Gilded Chains and Hollow Eyes

Shijinko inspected the estate assigned to him by lord veylan in the capital cathardax, he had also received 500 talents of Gold as allowance when attending the academy within 1 month from now. he decided to explore a bit o the city, so he hired private mercenary guards to escort him around the markets. The city of Cathardax was built on ivory bones and gilded promises.

Shijinko stepped from the carriage slowly, his boots pressing against polished obsidian stone that paved the inner district. Behind him, the steel-gilded mercenaries fanned out with mechanical discipline, clad in the armor of the Black Helix company—an elite band known more for their brutality than their honor.

He wore a simple coat of deep dusk-blue, bearing the merchant sigil of Lord Veylan stitched subtly along the collar in silver thread. It shimmered faintly in the afternoon light—enough for the merchants and commoners to bow, for the guards to part, and for the whispers to hush as he passed.

But it wasn't respect they offered. It was fear dressed in etiquette.

Shijinko's eyes traced the marketplace as if reading a story he already knew the ending of. Spice stalls, gem brokers, krystal vendors, all blurred into noise as he walked. His pace was unhurried, almost regal, though behind his gaze flickered a feverish intent.

He wasn't here for trinkets.

He was here for them.

The slave markets were nestled deeper in the belly of the city, beneath stone archways smothered in velvet banners. Laughter and wine spilled from nearby noble galleries as if innocence could drown out chains.

And yet, there it was.

The scent of sweat, iron, and resignation.

He walked past pens where young and old sat in silence—some with dead eyes, some with hatred burning bright. Elves, humans, beastkin. All branded, their fates sold like meat under glass.

A few looked up as he passed.Most didn't. The guards shifted, uneasy. One leaned closer and muttered, "Are you sure, my Lord? The auction is... unpleasant."

"I'm not here to watch," Shijinko replied, voice cool and thin as smoke. "I'm here to purchase."

He stopped at a side chamber, quieter than the others. A wrinkled auctioneer with teeth like yellowed stones scurried to his side and bowed so low his nose brushed the floor.

"My lord," he rasped. "Please, this way—our finest merchandise. Krystal-honed. War-trained. Some... even untouched."

Shijinko said nothing.

His gaze fell upon a glass enclosure. Behind it sat a young girl—perhaps thirteen—with pale grey skin and white, pupil-less eyes. She didn't look up. Her mouth moved silently.

"What's wrong with that one?" he asked.

The auctioneer hesitated. "Ah... she's broken, my lord. She speaks to ghosts—madness, they say. No buyers. But... there's something strange. None of the handlers last long. And she... doesn't age."

Shijinko stepped closer.

And for the first time, she looked up.

His breath quickened

Her eyes weren't empty.

They were full—full of Anima. Swirling. Rotating. A vortex of tangled threads inside her mind. It wasn't madness.

It was a frayed soul—worn thin from too many past lives pressing against the seams of one fragile body.

The Voice coiled in his skull like ink in water.

"This one... bleeds the spectral, Shijinko. Imagine the taste."

He didn't answer. The whisper groaned with delight in his mind, as if drinking something warm and ancient.

"This girl holds power you need, Take it shijinko"

"Shut up" Shijiko said his he rubbed his temples, the voice was increasingly irritating like an itch that can't be scratched. He had learned to ignore it, but that was impossible as it was like a parasite. To rid himself of the voice is to rid himself of his Anima, throughout extensive research he had never heard of Anima abilities that had an annoying ominous voice constantly speaking.

The actioner mistook this for himself being annoying to the young master in front of him. "Apologies respected customer, I did not intend to disturb your peace" he hastily apologised while flashing a wide grin.

Shijinko saw this misunderstanding but didn't point it out, he couldn't bother turned from the glass.

"I'll take her."

The auctioneer blinked. "Pardon, my lord?"

"She's mine now."Shijinko said without sparing a glance. From what he knew his powers where pretty self explanatory, he has no innate ability for offense or defense. His Anima allows him to absorb dead individuals souls but at a limit of 50 max. Of course the limit was interchangeable and wasn't necessarily a limit. By absorbing souls, he can gain a portion of their memories and experiences.

The best part is, Anima is tied to ones soul, an imprint on ones very conscience, so absorbing souls would also allow him to absorb others abilities, but this can only happen once their dead, with the first 10 minutes, anyone who died beyond a 10 minutes can be absorbed as their soul has already been grabbed by the Courts of ashen.

Though it seemed like his unheard of Anima ability was overpowered, he had to be careful not to absorb to many souls as that would draw the attention of the Courts of ashen, also involving a Goddess. And that is not what he wants.

The man stammered, "But the records—she's not for sal—"

A pouch hit the table with a thud, gold coins spilling like blood, approximately 25 coins, which in fact was overpaying. His guards stepped forward without a word making sure the auctioneer doesn't complain any further, "Give the master what he wants" the Captain guard voiced as he slightly unshaved his blade.

"She is," Shijinko said also enforcing his own authority.

And that was that, the auctioneer didn't pose much of a resistance for fear of offending the merchant king Lord Veylan, a close friend of the royal family. 30 minutes later the slave was packaged and sent out of the auction in cubic cage covered in brown cloth on all sides.

Shijinko didn't bother asking for her name as the auctioneer already supplied such details including her abilities. Her ability was useful for his future endeavors if used well. But shijinko didn't stop at her, he also purchased 2 more slaves, a dark elve and a minotaur. Aslo making sure the minotaur was unconscious.

The first young girl had an Rare ability called Resonant Prismallows her to manipulate light and sound frequencies which if implemented well, can be dangerous. This ability also allows her to do vibrational manipulation, and many other things. Than there was the Dark elve who could manipulate shadow monsters. This monsters only manifest within peoples shadows, the strength of the shadow depends on the power level of the individual.

This power was only in the advanced tier as it was a common ability. There are many shadow manipulation abilities and variations. The minotaur however had a simplistic ability that was rare for its kind. It was called Pulse of the Juggernaut, allowing every stomp, punch, or charge to carry a shock pulse, breaking ground, armor, or bone.

This ability prompts one to either use Anima or kinetic energy stored for devastating physical attacks. It was a brute force type power that was simople to understand and implement.

The only problem was that the Resonant prism ability contradicted the shadow manipulation powers, but he would try and find a way around this as now any shadow user can be counter by the Resonant prism ability he will absorb.

The wheels turned once more as the convoy of purchased slaves was dragged along in cages with makeshift wheels.

The estate was quiet when Shijinko returned. The kind of quiet that seeps into the walls, into the bones. A velvet stillness that the soul could drown in.

His carriage creaked to a stop in the gravel courtyard, flanked by the twin gargoyle statues Lord Veylan had imported from across the sea. The guards dismounted, and the slaves—Minotaur, dark elve, and the girl—were dragged down gently, still breathing, still beneath the thick sedation that dulled their limbs and will.

Inside, a roaring hearth cast flickering shadows across the marbled dining hall. Shijinko sat at the center of a long obsidian table, the only guest in a room made for many. Before him were dishes of salted meats, candied roots, redwine-soaked grapes, and a steaming delicacy of mountain boar wrapped in honey-glazed skin.

He ate slowly. Calmly. As if savoring the moment was part of some deeper ritual.

Then he wiped his mouth with a velvet cloth and stood.

"Bring them," he told the housekeeper.

One by one, they were brought into his study. The room smelled of myrrh, ink, and death waiting to happen. Candles flickered on the shelves, their flames bending unnaturally, as though aware of what would come.

The first was the girl.

She was laid gently on the wooden seat in front of his desk, her arms limp, head lulled to one side. Shijinko approached quietly, his breath steady, eyes unblinking. He took the ceremonial dagger from the desk drawer — the one engraved with runes etched by his own hand.

He stabbed once—direct and clean into the chest. Her body twitched, and for a moment, her eyes fluttered, not from pain but recognition.

He absorbed her Anima. It slithered into him like cold oil, dispersing under his skin. Her emotions surged into his mind: pain, fear, hope—all meaningless.

Then came the dark elve.

The Dark Elf looked almost peaceful under the drug's haze. But as he pressed the dagger into her side, her eyes snapped open—two black moons staring straight into his soul. No words.

She didn't scream. She didn't move. Just stared as her shadows bled from her into him, curling like black vines through the air before vanishing into his veins. Her silence screamed louder than words ever could.

Last was the minotaur.

The minotaur's body was too large for the chair, so they laid him on the floor.

Even drugged, the beast growled in his sleep.

The blade took effort—muscle and hide didn't part easily—but when it sank in, Shijinko staggered. A blast of heat seared through his skull. The ground pulsed under him, as if his blood had turned to magma. He screamed.

The memories hit like a war drum: hundreds of battles, hand-to-hand, axe-to-spear, earth-breaking charges, tribal chants under crimson skies, blood rituals in stone circles, pain, glory, death, survival.

He clutched his head. Fell to his knees. His vision blurred with shattered fragments of another life.

The Voice laughed, low and indulgent.

"How does it feel…To inherit the instincts of the dead? To forge yourself from stolen legacies?"

Shijinko gasped. His heart pounded like a warhorn. His muscles spasmed with borrowed power. His mind—fractured for a moment—found focus again.

He rose slowly.

"...More," he said beneath his breath.

His hand trembled around the blood-stained dagger.

"You're getting used to this," the Voice murmured. "Good... Very good."