter and shouting. Curious, he followed the noise to its source, finding himself at the entrance to what appeared to be a repurposed wine cellar. The stairs leading down were guarded by a burly man collecting coins from those wishing to enter.

"What's happening down there?" David asked, gesturing toward the underground space.

The guard grunted. "Auction. Special merchandise. Five silver to watch, fifty if you're buying."

David's interest was piqued. "Special merchandise" could mean many things in a city like Valemir, potentially including information about the Eye of Ternion or other phenomena. He handed over five silver coins and descended the stairs, entering a dimly lit chamber crowded with perhaps fifty spectators.

The central area contained a raised wooden platform, currently empty but surrounded by anticipatory murmurs. David found a position near the back wall, offering both a clear view and easy access to the exit.

A heavyset man in gaudy clothes stepped onto the platform, raising his hands for silence. "Distinguished guests," he began, his voice oily with practiced charm, "welcome to our exclusive morning offering. Today's merchandise comes from the finest stock, guaranteed quality for discerning clients."

The crowd's excitement surged as the first "item" was brought forward—a young woman with exotic features, barely clothed and visibly terrified.

A slave auction.

David's lips thinned. Not what he'd expected, and certainly not useful for his purposes. He was about to leave when a commotion near the platform caught his attention.

Two handlers were roughly dragging a new figure forward—slight of build, with the unmistakable pointed ears of an elf. Unlike the other slaves, this one was severely injured—one side of her face burned and scarred, her legs twisted at unnatural angles suggesting multiple breaks improperly healed.

"Next, a curiosity piece," the auctioneer announced, his tone dismissive. "Elven female, damaged goods as you can see. Not much use for work or pleasure, but perhaps of interest to collectors or those requiring exotic materials."

The crowd's interest waned, murmurs suggesting disappointment at the offering. David remained, however, a strange unease settling over him. Something about this particular slave stirred a memory—not his own, but knowledge from Earth, from the "Trials of Valor" novels he'd read in his previous life.

Had the elven genocide been mentioned? Yes, the fall of the Elanthrial Woods had been a significant historical event in the books, though peripheral to the main storyline.

As David observed the injured elf more closely, a flicker of black crossed his vision, followed by an unexpected notification from his supposedly malfunctioning system:

[ALERT: HIGH BLOODLINE DETECTED]

[IDENTITY: PRINCESS SYLINDRA ELANTHRIAL]

[STATUS: CRITICAL]

David froze, startled by the sudden activity from his dormant system. Princess Sylindra Elanthrial. The name resonated with recognition—a minor character mentioned in the novels, presumed dead in the destruction of her homeland.

Yet here she was, broken and being sold as a slave in Valemir.

David's mind raced, calculating possibilities and implications. An elven princess, thought long dead, appeared now.

Moreover, the strategic value of having an Elanthrial royal in his debt was considerable. Knowledge, political leverage, access to ancient elven magic—all potential assets for his long-term mission.

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The auctioneer was calling for opening bids, receiving only token offers. "Come now, even for parts she's worth more. Those ears alone—magical components of genuine elven origin fetch high prices from the right alchemists."

David raised his hand. "One hundred gold pieces," he called out, his voice carrying clearly through the suddenly silent chamber.

The auctioneer blinked in surprise. "One hundred... well! It seems we have a serious collector among us today!"

Several heads turned toward David, evaluating this unexpected bidder. He kept his expression neutral, projecting the confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

"Any advances on one hundred gold?" the auctioneer called, enthusiasm renewed by the substantial offer. When no other bids came forward, he slammed his gavel down. "Sold to the gentleman in the back! Please proceed to the payment area to complete your transaction."

As David moved forward to claim his unexpected purchase, he briefly wondered what his mother would think of this situation. Her gentle morality was the sole warm memory from his truncated childhood on Earth—a voice of compassion that occasionally still echoed in his thoughts, standing in stark contrast to the calculated ruthlessness he'd cultivated during his years alone on the streets.

He pushed the sentiment aside. This wasn't about morality; it was about advantage. Princess Sylindra Elanthrial would be an asset, nothing more.

Yet as he approached the broken figure now legally his property, David couldn't entirely silence that quiet voice wondering if there might be more to his impulsive decision than mere calculation.