At Hell’s Doorstep

Over the following months, Billy continued his illicit trade, quietly gathering information about a potential buyer for the girl. Rumors spoke of a nobleman living near the imperial capital—a man born into one of the continent's greatest families, a lineage said to deal in concepts beyond human comprehension, secrets like immortality itself.

Yet as the days passed, Billy's treatment of the girl grew increasingly cruel. It began with minor punishments, using a primitive form of magic often employed in training domestic animals—a spell that bypassed the mind and sent commands straight to the muscles. She was rewarded for obedience and lightly punished for disobedience, with a tap on the head.

But something in Billy changed… something he himself couldn't understand. The pleasure he found in punishment began to swell, warping into obsession. Breaking bones became routine; inflicting pain evolved into a grotesque hobby. As for rewards—they became nothing more than the absence of pain. The girl no longer obeyed for food, but out of sheer fear.

In time, she became something less than human—a body without a soul. She understood speech but never spoke. Her eyes stared blankly into the void, as if unaware of herself or the world around her.

Billy didn't care. All that occupied his thoughts was that it was finally time to sell her.

He shackled her, placed her in a small crate, and left her at home. Then he set off for the mansion of a man who hosted one of the capital's most exclusive weekly auctions: Simon.

Simon was a man of imposing presence—tall, broad-shouldered, his noble features framed by piercing gray eyes that shimmered with cold intellect. His voice was deep and calm, heavy with authority, as though every word he spoke was meant to be obeyed. He was a scion of House Simon, one of the seven great families that ruled the continent from the shadows. To them, gold was not wealth—it was dust resting in forgotten vaults. Their sorcerers were said to weave desire as if it were fabric.

Yet Simon was a defector. He had abandoned his place in the family years ago for reasons no one fully understood, building a domain of his own in a remote estate.

Billy entered the mansion, shrinking before its grandeur, and was presented to Simon. The man sat on a high-backed chair like a throne, surrounded by ever-burning candles, walls lined with books, maps, and glass vials.

Billy, trying to wrap his voice in borrowed confidence, said, "I have a girl… who does not die."

Simon raised an eyebrow, his voice thick with disdain and restraint. "A girl who does not die? What a hollow claim. Do you even grasp the weight of your words?"

Billy smirked. "Perhaps it's beyond our understanding, sir. But if I bring her to you, you can test her yourself. And if I'm lying, do with me as you will."

A heavy silence followed. Simon studied him as though turning him over in his mind.

Then, in a whisper meant more for himself than anyone else, he muttered, "Perhaps she is the one… perhaps the path has begun."

He fixed Billy with a sharp look and said in a calm but cutting tone, "Bring her to me in one week. If your claims hold true, I'll pay whatever price you name."

Billy, struggling to contain his excitement, asked, "As you wish. But, sir—why a week?"

Simon replied curtly, "That's not your concern. Do as you're told and ask no questions that aren't yours to ask."

Billy stepped back nervously. "Of course… of course, sir. Until then."

As he turned to leave, Simon gave a faint smile, the kind that masked a clear threat. "Remember, if you try to run or deceive me—I will find you. And your fate will become a tale whispered in taverns."

Billy shuddered as he replied, "You needn't worry… I wouldn't dare."

He returned home, elated by the encounter. That night, he celebrated. By morning, he had resolved to take advantage of the girl one last time.

He looked at her frail body and thought she wouldn't interest many as a mere living doll. Then a wicked idea came to him.

He went out and purchased a magical fluid used to preserve fresh flesh, laughing to himself as if he'd found treasure.

He tied the girl to a table and picked up a knife.

With chilling calm, he said, "I could've used anesthesia, but it's too expensive… and your screaming isn't an option. Not because I hate you—just because I don't care."

He severed her vocal cords and began the dissection.

He removed her organs—kidney, liver, intestines—then stitched the wound carefully.

Later, he extracted her eyes, fingers, ears, and tongue.

Each piece was placed in a glass jar filled with the preserving fluid. Her body, now a discarded ragdoll, was tossed into the hall, and the floor was scrubbed with obsessive precision.

After a heavy sleep, he woke, ate a light meal, and went to purchase spatial storage. He paid half his fortune for a pocket dimension no larger than a few meters.

As he walked home, he mused, "Are these dimensions created by magic? Or have they always existed? Either way, the price is insane… but I'll make it back."

He returned, stored the organs, and headed to the black market. He sold them for a sum he'd never dreamed of, and spent the next three days in a constant state of revelry, buying anything he desired.

But all of that paled compared to what awaited him the next week.

Simon's deal… was the real fortune.