RISING OF THE GOLEM KING FROM ZERO TO HERO, Volume 1, Part One by H. L. Watson - HTML preview

Chapter 6

Several hours had passed since the other slaves had returned from the common slave auction block, and the guards were now dispatched to gather all the utility class slaves from their dim, restricted cells. The scrape of keys against locks echoed through the stone corridors, followed by the heavy thud of boots against the floor. Two guards appeared at my cell door—one tall and lean with a pockmarked face, the other shorter but broad-shouldered with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Their expressions remained impassive as they unlocked the door and gestured for me to follow.

"Move," the taller guard commanded, voice flat and eyes cold. "Time to find you a master." As we were being herded together like cattle through winding hallways, the weight of our display tags around our necks constantly reminded us of our dismal status. The parchment-like material hung heavily against my chest, the string chafing the tender skin at the nape of my neck. The sound of shuffling feet and clinking chains formed a grim cadence as we moved forward, no one daring to speak. Our small group of utility class slaves—perhaps fifteen in total—presented a stark contrast to the dozens of common class slaves I'd seen earlier. The corridor gradually changed as we walked, transitioning from rough stone walls to polished marble, from flickering torches to crystal-encased magical lights that cast a steady, unwavering glow. Even the air changed, becoming less stale and damp, now carrying subtle notes of expensive perfumes and polished wood.

We were then escorted to an opulent room within the imposing facility, a chamber that staggered the senses after days in the squalid cells below. The ceiling soared at least twenty feet above us, adorned with intricate frescos depicting scenes I couldn't begin to interpret—figures wielding what appeared to be magic, strange creatures, and landscapes unlike any I'd seen on Earth. Crystal chandeliers hung from gilded chains, each facet catching and splitting light into miniature rainbows that danced across the walls.

The merchant owner, a man of considerable wealth and influence, was seated at the head of an enormous table crafted from dark, polished wood that gleamed like obsidian. His considerable girth strained against the confines of his elaborate purple and gold robes, the fabric rippling with his every movement. Rings adorned nearly every finger, catching the light as he gestured grandly to his guests. His jowly face bore the flush of someone who enjoyed rich food and abundant wine, his small eyes bright with the anticipation of profit. He was entertaining an array of seemingly affluent guests of various backgrounds, perhaps thirty in all, who lounged on plush velvet chairs or mingled in small groups throughout the room. The perimeter was lined with stern-faced guards, their hands never far from their weapons—a reminder that despite the civilized veneer, this was still fundamentally a glorified prison. The attendees were adorned in exquisitely tailored clothing that fit their forms like a second skin, the fabric moving with an almost liquid grace. Many of the men sported gold necklaces with pendants bearing symbols I didn't recognize, and their fingers were adorned with large rubies, emeralds, and sapphires embedded in exquisite rings that caught the light with every gesture. The material they were draped in looked like fine silk to me, shimmering and reflecting the light in a mesmerizing presentation of wealth and status.

One woman wore a dress of midnight blue, embroidered with silver thread that formed constellations across the fabric. Her hair was piled atop her head in an elaborate arrangement held in place by jeweled pins. Another man, tall and gaunt with hollow cheeks, was dressed entirely in crimson, from his high-collared jacket to his polished boots. Their faces bore expressions ranging from boredom to predatory interest as they surveyed us. As we stood there, lined up against the wall like items in a shop window, I couldn't help but be struck by the stark contrast between the lavish setting and the grim reality of our situation. The guests were dressed in the most luxurious silks and satins, their jewels casting a dazzling display in the flickering candlelight, while we were dressed in coarse, plain linen-looking material, dirty and ill-fitting, marked with the humiliation of slavery.

The air was filled with the rich aroma of wine—deep, fruity notes that made my empty stomach clench—and an abundance of succulent food arranged on silver platters throughout the room. Roasted meats glistening with fat, exotic fruits sliced to reveal jewel-like interiors, pastries dusted with what might have been sugar. The smells mingled together in a tantalizing symphony that was all the more torturous because we were not permitted even a morsel. My mouth watered involuntarily, and I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the painful hollowness in my stomach. As I looked around, I could see the other slaves were just as ashamed as I was, their eyes downcast, and their spirits shattered. A young woman to my left trembled visibly, her thin frame nearly lost in the oversized shirt she wore. An older man stared straight ahead, his weathered face a mask of resigned dignity. The only sounds in the room were the clinking of silverware against fine porcelain plates, the gentle splash of wine being poured, and the soft murmur of the guests' conversations, which only served to emphasize the dreadful reminder that we were nothing more than objects to be bought and sold.

Suddenly, a commotion erupted from one end of the room, shattering the veneer of civility. I turned my head to see a group of rowdy, inebriated guests who had clearly had too much to drink. Three men and a woman, their faces flushed with wine, their movements erratic and uncoordinated. They stumbled over to where we slaves were lined up and began to jeer and taunt us mercilessly, their words slurred but no less cutting.

"Look at this sorry lot," one man said, his breath heavy with alcohol. "Not worth half what the merchant will charge, I'd wager." His companions laughed, the sound grating and cruel. One of the guests, a heavyset man with an elaborately trimmed beard and a ruby the size of a grape on his pinky finger, even reached out to grab the chain around my neck. His fingers brushed against my skin, clammy and invasive, before he was abruptly stopped by one of the vigilant guards who stepped forward with surprising speed for someone in such heavy armor. "No touching the merchandise before purchase, my lord," the guard said firmly, hand on the hilt of his sword. The drunk nobleman withdrew his hand with a scowl but backed away. I felt a surge of anger and fear course through me like wildfire, a hot rush that started in my chest and radiated outward. My fists clenched involuntarily at my sides, fingernails digging half-moons into my palms. How could these people treat us like this, as if we were no different from a piece of furniture? The casual dehumanization was perhaps worse than outright cruelty—at least cruelty acknowledged our humanity, even as it sought to break it. I knew I had to keep my head down and remain silent, but the feeling of powerlessness was suffocating and all-consuming.

As the night wore on, I couldn't help but wonder about the owner of the facility. How could he be so heartless and cold, reveling in the misery and suffering of others? He sat there, sipping his wine from a goblet encrusted with jewels, occasionally throwing back his head in laughter at some joke or comment. His eyes, when they passed over us, held no more emotion than if he were looking at a wall. I yearned for the day when I could break free of this torturous existence and reclaim my own freedom. But for now, all I could do was endure. I kept my head down and my thoughts to myself, waiting for the seemingly endless night to be over and hoping for a better tomorrow.

Out of nowhere, a woman with a regal air about her stood up from her seat and approached me, interrupting my thoughts. She moved with practiced grace, her emerald green gown rustling softly with each step. Her dark hair was swept back from a high forehead, revealing sharp, calculating eyes that missed nothing. Fine lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes hinted that she was perhaps in her early forties, though she carried herself with the confidence of someone who had never worried about such things as age.

"What's your name, boy?" she asked in a commanding and arrogant tone, her voice carrying the distinct accent I'd come to associate with the nobility in this world. Her gaze traveled over me with clinical detachment, as if inspecting produce at a market.

I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to draw attention to myself. The woman raised an eyebrow, impatience flickering across her features. But I knew refusing to answer was futile and would only invite punishment. "I am Eric," I replied softly, almost in a whisper, the words feeling strange in my mouth—as if by giving her my name, I was surrendering a piece of myself. "Eric, a strong name," she said, scrutinizing me from head to toe. Her eyes lingered on my face, then moved down to my shoulders and chest, measuring and assessing. "You look to be in good shape, and not too bad on the eyes either," she added with a lecherous smile that sent shivers down my spine.

The smile never reached her eyes, which remained cold and evaluating. She reached out a hand adorned with multiple rings and nearly touched my face before apparently thinking better of it, perhaps remembering the guard's earlier intervention with the drunken noble. Instead, she circled me slowly, like a predator sizing up potential prey.

My discomfort grew exponentially as she lingered, her invasive gaze making me increasingly uneasy. I fought the urge to step back or turn away, knowing such defiance would not be tolerated. The very air around her seemed charged with a subtle menace, a reminder of the complete power she and her kind held over people like me in this world. When she finally walked away, rejoining a group of similarly dressed nobles who greeted her with raised glasses, I couldn't shake off the unsettling feeling that had crept up on me. My skin crawled where her gaze had lingered, and I resisted the urge to wipe my face, as if her look had left a physical residue. I was left to ponder the true intentions of some of these partygoers. I couldn't help but wonder if there was more to their visit than just simple entertainment. The way they assessed us suggested underlying motives—potential uses for their "purchases" that went beyond mere service. As we stood there in silence, my slight hunger pangs growing stronger with each waft of delicious food that passed by on servant trays, I couldn't help but feel frustrated at our powerless situation.

Every now and then, one of the guests would come over and inspect the new tags around our necks with curious interest. These tags were quite fancy, a stark contrast to the crude markers we'd worn earlier. They were crafted with intricate borders and painted with blue and gold ink, the lettering precise and elegant. As I examined mine, gingerly lifting it to see it better without drawing attention, I saw that my utility class had been labeled as a Tinkerer, instead of the expected Artificer that I had been designated during the assessment. Curiosity piqued, I turned to one of the guards who was standing nearby, a younger man whose expression seemed marginally less hostile than his companions. "Excuse me," I ventured cautiously, my voice low, "what does Tinkerer mean exactly?" I asked, hoping for some answers without inviting punishment for speaking out of turn.

He looked at me with a sneer, his lip curling to reveal teeth stained slightly yellow. "It means you work with magical machines and devices," he replied, voice clipped and impatient. "Your kind is highly sought after for their skills in repairing and creating such things."

He shifted his weight, armor creaking slightly. "Now shut it, unless you want trouble," he added, though without much heat, as if the explanation had been offered more out of boredom than any desire to help.

As I pondered my new information, standing uncomfortably in place as the evening continued around me, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief knowing that my skills as a tinkerer could potentially be useful in this world. The classification suggested specialized knowledge, perhaps even a degree of respect within certain circles. However, I couldn't shake off the nagging feeling that something didn't quite add up. Why did the magical devices label me as an Artificer, when it seemed that in this world, they were called Tinkerers?

I theorized to myself, could it be that the people using these machines and devices weren't the ones who created them, and were simply making assumptions based on their limited understanding of the magical base classes? Perhaps "Artificer" was an ancient term, one from the time when these assessment devices were created, while "Tinkerer" was the modern equivalent. Or maybe they represented two different aspects of the same fundamental ability. The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. It seemed like there was much that I still didn't understand about this world and its inner workings. The classification system, the affinities, the rankings—all of it spoke to a complex magical framework that I was only beginning to glimpse. Perhaps I needed more information before I could draw any definite conclusions. For now, I decided to put my thoughts aside and focus on the present. I knew that dwelling on these questions wouldn't get me anywhere, and that I needed to be practical if I wanted to survive in this world.

I resolved to keep learning as much as I could, in hopes of gaining a deeper understanding of this strange and foreign place. I felt a sense of relief at this information, knowing that my abilities could be valuable to me someday. But at the same time, the thought of being trapped in a life of servitude as a Tinkerer made me feel uneasy. Would I be expected to create weapons or tools that might harm others? Would my creations be used to further oppress people like myself? These questions swirled in my mind, adding to the growing knot of anxiety in my chest. Just then, one of the guests approached me, a smile on his face. He was a thin man with scholarly features—a narrow nose, high cheekbones, and intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. His robes were less ostentatious than those of the other guests, but the quality of the fabric and subtle embroidery spoke of quiet wealth. He carried himself with a thoughtful air, his movements measured and precise.

"Ah, a tinkerer," he said, looking at my tag with genuine interest rather than the predatory assessment I'd endured from others. His voice was soft and cultured, with a slight accent I couldn't place. "What kind of magical machines can you work with?"

"I am really not sure, since I am new to your world, but I am a fast learner," I replied, trying to sound confident but not arrogant. My background in computer engineering seemed laughably irrelevant here, yet the analytical thinking and problem-solving skills might translate—if I survived long enough to apply them.

He gave me a noncommittal nodding motion of his head in reply, his expression thoughtful. "Interesting," he murmured, almost to himself. "Most tinkerers specialize early. A blank slate might be... valuable, in its way." With that cryptic comment, he turned away, rejoining a conversation with a woman in a silver dress.

As he walked away, I couldn't help but feel a sense of dread creeping up on me. His assessment of me as a "blank slate" sounded uncomfortably like someone evaluating raw material— malleable and ready to be shaped to purpose. I shook off the feelings and turned my attention to the other slaves, wondering what kind of skills they had and what fates awaited them. I stood there with the other slaves, each of us displaying our tags with our affinities and utility classes. Some were labeled as Engineers, others as Healers or Librarians—classifications that suggested specific roles and abilities. Throughout the evening, the guests would look me over, and I could see the surprise on their faces at the number of affinities I possessed. Their eyebrows would rise, lips parting slightly in expressions of interest or astonishment. However, their expressions soon turned to disappointment when they realized that all of my affinities were R1, the lowest ranking possible. The light of curiosity in their eyes would dim, replaced by dismissal as they moved on to inspect other "merchandise."

As the night wore on, the large chamber growing warmer from the press of bodies and the heat of the numerous candles, the merchant host began to wind down the party. The servants cleared away the remnants of the feast, and the guests settled into their seats with an air of expectation. The atmosphere shifted subtly, from one of social indulgence to business-like attention. The merchant stood, raising his hands for silence. When he spoke, his voice carried easily across the room, practiced in the art of commanding attention. "My esteemed friends," he began, "the time has come for the evening's main entertainment." He gestured towards us with a flourish, as if presenting a special treat rather than human beings.

He instructed his guests to write their bids on slips of parchment and fold them before placing them in an ornately carved wooden container that a servant carried around the room. "The highest bidder will win that item," he said to the guests, gesturing to the line of slaves waiting to be sold. The first item up for sale was the blue-haired, gray-eyed woman I had seen the other day during the assessment. She stood rigidly, chin raised in defiance despite the fear evident in the slight trembling of her hands. She looked nervous, and I couldn't blame her. The party-goers began to write their bids on slips of parchment and hand them to a servant girl, who collected them and placed them in the wooden container. She moved among the guests with practiced efficiency, her eyes downcast, her movements almost mechanical. Her plain dress and subdued demeanor marked her as another slave, though one who had clearly been in service for some time.

Moments later, the prominent merchant meticulously examined the bids, tallying them up behind a veil of secrecy, as the amount paid remained undisclosed. His fingers moved quickly through the slips of paper, eyes narrowing as he calculated, occasionally nodding to himself as if confirming a private suspicion. He announced the winner to be an elegant, regal noblewoman who appeared slightly tipsy, judging by the rosy hue adorning her cheeks and the slight unsteadiness in her posture as she rose to claim her prize. She was the same woman who had approached me earlier, her emerald gown catching the light as she stood. The party-goers enthusiastically applauded her victory, and she graciously accepted their congratulations with a flourish, bowing slightly with a satisfied smile playing at the corners of her mouth. The blue-haired woman was led away by a servant, her face now a mask of resignation.

The auction sessions progressed in this fashion, with the slaves being sold off one by one. The procedure had a rhythm to it—the presentation of the "item," the distribution and collection of bids, the moment of tension as the merchant calculated, and finally the announcement of the winner. Remarkably, no one person had won twice, and the bidding seemed to be distributed quite evenly among the attendees, suggesting perhaps some prior arrangement or unspoken rules governing the proceedings.

As I observed my fellow captives being auctioned off, an unsettling sense of dread enveloped me. The line of slaves ahead of me grew shorter with each sale, bringing me closer to my own moment of judgment. I couldn't fathom what my ultimate fate would be or who would end up owning me. Would it be someone cruel or kind? Someone who would see me as a person or merely as property? All I could do was cling to the hope that my future master or mistress would treat me with at least a modicum of respect and kindness. As I watched the others being sold, I noticed that I was positioned at the end of the line, which likely signified that I would be the final item up for sale. My heart sank as the realization dawned upon me that I would be the last one standing, waiting anxiously for someone to purchase me. Being the final item could mean I was considered the least valuable—or perhaps, given the merchant's theatrics, the most valuable. Either way, the prolonged wait only intensified my anxiety, my mouth growing dry and palms sweating as the moment approached. When all the other slaves had been sold, the chamber felt oddly empty despite the crowd of buyers still present. The merchant cleared his throat with a sense of purpose and began to address the crowd. He stepped forward, arms spread wide in a gesture that commanded attention. "Alright, we have something quite unique and special for sale," he announced with a theatrical flourish, his voice rising to fill the chamber. "As you know, I typically like to save the best for last, and I trust that many of you will not be disappointed. We have a rare Tinkerer for sale who, once adequately trained, will likely be able to repair many of your magical devices and items at a fraction of the cost it would incur at one of the specialized Tinkerer shops." The party-goers laughed heartily at his jest regarding the exorbitant prices of repair shops, their earlier purchases apparently having put them in good spirits. The sound of their laughter echoed off the high ceiling, a cacophony that grated on my already frayed nerves. The merchant continued unabated, clearly warming to his role as auctioneer.

"This young lad is quite exceptional, too. He possesses a remarkable twelve affinities," he announced, beaming with pride as if he had personally created me rather than simply acquired me. He gestured towards my tag, drawing the guests' attention to the list of affinities. One of the more inebriated guests interjected, slurring his words slightly as he spoke. "Yes, but they're all R-Ones," he pointed out dismissively, waving a hand as if to brush away the merchant's claims. His fine clothes were slightly disheveled, wine staining the front of his tunic. The merchant took the interruption in stride and replied jovially, "Come now, surely you understand that a tinkerer's worth is not measured in the sheer power of his affinities but rather in their diversity." He spread his hands in a reasonable gesture, his tone that of someone explaining a basic concept to a child. "I wager that once properly trained, he'll be able to work with a myriad of magical items, spanning a diverse range of classifications." The guests settled down and grew quiet after hearing this insightful pronouncement, considering his words with renewed interest. I could see some of them contemplating the merchant's words more thoughtfully, perhaps reassessing their initial impressions of my potential value. Heads nodded, whispers were exchanged, and calculating looks were cast in my direction. The merchant then established the minimum bid at a considerable sum of 200 gold pieces, eliciting scoffs from some of the party-goers who apparently considered the amount excessive. One woman in a sapphire blue dress actually laughed outright, covering her mouth with a bejeweled hand. However, many remained undeterred and eagerly began to write down their bids, quills scratching against parchment in the suddenly quiet room. Approximately two-thirds of the attendees participated in the bidding process, and the merchant diligently collected their bids before commencing the tally. The room held its breath as he sorted through the slips, occasionally raising his eyebrows or pursing his lips as he read a particular bid. Ultimately, it was announced that my new owner would be an elderly, grandfatherly-looking gentleman named Jiren Lysander.

He stood when his name was called, rising slowly from his seat with the aid of an intricately carved cane. Despite his apparent age—his hair was silver and thinning, his face a web of fine lines that deepened when he smiled—there was a sharpness to his gaze that suggested his mind remained keen. He wore robes of deep blue with silver embroidery, simple compared to some of the more ostentatious outfits in the room, but of obvious quality and craftsmanship. In contrast to the jovial attitudes of the guests that was on display earlier, the party-goers appeared somewhat annoyed that they hadn't won, particularly those who had actively participated. Their smiles became fixed, their congratulations to Jiren tinged with insincerity. One man, a corpulent noble in crimson silks who had eyed me throughout the evening, muttered to himself in frustration, "I knew I should have bid more." His thick fingers clenched around his wine goblet, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. The merchant host consoled the disappointed guests, his voice smooth with practiced diplomacy. "Now, now, we're all friends here, aren't we? Let's give the winner a well-deserved round of applause," and everyone begrudgingly began to clap for my future owner, albeit with a hint of reluctance. The sound was perfunctory, lacking the enthusiasm that had greeted earlier purchases.

Later that night, as the festivities gradually calmed down and the guests began to depart, many of the new owners assumed possession of their recently acquired slaves. The hall emptied slowly, the guests lingering over final glasses of wine and exchanging pleasantries that barely masked their competitive assessments of each other's purchases.

My new owner, Jiren, appeared to be in quite a hurry and led me away, accompanied by his two imposing bodyguards who flanked him like twin shadows. They were large men, muscular and silent, their expressions impossible to read behind the half-helms they wore. Each wore a sword at his hip and moved with the fluid grace of trained fighters. Despite his advanced age, Jiren moved with a brisk, purposeful pace that proved challenging for me to match after days of confinement and limited movement. His cane tapped rhythmically against the marble floors as we traversed the hallways and descended the stairs, each tap echoing in the now-quiet corridors. My muscles protested the sudden activity, but I forced myself to keep up, unwilling to discover the consequences of lagging behind. As we exited the building into the cool night air, I noticed a peculiar-looking carriage awaiting us. The vehicle was elegant and well-crafted, with intricate carvings adorning its wooden frame and what appeared to be magical lights glowing softly in glass sconces on either side. But it was the creatures harnessed to it that captured my attention. The mounts hitched to it resembled brown horses but bore distinctive zebra-like stripes adorning their bodies, their manes hanging in elegant waves down their strong necks. It was unlike anything I had ever witnessed before, but then again, I was in an unfamiliar world where strange sights were to be anticipated. One of Jiren's bodyguards instructed me to sit at the front of the carriage with him, while the other assumed his position atop the vehicle, taking the reins with practiced ease. As I settled into my seat, the leather cool against my skin, I felt a heavy chain fasten my leg to the floorboard of the carriage, the metal cold and unyielding around my ankle. The sound of the lock clicking shut was final and unmistakable, serving as a stark reminder that I remained a slave, albeit under the control of a different master.