The Power of Creation
Copyright© 2026 by Vasantrutu
Chapter 20: Slave
Many trade shops had already been erected by the time we arrived, their colorful canopies fluttering in the breeze. Merchants from every corner of the region had gathered, shouting prices, displaying wares, and drawing in a steadily growing crowd. The air was thick with noise, smells, and restless excitement.
It took us nearly four hours to set up our own stall. Even while the framework was still being raised, people kept approaching us, asking what goods we would be selling. We answered calmly and consistently, repeating the same list until word began to spread on its own. By the time the stall was complete, the crowd around us had doubled.
We arranged the display carefully—ingots laid out in neat rows, crystal shards catching the light, beast cores sealed in reinforced cases, and several specially prepared samples placed at the front. Almost immediately, people surged forward, voices overlapping as they tried to outbid one another.
The commotion grew so intense that we had to raise our hands and call for calm. We explained that what they were seeing were only samples, not the full stock. That alone quieted them slightly. Then we told them the actual quantities we had brought for sale.
Silence fell.
Not the awkward kind, but the heavy, stunned kind—like the moment before a storm breaks. Faces shifted from eagerness to disbelief. After a few heartbeats, the crowd reorganized itself, disciplined by sheer greed and anticipation. We informed them that the full shipment would arrive after the second meal of the day.
No one argued.
As the crowd slowly dispersed to wait, we finally sat down and ate. I had barely turned around after finishing when something unusual caught my eye.
Two figures stood a short distance away, clearly not human.
One was short and broad, with a dense, muscular build and a thick beard braided with metal rings—a dwarf. His eyes were fixed intently on the small display cube of MIVSI, burning with a craftsman’s hunger. Beside him stood a tall, slender figure with sharp features and long silver hair—an elf. Unlike the dwarf, his attention wasn’t on the metals but on the rings worn by several people near our stall.
I stepped forward before either of them could be interrupted.
Picking up the small cube of MIVSI from the display, I held it out to the dwarf.
“Respected sir,” I said politely, “you may examine it more closely if you wish.”
He looked up at me for the first time, his sharp eyes flicking over my face, then nodded once and accepted the cube. From a pouch at his waist, he pulled out a strange handheld device—intricate, compact, and clearly well-used. He brought it close to the metal, peering through it with deep concentration.
A word surfaced in my mind unbidden.
Microscope.
I froze for a fraction of a second, then exhaled quietly and dismissed the thought. Another remnant of a past life—nothing more.
Turning slightly, I summoned an identity ring from the void and offered it to the elf. He accepted it with a graceful inclination of his head, murmuring his thanks. Like the dwarf, he produced a similar device and began inspecting the ring with meticulous care, rotating it slowly as faint light glimmered across its surface.
Neither spoke while they worked.
When they were finished, both returned the items without hesitation. I placed the cube back in its display and returned the ring to the void.
The dwarf was the first to speak.
“What do you call this metal?” he asked, his voice rough but controlled. Then his gaze sharpened. “And may I know your name, Lord?”
I stiffened despite myself.
The surprise must have been obvious on my face, because he chuckled and raised his right hand, turning it so I could see the faintly glowing tattoo etched into his skin—a sigil of recognition and authority.
Understanding dawned instantly.
He hadn’t guessed.
He had seen me.
“Lord, my name is Rowan, and I am the ruler of The Sanctum of the Twelve Dragons. As for the metal—you asked its name—it is called MIVSI. A shortened form of Mana-Infused Void Steel Iron.”
The dwarf studied me for a long moment, his sharp eyes weighing more than my words. Then he nodded slowly, as if arriving at a conclusion he had already suspected.
“Interesting,” he said at last. “Very interesting indeed. Would you be open to a joint venture, Lord Rowan? And for formality’s sake—my name is King Brodrik Ironvein.”
Before I could respond, the elf stepped forward, inclining his head with a grace that felt ancient.
“And I am King Aelthar Sylvarion.”
The weight of those names settled over the space like a held breath.
“Then, my lords,” I said, recovering quickly, “please—come inside. We can speak freely over a cup of ale. Conducting such discussions in the open tends to attract unnecessary attention.”
They immediately understood my meaning and followed without question.
I gestured for Varun and Selene to accompany me and led everyone behind the stall, where the tent’s rear brushed against the outer wall. With a thought, I opened a portal. Cool air rushed outward as space folded, and I ushered our guests through.
In an instant, we stood within the village meeting area.
The Core Head and several elders were seated there, deep in conversation. The moment we emerged, every voice died mid-sentence. Eldric Thorne’s eyes locked onto the two figures behind me—and for a heartbeat, the man froze.
Then his composure shattered.
Tears welled up instantly as he surged forward. To my utter shock, all three men rushed toward one another and collided in a fierce embrace, laughing and choking back sobs at the same time.
I had never—never—seen the Core Head cry.
Uncertain, I chose not to interrupt and quietly took a seat nearby. The room filled with overlapping voices, half-spoken memories, hands gripping shoulders as if afraid the others might vanish again.
After several minutes, they finally separated, wiping their eyes, still smiling like boys reunited after a lifetime.
I cleared my throat gently.
“I apologize for interrupting,” I said, “but ... what exactly is going on?”
The Core Head inhaled deeply before answering, his voice unsteady but warm.
“We were an adventuring party in our youth. A damned good one. Brothers in all but blood.” He glanced at the two kings beside him. “We lost contact when their villages were attacked—Ironspine and Verdant Maw struck simultaneously.”
Aelthar picked up the story, his voice calm but edged with old pain.
“Most of our people were slaughtered or captured in that conflict. Those who survived went into hiding. We remained scattered until the High Council of the Lands intervened. As compensation, they granted us territory in the far northern mountains. The elves reclaimed the forests above, while the dwarves took refuge within the mountains themselves.”
I frowned slightly. “Forgive my ignorance, but ... what exactly is the High Council of the Lands?”
This time, Brodrik answered, his voice hardening.
“It is a council formed by the kings of all capital kingdoms. And understand this, Lord Rowan—many dwarves and elves are present at this festival even now.” His fists clenched. “Not as guests. As goods. Brought here every year to be sold.”
A bitter smile crossed his face.
“Every year, we try to buy our people back. And every year, the humans refuse to sell them to us.”
The silence that followed was heavy—charged with grief, anger, and something far more dangerous.
Opportunity.
And justice.
I let out a long sigh and rose to my feet.
“Welcome to The Sanctum of the Twelve Dragons,” I said calmly. “Rest here for now. We will speak again after the festivities conclude.”
With that, I opened a portal to leave—but both kings moved at once, their expressions tightening as the same unspoken question surfaced in their eyes.
Their people.
Before either of them could speak, the Core Head laughed—an odd, knowing sound—and waved a dismissive hand. “Leave that matter to Rowan,” he said lightly. “You’ll understand soon enough.”
That was all it took.
I stepped through the portal.
Back in Ironspine, Selene caught up to me almost immediately. Her eyes narrowed the moment she saw my expression.
“What are you planning?” she asked quietly.
I didn’t stop walking.
“You don’t want to know,” I replied. “Just trust me—and endure what comes next.”
She studied my face for a second longer, then nodded. Without another word, she darted back into the camp and relayed instructions.
By the time I returned, the Spatial Tortoise had arrived.
The effect was immediate.
Within three hours, every single item we brought was sold. Ingots vanished. Shards changed hands faster than they could be counted. Even the low-grade MIVSI—which I had expected to linger—was purchased outright by a master blacksmith with shaking hands.