The carriage stopped. The sensation of Zahal pulling the reins transmitted through the canvas cover. The third morning. When they passed through the city gates of Helda, the single word the guard uttered—"[cold]Vinkla Trading Company, huh. Pass through."—was the first voice in this city. Aria sat huddled on the floor of the cargo bed, her knees drawn up. The morning light slipping through the gaps in the cover swayed faintly in the dusty air. Her deep brown eyes, not chasing the light, simply remained open. (A city.) Japanese murmured in her mind. She tried to recall the bustle she'd once heard in front of a Tokyo station. But the image wouldn't form clearly. The sounds in her memory had already lost their shape. The clatter of hooves against cobblestones echoed rhythmically. Zahal was humming on the driver's seat. That cheerful tune stirred a revulsion that crawled across Aria's skin. The words he'd uttered last night at the inn, sweat dripping onto her body, still clung deep inside her ears. "[cold]Merchandise, you see, sells for the highest price just before it breaks." Just before it breaks. Aria stared at her own hands. Thin, bony fingers. The oral techniques she'd polished at the Greive estate were her only weapon in this world. But after two days of being toyed with by Zahal, even that pride felt fragile now. The carriage jolted heavily over a seam in the cobblestones. The cover swayed, offering a glimpse of the outside scenery. The stone mansions of the noble district gleamed white in the sunlight. Walls of hewn stone, heavy wooden doors, well-tended flowers adorning the windowsills. The clothing of the people walking the streets was fine—women in dyed long dresses, men in leather boots. (People like that probably never buy slaves.) Those who bought slaves were low-ranking nobles like Greive, or others of a different sort entirely. Aria followed the scenery with hollow eyes. As the carriage advanced southeast, the buildings began to change. The stone walls soon gave way to shoddy wooden structures, black stains creeping across their surfaces. The two-story mansions vanished, replaced by single-story houses huddled together as if for warmth. Emaciated children sitting on the roadside. Beggars' hands reaching toward the carriage. "[cold]Damn beggars. Ruining the view." She heard the mutter from the driver's seat. Aria lowered her eyes. (It's like the shopping district in East Osaka.) For an instant, she thought that. But that memory—the sight of the lively arcade street near her family home—quickly blurred. The sheer disconnect between the fact of what had been done to her in the cargo bed just two days ago and the placidly bustling market scene only deepened the numbness of her senses. A delusion, as if reality lay beyond a thin membrane. As the carriage moved further, the air changed. The smell of alcohol mingled with the cloying sweetness of cheap perfume, flowing in through the gaps in the cover. Aria lifted her head. Noir Street. Despite it being daytime, women stood in front of several brothels. Gaudy red dresses, exposed cleavage, thickly applied rouge. They raised their voices toward the men walking the street. "[excited]Hey there, sir, why not stop by? We've got some nice girls!" "[gentle]I'll give you a deal today. How about two silver coins?" Sweet voices. Coquettish gestures. But Aria looked at their eyes. They were smiling, but their eyes weren't. Eyes stripped of emotion, merely appraising the men on the street mechanically. As if they had severed their very feelings to protect themselves— (The same eyes as mine.) Nausea welled up in Aria. A sharp, twisting pain gnawed at the pit of her stomach. The premonition that she would soon become like them stroked her spine with cold fingers. Her delicate shoulders trembled faintly. "[cold]The Crimson Boudoir is mid-tier, but the clientele isn't bad. You'll probably last three years." Zahal's voice, as if talking to himself, drifted down from the driver's seat. Three years. Aria's throat made a faint, whistling sound. Three years, every single day. Strange men sweating over her body, expelling their desires, and leaving. Three years of repeating that. (Three years...) Japanese murmured in her heart. It wasn't anger. Nor was it sorrow. Just a dull echo, merely ruminating on the meaning of the words. "[whispers]Stop it..." Her lips had moved. But it didn't become a voice. In the first place, she didn't even know who she wanted to stop what. The magic stone on her collar flickered faintly, pale blue. —Before long, the carriage stopped. A three-story stone building marked by a red door. The signboard read "The Crimson Boudoir." A mid-tier brothel situated midway down Noir Street. From deep within the building, faint moans of pleasure leaked out. Through the walls, the rough breathing of men and the shrill voices of women mingled together. From multiple rooms, simultaneously. A stale, sour air enveloped the entire building. It was different from serving a single master in a private estate. This place—was a place that systematically consumed human beings. Aria's knees trembled. Zahal opened the cargo bed door and grabbed Aria's arm. His thick fingers dug into her slender upper arm. "[cold]We're here, young lady. This is your new workplace." He dragged her down by force. Her bare feet touched the cobblestones, and the cold crept up from the soles of her feet. Aria stumbled, made to stand before the red door. Right beside the door, a thin, middle-aged man with a ledger in hand was waiting. He was a servant of the Crimson Boudoir, apparently. Zahal peered into the ledger, tracing the figures with his finger. "[cold]The transfer from Lord Greive. Number 43. No issues with the merchandise's condition. ...Well, she's a bit too thin, but you can sort that out on your end." Number. 43. Aria kept her head down, biting her lip softly. The moment she was called by a number instead of a name, a sensation as if all the blood in her body chilled ran beneath her collar. (I'm Number 43.) The Japanese murmur echoed in the depths of her heart. It wasn't mockery, nor despair. It was a hollow echo, like a mere confirmation of fact. Zahal received the ledger and signed it with a quill pen. While waiting for the ink to dry, he grabbed Aria's chin one last time. "[cold]If you want to live long here, don't think unnecessary thoughts. That collar will teach you that thinking's nothing but a waste." It was a low voice. A sneer floated on his lips, but his eyes weren't laughing. The calculation of a merchant was there. If the merchandise broke too soon, there'd be no profit. Aria silently dropped her gaze. (As if I could resist from the very beginning.) Zahal tucked the ledger into his breast pocket and returned to the driver's seat. The reins were flicked, and the sound of hooves began to echo again. Aria listened silently to the sound fading into the distance. From the known hell of the Greive estate to a completely unknown hell—the transfer was complete. There was no one to protect her. "[cold]This way." Urged by the servant, Aria stepped through the red door. —The interior was dim, relying solely on the light of oil lamps. From the hall on the first floor, despite it being daytime, the laughter of men and the coquettish cries of women could be heard. Through the corridor walls, from another room, came rough breathing and the rhythmic creaking of a bed. A stale, sour smell. Air thick with sweat, alcohol, and bodily fluids. Aria followed the servant deeper into the first floor. She was led to a narrow waiting room at the back of the brothel's first floor. A stone-walled room with no windows. A single oil lamp burned, providing just enough light to barely distinguish faces. Stains bloomed on the walls, and the air was damp. Inside the room, three women were already seated on chairs. None of them looked at Aria. One stared at the floor with vacant eyes. Another gazed absently at the dirt under her fingernails. The third leaned against the wall, eyes closed. Not one of them exchanged words. Aria sat down in a corner of the room. She leaned her back against the wall. The cold sensation of the stone seeped through her thin dress. She happened to look up. On the wall in front of her hung an old full-length mirror. A large mirror, its silver plating beginning to peel. Her reflection stared back at Aria. The blue shadows running under her eyes. Lips dry and chapped. Gaunt, hollowed cheeks. The corners of her eyes, which should have once borne laugh lines, remained stiff and taut. A face clearly different from three days ago, before she was put on the carriage at the Greive estate. No—perhaps it had already changed even before she boarded the carriage. (Is this... me?) The woman in the mirror had disheveled short black hair and exposed pale skin. A delicate body with prominent collarbones. A flat chest, thin and meager. A body lacking in feminine charm—by this world's standards, of low value. Before the mirror, her old complexes resurfaced. But there was a despair beyond that. (Here—even my oral techniques, everything, just becomes a number.) She had polished her oral skills. That was the only thing she could do to survive. But in this place, every part of her body would be assessed as mere value. Consumed uniformly, as one of many pieces of merchandise. Her efforts, her skills, everything—would become meaningless. Aria averted her eyes from the mirror. In her heart, Japanese murmured. (No one knows anymore.) It bore a different color from the anger or fear of the past. A quiet premonition of resignation—that she would soon no longer be able to remember who she had been. "[cold]Hey, Number 43." The servant's voice rang out. Aria lifted her head. "[cold]Tomorrow morning, Manager Curtis-sama will conduct your assessment. You'll wait here until then. Don't cause trouble. The collar will hurt." Assessment. Being appraised again. Aria nodded silently. Leaning against the wall, she watched the oil lamp's flame flicker. The women around her remained silent as ever. Perhaps words were no longer necessary in this room. This place even stole the energy to exchange them. Leaning against the wall, Aria simply waited for dawn to break. The oil lamp's light flickered faintly, illuminating her gaunt profile. The magic stone on her collar blinked rhythmically, pale blue.