Chương 8: Chapter 7 – Sell You for Parts

Chelsea blinked at her, bewildered.

"Why? What does it..."

"Ah, there you are!" The king's booming voice shattered the moment like a hammer through glass. Chelsea flinched as he swept into the corridor, a broad smile plastered on his face.

"That outfit really brings it out of you. Very intimidating," he declared, as if she were a finely painted portrait. Adriane smoothed her expression into polite obedience, and Chelsea fell into step beside her, though her stomach was still twisting.

"I have an exciting surprise for you today," the king continued.

"We are teaming up with the local adventurer's guild for your assessment. You'll be matched against three combatants, and some of their senior staff will be here to help determine which direction your class is most suited to go." The trio broke through a tall archway into the open. The dazzling blue sky above hit Chelsea like a slap after the gloom of the corridors. A vast dirt plaza spread out before her, ringed by racks of weapons, straw dummies, and painted targets.

She barely had time to take it in before she noticed the stares. The group of men gathered nearby, guild adventurers by the look of them, turned to watch her enter. Their faces twisted with open disgust. Chelsea's stomach flipped. She was the spectacle. The monster.

"Do I have to fight them?" Chelsea blurted, her words tumbling out in a rush.

"I mean, I have no combat experience. None. I'm just... just an eighteen-year-old girl. Not even an athletic one. I spent all my time studying, not..." she waved a helpless hand at the dirt arena, "... this." The king's expression was calm, almost indulgent, but his words carried no softness.

"I believe this will be the best thing for getting you properly acclimated in this world. It will show you what you are truly capable of. Now, please. Head over to that man there. He will be your proctor and will get you outfitted with a weapon and anything else you might need." Her throat felt tight, but her feet moved anyway. Each step toward the waiting man stretched like a march to her own trial. She had to pass by the cluster of adventurers, their eyes already raking her like knives.

Adriane's hand slipped into hers suddenly, warm and steady. Chelsea blinked up at her. The maid smiled, an expression that was outwardly reassuring, yet beneath it, Chelsea caught a flicker of sharp calculation.

"It will be fine. Come on," Adriane said lightly.

"Oi, Gordo," one of the men called out, loud enough for everyone to hear. His voice was laced with mocking amusement.

"That really is a demon, eh? What's a cute little thing like her doing in the capital?" A second man snorted.

"Thought the bloody vermin were wiped out thirty years ago."

"The guild pays thirty silver per wing," a third announced with a wolfish grin.

"Hey, little demon!" the first jeered, cupping his hands to amplify the sound.

"You let me take those wings, and I'll go easy on you!" Laughter rippled through their group. Chelsea's stomach clenched, her steps faltering. She wanted to shrink, to fold her wings in so tightly they vanished, to stop being the spectacle they all hungered for. Adriane stopped. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head toward the men. She didn't say a word. She didn't raise her voice. She looked. Whatever was in her eyes, Chelsea couldn't see it. But the effect was immediate.

The jeers cut off like a blade had severed them mid-word. The rowdy men shifted in place, shoulders tightening, bravado evaporating into hushed whispers. Chelsea glanced at her attendant.

"What did you do?" she whispered, equal parts nervous and impressed. Adriane's voice was calm, almost bored.

"Nothing special, Miss. Just looked at them." Nothing special? Chelsea thought. Adriane was becoming more and more mysterious by the hour. They reached the proctor without further interruptions.

"Good morning, Adriane, and Miss demon," the burly man greeted in a tone that was almost sing-song, startling in its cheer. His massive frame suggested the kind of man who snapped bones for breakfast, but his voice sounded like it belonged to a street performer entertaining children. The incongruity made Chelsea blink. Wait... did he know Adriane? Adriane gave a slight bow of her head, her composure never cracking.

"Good morning. This is Miss Chelsea. She is the one being assessed." The man's face softened, his eyes warm as they landed on her.

"Good to meet you, Miss Chelsea. So, here's how this works. We're going to start with a basic one-on-one brawl. Nothing too dangerous, just a test of your instincts. You can pick whichever weapon you prefer." He gestured to a long wooden table. Chelsea's eyes swept over the array: swords in different shapes and sizes, daggers, axes both single- and double-sided, several lengths of bow staves, and, most alarmingly, a wooden hammer that looked like it could still shatter bone. She wet her lips nervously.

"I've never used a weapon before. Which one is good for... someone new?" Her voice was small, hesitant. The man's brows shot up.

"You... really? Never?" He scratched his head, baffled.

"Adriane can..." A small shake of the maid's head cut him off cleanly. The proctor stopped mid-sentence, his confusion flickering into something unreadable. Chelsea stood there, cheeks warming, staring at the weapons like they were puzzles she hadn't been given the rules for.

"For a first weapon, try out a short sword," the proctor said, reaching for one. He passed it over and she took it as if it were some fragile relic. The man sighed helplessly.

"First rule: even with training swords, don't grab a sword by the blade." He stepped away, every move measured, the kind of economy that spoke of real practice. This man was a warrior, not one of the jeering thugs. Then his voice changed, deepened until it resonated in her gut.

"Judd!" he barked. The name landed like a command.

"You're first up. Rules are simple: no abilities, no spells. Duel with weapons and body parts only. Fight ends when one combatant can't continue. Follow me." The man who had joked about her wings swaggered forward, hammer strapped to his back, sneer fixed. Chelsea followed the proctor out, Adriane staying behind like a sentinel fifty yards off. The clearing was small, bare dirt circled by a few onlookers. It felt suddenly enormous.

"Remember, Judd, no abilities." The proctor's voice softened as he turned to her.

"That goes for you as well. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Chelsea answered. Her throat was tight and her hands were trembling against the short sword's hilt. Why was she here? This wasn't a lesson. This was a forced lesson in survival. Judd danced right, grinning.

"Hypothetically, guildmaster," he called, loud and careless, "if I accidentally rip off a wing or two, I can turn those in, right?" Laughter rippled around the ring. The proctor's jaw tightened but he remained silent, eyes steady on Chelsea. Chelsea tried to calm herself. She took lazy practice swings, trying to remember the basics she'd once seen in a movie, stance, grip, edge alignment.

Her stance felt wrong in this new body; her feet kept wanting to overstep, her balance stubborn as if the tail had its own opinion. Still, she closed the distance, measuring the man's reach. Judd strolled forward, wearing confidence like armor. Chelsea readied her footwork and tightened her grip. One cut across midsection, she thought. He doubles, I go for the head. It was a plan, simple and human. She launched herself. Her swing was full of desperate intent, knuckles burning where they wrapped the hilt.

For a beat she actually thought she'd landed, then Judd sidestepped. Not a dramatic dodge, no cinematic twirl, just a bracer tapping her blade at the right angle, redirecting the momentum up and away. The sword flipped. Air snapped past her face. Before she could recover, Judd's front kick drove into her stomach with a clean, bone-clenching impact that launched her backward. She tasted dirt and metal at the back of her throat. The wind left her, thin and shallow, her ribs heaving as the world tilted.

Judd laughed, an ugly, triumphant sound. He sauntered over and, with blatant disregard, used her own fallen weapon to shove the side of her head. Pain skittered across her temple.

"This is beyond pathetic," he said with a sneer. He snapped her sword across his knee with casual ease, dropping the halves in front of her like discarded trash. Chelsea forced herself upright on trembling arms. Her body wanted to curl and stay down, but she couldn't, not with all those eyes watching. She pushed forward again, grabbing a loose rock. Judd smirked.

"Oh, feisty," he mocked. He stepped in close. She swung wildly with the stone, but he slid aside, caught her wrist, and twisted until she cried out and dropped it. With the same motion, he slammed his elbow into her shoulder, spinning her off balance. She stumbled, and he swept her legs. The dirt rushed to meet her face, dust scratching her eyes and mouth. Her body screamed from the impact, but Judd wasn't done. He planted a boot between her shoulder blades, pinning her down as easily as holding down a stray dog.

"Stay down, demon," he said, pressing harder. She squirmed, but her limbs felt like lead. Then, cruelly, he let her up, only to strike again with a boot to the side of her head. Finally, she staggered to her feet, raising her fists now, since she had nothing else. Judd let her throw two desperate punches. He caught both with open palms, his expression one of mock boredom, then drove his forehead into hers. Stars burst across her vision. Chelsea reeled backward, clutching at her face, knees trembling.

Her heart thundered, panic clawing at the edges of her thoughts. He circled her like a cat with a cornered mouse, swatting at her arms, shoving her shoulder, striking her ribs, not enough to cripple, just enough to hurt, to wear her down and make her understand how powerless she was. By the time her knees buckled again, she was coughing dust and red saliva, her whole body aching. Judd crouched, closing the distance until his face was inches from hers. The smell of sweat and stale ale hit her.

He looked her up and down with a slow, consuming appraisal, the kind meant to humiliate.

"Damn," he said softly, almost with admiration.

"You really are something to behold. Shame I'll have to sell you for parts." Heat rushed to her face. People say words can sometimes hit like a physical force. This was the first time Chelsea had experienced that. Sell her for parts? It was supposed to be a joke, but it hung in the air with an air of truth. Her limbs trembled; humiliation and terror braided tight in her chest. A plan, stupid and raw, rose in her mind, an animal, pleading thing. It was the only move left that wasn't violence.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Tears welled, hot and immediate. She forced them out.

"Please," she hiccupped. The sound tore from her, small and useless.

"I... I can't help how I look. I don't want to be here." Her plea came raw and ragged into the bright air, swallowed in the hush that fell as mouths parted and a few of the nearby watchers shifted uneasily. As she knelt there, breath shuddering, Judd's squat over her felt like the final verdict, the world looking down and deciding what to do with what he'd found. The look on Judd's face didn't soften; if anything, it sharpened. His sneer carried the same ugly promise.

Chelsea's shoulders sagged, her head drooping like she had finally accepted the inevitable.

"It's nothing personal," he muttered, voice thick with cruelty.

"I was just promised I'd get to rank up for doing this jo..." Chelsea didn't wait for him to finish. She launched herself forward, horns flashing into view with a snap of instinct. The impact came hard and sickening, one horn sliding harmlessly off bone, the other puncturing something softer, wetter. The scream that tore out of Judd's throat was animal. Chelsea barely registered it. She was moving, acting before thinking.

Her hand seized the broken stub of her sword, and before her eyes it stitched itself whole, as if it had never snapped. She drove it down at his other eye. He tried, fumbling, to block, but shock had stolen his speed. Only his fingers reached in time, and the faux-blunt wood still sank through socket like a perfect key into a lock. Another scream, higher pitched, broken. He thrashed, rolling, and Chelsea was flung aside, chest heaving, hands shaking.

Judd clawed blindly at his ruined face, knees under him as he bellowed and wailed. Adrenaline and terror fused into one directive: finish it. Her body moved on its own. She tore the hammer free from the strap across his back and, in one clean overhead arc, like some carnival bell-ringer game, she slammed it into the back of his skull. The sound was wrong. Too final. Too heavy. Judd collapsed face-first into the dirt, a twitch running through him before stillness took hold.

Chelsea dropped down too, not from choice but because her legs folded. Tears rushed, hot and blinding, as sobs wracked her chest. Voices shouted all around her, angry, panicked, horrified, but they were muffled, drowned beneath the roar of her own crying. Through blurry vision she saw the guildmaster pinning one of Judd's friends, while farther back Adriane stood like a wall, keeping the others at bay. Chelsea curled over her knees. She had killed him. A person.

Not a monster, not some mindless beast, someone who had spoken, laughed, taunted. Sure, he had tried to kill her. Sure, he would have followed through. But that didn't make the hammer blow any cleaner. It didn't erase the fact that she'd chosen to strike that hard, that deliberately. Fantasy novels had always brushed past this part. Heroes killed because they had to, and the story moved on. But there was no moving on here. There was blood in the dirt and a man who would never breathe again.

And the worst part wasn't the act. It was the feeling afterward. The gore didn't make her gag. It didn't make her retch like she'd expected. On the contrary, her body leaned toward it. The blood glistening on her horn caught her attention. Her tongue twitched against her teeth. She imagined just brushing her fingers against it and tasting, metallic, rich, full. This wasn't an intrusive thought. It was an urge. A steady pulse inside her that whispered it would feel good, that it was natural.

Not cannibalism, she argued with herself desperately. I'm not human anymore. He's not my kind. The thought horrified her even more than the killing itself.

"Stop it, Chelsea!" she hissed aloud, her voice cracking. She clutched her head, rocking. She only realized afterward that the sobbing had stopped, her tears had dried somewhere between horror and hunger. When she finally lifted her gaze, she saw the guildmaster still holding back Judd's friend. The man wasn't fighting anymore; his head was bowed, tears streaking his face as he wept openly for his fallen comrade. To them, Chelsea realized, this was just supposed to be a job. An easy rank-up.

Kill the baby demon, celebrate afterward. She let herself fall back onto the dirt. Her fingers tightened unconsciously on the hammer's handle, until she noticed she was still gripping it. She let go, letting it drop beside her with a heavy thud. She sat there, empty, staring at nothing, waiting for the fury of the scene to burn itself out. Her eyes drifted downward, catching the shape pressed into the dirt on her tunic, a boot print. His boot.

She touched the spot lightly, her ribs aching from the memory of his kick. Almost without thinking, she flicked her vision open, searching for comfort in the status screen. Blank. No health bar. No mana bar. Nothing to measure how close she had come to dying. Just her body, bruised and hollow. She brushed dust from her tunic with jittery hands.

"Are you alright, miss?" Adriane's voice cut through like sunlight breaking storm clouds. Chelsea jumped, startled, and looked up. The maid, her maid, the only person she trusted, was kneeling close, eyes scanning her body with unusual intensity.

"Anything broken?" Adriane pressed, voice calm but edged with tension. Chelsea remained still.

"No, I... I don't think so." Her voice was flat, empty. Then, as her eyes searched Adriane's face, a question broke out of her, unfiltered.

"Hey, Adriane... what's your deal? Those adventurers are afraid of you. The guildmaster listens to you. You're not just some random servant living in the castle, are you?" Adriane held out her hands to pull Chelsea up, and she grabbed on.

"Sorry, miss, but that is a story for another day." Her grip lingered for just a moment, steadying Chelsea before she leaned in close.

"Amazing job with the first one, but don't grow an ego now. The other two are stronger, and you royally pissed one of them off." Chelsea blew out a shaky breath. Her body still trembled from the last fight, adrenaline not yet burned away.

"I had to do something. I couldn't just let him kill me. He was so much stronger than me." Saying it out loud felt like justification, but also confession.

"What was that sword trick you did?" Adriane asked suddenly. Chelsea blinked at her, brain stalling.

"Uh." She continued to stare, her expression a mix of guilt and confusion.

"Elaborate?"

"He broke your weapon. You fixed it instantly." Adriane's voice was calm, but her eyes were sharp and searching.

"I've seen high-level magic mend weapons, but never instantaneously, and never mid-attack." Chelsea's lips curved into a lopsided smirk.

"You've seen high-level magic?" She raised her brows, as though she'd just teased loose a secret. It was petty, but the tiniest victory.

"Chelsea, I'm serious," Adriane whispered, cutting off the playfulness. She pulled out a cloth and, with surprising gentleness, grabbed one of Chelsea's horns to wipe it clean. The motion made Chelsea freeze, she wasn't used to anyone touching them yet, but Adriane's touch was fearful. Just practical. Almost... caring.

"That wasn't something a level one can do," Adriane continued. Her voice had shifted from attendant's formality to an older sister's scolding firmness.

"That had to be something to do with your enhancement." Chelsea's smirk faded. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing at her upper arms like she needed the pressure.

"I don't think so. I know what it does." Her voice faltered. She looked away, avoiding Adriane's sharp gaze.

"It just makes clothes fit me better." Adriane stilled, cloth still resting against Chelsea's horn.

"... Chelsea." The disappointment in her voice stung.

"I can't help you if you keep things from me." She sighed and released her, suddenly all brisk efficiency again.

"It has to do something el..." Adriane cut herself short, pivoting mid-sentence.

"And if you need a clean tunic, I can run back to the castle to fetch you one." Her sudden subject change was timed too perfectly. Someone was approaching. Heavy footsteps crunched across the dirt.

"Miss Chelsea," the proctor called as he drew near, his voice low and grave. His eyes slid past her to the mutilated body of Judd, and he let out a sigh like gravel grinding.

"Your next match is about to start. He's quite upset beyond reason. Understandably so, you just killed his little brother." Brother. Chelsea's stomach turned, shame and dread swirling together. She wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came. The proctor's gaze shifted to Adriane.

"Head back to the waiting area." Adriane nodded once, clipped and obedient. She started walking away without protest, but Chelsea's eyes followed her retreating back, suspicion gnawing at her. She leaned closer to the proctor, dropping her voice to a near whisper.

"Hey, who is she exactly?" He looked down at her, weighing the question carefully. His pause stretched just long enough to make Chelsea's nerves twitch. Finally, he said, "She's on your side. That's all that matters." His tone left no room for negotiation.

"If she tells you to do something, or not to do something... follow directions." Kira"I will kill all of you!" Kira screamed, hoarse with anger as the lieutenant let the cell gate clang shut. The metal echo bounced down the corridor and made her teeth sing.

"Recruit, this is getting out of hand," he replied, voice flat, trying to sound placating.

"Step closer and repeat that!" she burst, fury scorching her tone. Red prickled behind her eyes; she tasted iron at the back of her throat. The lieutenant only gave a half-shrug and began to walk away.

"What does the Lord Commander see in you?" he muttered under his breath as he departed.

"Get back here, you coward!" Kira shouted after him, breath stuttering.

"Luke only bested me because he resorted to underhanded tactics!" Her voice rolled, raw and echoing, down the arched stone corridor. It was unfair. The corridor smelled of old sweat and dust, ordinary things for a brig, but they felt like mortar sealing her in. While the other knights were weathered adults, Kira, at thirteen, was a lithe bundle of muscle and fury. She ought to have been respected for it; instead they treated her like a nuisance, like a pet you scolded and locked away.

She had been bound into slavery, yes, but she had the heart of a knight. Even a knight who was a slave deserved a scrap of dignity. She swore, quiet and sharp, that one day she would have the last laugh. She pictured herself standing above them, their mouths closed when her name was spoken with reverence. She'd be the one issuing orders, maybe even to that pompous Lord Commander who protected her like a possession. Protection wasn't gratitude. Protection was control, and she refused to be grateful for it.

He had his reasons, he liked the shine of owning something rare, but she would not be his trophy. The cell door clicked open. For a moment the corridor's light seemed to dim, like a storm cloud crossing the sun. He stood there framed in the doorway: the Lord Commander himself, broad-shouldered and burdened by decades of command. He moved with the ease of someone used to people deferring to him.

"Dame Kira," he said, and the title hung between them like a rope, formal, strained, lacking warmth. Kira hunched against the stone, jaw clenched.

"What? You want an explanation from me?" she snapped. Her words were flinty, each syllable dipped in disdain.

"Why don't you go confront that cheat? He executed a double feint just to strike my mending ribs. He knew they were vulnerable."

"That's beside the point," he replied, crossing the corridor in slow, steady strides and dropping into a chair as if it were part of a ritual.

"This marks your third visit here this month. It's unacceptable." The weariness in his voice sounded rehearsed, duty worn thin.

"Then tell my lieutenant to stop tossing me in here every time I express legitimate anger," she shot back.

"Why isn't Sir Luke in here with me? He provoked..."

"Kira," he interrupted, voice flat with command rather than cruelty.

"Enough with the blame game. Others don't control your fury unless you let them." She stared at him. The stone under her fingers was cool and rough, grounding somehow.

"You don't understand, Lord Commander!" she erupted.

"You don't endure daily mockery. For being a slave. For refusing to take a weapon. For carrying the title of dame. For being a child in a world that treats me like a thing. You don't deal with any of that."

"No, I don't," he said quietly. His admission was so calm it was almost a rebuke.

"And will you let those labels define you? Do you want to be remembered as the little slave girl who refused weapons? Or will you be the knight who trains until no one doubts her strength, someone who surpasses the expectations of her birth?" Kira's chest tightened. He spoke like someone handing out theology dressed as advice. His words had the shine of truth if you believed the world was fair. But she did not. No matter how high she climbed, she would remain bound by law and oath and ledger: property with duties.

The chain of ownership didn't vanish simply because she could throw a punch that could knock out a man twice her size. She let his words hang and slid her palms along the cold stone. The corridor hummed with distant clatter, boots, the murmur of other lives, but none of it touched the raw, hot ache inside her. She folded the anger into something smaller, sharper: a strategy. If she could not be free, she would be feared. If they would not grant her respect, she would take it.

"Kira," the Lord Commander said softly, though his voice still carried the weight of iron.

"I say it all the time. I know you never hear me, but maybe today is the day. You and I... we share more similarities than you realize. There's greatness awaiting you, if only you can rein in your fury." His eyes lingered on her, not unkind, but heavy with expectation. She barked out a laugh that wasn't a laugh at all, more a sharp exhale through clenched teeth.

"Right," she retorted, rolling her shoulders as if to shrug off his words. Greatness. Another empty promise. Another leash disguised as praise. The Lord Commander didn't flinch. Instead, he gave a slow, measured nod, the kind of gesture meant to show patience but felt, to Kira, like condescension.

"Today isn't that day," he admitted at last.

"Calm yourself, and I'll arrange for your release in a few hours." He stood, retrieving the chair with deliberate care, dragging it back to its spot outside the cell. The scrape of wood against stone rang louder in the silence than his words had. As he stepped out, the heavy door swung shut. The lock clicked into place with finality.

"Useless," Kira muttered under her breath, venom curling around the word. She pulled her knees up against her chest and pressed her forehead to them, trying to smother the roiling fire inside. The corridor beyond was silent again, but her fury filled every inch of the small cell, restless, waiting.