CHAPTER 129: THE MERCHANT’S PRESENTATION

Chapter 127: The Merchant’s Presentation

The wait wasn’t long. The muffled shuffle of boots on polished stone announced his arrival before the door swung open. The trader entered with that same merchant’s smile Ethan remembered—polished, professional, and just a touch too practiced.

"Esteemed sir," he greeted smoothly, bowing his head before settling himself across the couch, directly opposite Ethan. "As you desired, the girl has arrived. She reached us last night, in fact. At this very moment, she is being readied to be presented before you. Until then..." His smile sharpened. "Why don’t we discuss her specialties?"

Ethan leaned back slightly, one arm resting across the couch’s armrest. His eyes were steady, voice calm but edged.

"Specialties, huh? Go ahead. If she can’t even heal despite being a healer, she better have something else to justify her worth."

"That is precisely the point, sir." The trader’s tone carried both eagerness and caution. "When it became clear she possessed no visible healing talent... and considering her cost was far too steep for what she could not do, well—no one wanted her. So we... trained her in other things."

Ethan’s eyes narrowed.

"Wait. You said class earlier. How does she have a class at all if she’s useless as a healer?"

"Ah, yes." The merchant adjusted his collar nervously. "Before she was discarded to us, the church itself attempted one last measure. They hoped that if she reached level ten, a class would awaken and change her fortunes. And indeed... she did receive one. But the result was not what they had prayed for."

Ethan’s expression sharpened.

"And what is her class?"

The trader gave a dry chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. "That’s where things become... difficult. She herself insists she received a very high-ranking healer class, but none could verify it. After all, a ’high healer’ incapable of healing? Utterly laughable. Even the church found it unbelievable." He gave a nervous laugh that faded quickly under Ethan’s stare.

"You still haven’t said what class she claims to be," Ethan pressed, his tone low.

The trader’s lips twisted. "She never told us directly. She insisted we wouldn’t believe her. But when we acquired her from the church, there was... mockery. Whispers that she called herself a saintess." He said the word with half a sneer, half a shrug. "Absurd, of course. A Saintess? They’re the highest tier of healers, blessers, enchanters—rare beyond reason. Not something a fallen girl could simply claim to be. We didn’t press her further. Why waste time confirming a class she clearly can’t make use of?"

Ethan’s brows drew together. His thoughts churned, but his face remained unreadable.

"...Proceed. What have you trained her in?"

The merchant’s eyes lit up at the permission to move forward. "Yes, of course. Firstly, she is a competent cook—capable of managing a kitchen for a household of any size. Secondly, we ensured she became proficient in numbers: basic mathematics, account-keeping, and ledger management. She can run shop tallies as well as any apprentice clerk."

He paused, then his gaze flickered briefly toward Lirael. The hesitation in his body language was subtle, but Ethan caught it instantly.

Ethan raised a brow. His tone was calm, but with a weight that left little room for evasion.

"And the last specialty?"

The merchant swallowed, glanced again at Lirael, then back to Ethan. "Ah... yes, well. This one is... sensitive."

Ethan’s eyes cooled, voice dropping.

"Spit it out."

The trader’s smile faltered. "She was also... instructed in the arts of... pleasure."

The air in the room shifted, tension tightening like a drawn bowstring. Ethan’s brows lowered into a frown, and his jaw clenched ever so slightly.

The merchant immediately raised his hands, panic flashing across his face. "N-no, sir, do not misunderstand! Her purity remains untouched. We ensured only female instructors trained her. Wooden implements, nothing harmful, nothing... permanent. We merely shaped her knowledge—never her body."

A long silence hung. Ethan’s expression eased fractionally, though the weight in his gaze didn’t lift.

Beside him, Lirael’s eyes narrowed, and Ethan felt the jab of her thought brush his mind like a sharp elbow. I think last part was for you...keke...even he thinks you are a scumbag.

He exhaled slowly, giving only a curt nod to the trader.

"...Fine. Continue."

The merchant nearly sagged in relief, sweat beading along his temple as he readied his next words.

After a few more pleasantries, a soft knock sounded at the door.

The trader’s smile broadened instantly. "Ah, here she is." He snapped his fingers lightly. "Enter."

The door creaked open. A rugged servant woman stepped inside first, ushering in a far more delicate figure behind her.

The girl who entered was striking, though she moved with a subdued, almost fragile air. Barely into adulthood, perhaps twenty at most, she carried herself with quiet restraint. Long strands of golden hair spilled like sunlight down to her shoulders, framing a face that was at once youthful and undeniably beautiful. Her eyes—warm caramel, soft yet searching—caught the light and held it. Her skin was smooth and pale, unblemished, as if untouched by the harsher burdens of life. She wore decent, modest clothing, enough to suggest care had been taken to make her presentable, but not so fine as to hide the fact she was still a slave.

The moment she crossed the threshold, Ethan’s gaze sharpened. His vision flickered with the familiar overlay of the system’s appraisal.

---

[Inspect: Sylvie Hartwell]

Name: Sylvie Hartwell

Age: 20

Race: Human (Awakened)

Class: Saintess (Holy Lock)

Level: 10

Unallocated Stat Points: 40 (Inaccessible)

Strength: 1.5

Vitality: 2.5

Constitution: 2.0

Agility: 1.5

Stamina: 2.0

Intelligence: 3.0

Mana: 2.5

Potential locked.

A restrictive Holy Curse has been placed upon her by a High Priest, binding her abilities and preventing growth. Until lifted, her saintly powers remain sealed.

---

Ethan’s brow rose slightly. So it wasn’t just baseless bragging from the trader. She truly was a Saintess.

He kept his face neutral, but his mind moved swiftly. Through the link, his thought brushed Lirael’s.

Tell me... what exactly does a Saintess do?

There was a pause. A flicker of confusion.

Why are you asking that? Lirael’s voice carried a hint of suspicion.

Ethan’s mental tone remained calm, measured.

Because this slave girl standing before us is a Saintess. I can see her class the same way I see yours.

The bond shuddered with shock. Lirael’s outward composure held, but inside Ethan’s head she screamed with excitement.

What?! Buy her!! Pay whatever they ask, Ethan—buy her!

Her mental voice was frantic, nearly tripping over itself.

Do you understand what this means?! A Saintess in our party? Do you have any idea how rare that is?! With her at our side we won’t just be strong—we’ll be the number one party in the entire world!

Ethan almost turned to give her an incredulous look at her sudden outburst, but resisted, keeping his expression carefully measured. He masked his amusement behind a cool, contemplative stare.

The servant woman guided Sylvie forward until she stood directly before Ethan and Lirael. Then, with a respectful bow, the worker withdrew and quietly closed the door behind her.

For a heartbeat, silence settled over the room. The golden-haired girl lowered her gaze, waiting with the patience of someone used to being observed, judged, and found wanting.

Only then did the trader clear his throat, eager to break the quiet.

"Well then, sir," he said smoothly, gesturing toward her. "Here she is. Sylvie Hartwell—the very girl I spoke of."