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And when they approached the little house, they saw it was built of bread and covered with cakes, but the windows were of clear sugar. “We will set too work on that,” said Hansel, “and have a good meal. I will eat a bit of the roof, and you Gretel, can eat some of the window, it will taste sweet.” Hansel reached up above, and broke off a little of the roof to try how it tasted, and Gretel leant against the window and nibbled at the panes. Then, a soft voice cried from the parlour.

(omitted)

The old woman, however, nodded her head, and said: “Oh, you dear children, who has brought you here? Do come in, and stay with me. No harm shall happen to you.” She took them both by the hand and led them into her little house. Then good food was set before them, milk and pancakes, with sugar, apples, and nuts.

— Grimm’s Fairy Tales “Hansel and Gretel”

♢♦♢♦♢

—One year ago from Jill’s perspective. At the slave dealership “Candy House” in Cilento Central Capital—

Children around the age of ten, from different backgrounds and races, were playing freely in the courtyard of a tasteful white-brick mansion, kicking balls, chasing one another, or drawing on the ground.

From the covered corridor, the scene looked like something you’d see anywhere—ordinary, even cheerful—but it was so unexpected to see it in such a place that Luke, Emilia, Pryui, and I all stood frozen in disbelief.

Lana shrank behind me, clinging to the hem of my skirt, unable to raise her face. Then, as if puzzled by our behavior, Chaton turned to us, twitching her little nose.

“Nyanyanya. Don’t just stand there with your mouths hanging open like fools. Prince Charming looks cool doing it, but the rest of you look like your faces collapsed in a mudslide. It’s hilarious, nya.”

Naturally skilled at getting under people’s skin, Chaton’s comment made us scowl and scramble to fix our expressions.

Even so, we couldn’t quite shake off the shock. Still dazed, we turned questioning eyes toward Chaton.

“Surprised, nya? Here, the children are taught reading, writing, math, and basic knowledge. Starting at ten, they’re trained in specialized skills suited to their aptitudes so they can choose a profession, nya.”

“That’s… just like a mix of Sunday school and vocational training…! If that’s true, then they’d receive the treatment you’d expect from a middle-class household. Is this really a slave dealership? Are those children actually slaves!?”

Luke demanded confirmation, incredulous.

“Of course they are, nya. See they all got Stigma collars around their necks? But those aren’t for preventing escape or rebellion, they’re used in place of ID papers for unregistered children, nya.”

Now that she mentioned it, all the children wore the same type of collar as Lana.

Wearing one of those technically classifies you not as a ‘slave,’ but as a ‘free laborer.’ Unlike exiles or orphaned slum children who can’t even enter cities, these collars serve as an effective way to certify a minimum social status.

With that in mind, I began to think, maybe the master of this mansion is actually a decent person… only for the briefest moment, however.

“Hmph. I believe there’s a saying amongst you Beans—‘Fatten the pig before you slaughter it.’ I suppose this place is a pig farm for slaves, then.”

Pryui, who had snapped back to reality, scowled bitterly as she watched the elf-mixed children on the far end of the garden practicing with toy bows.

“Yeah… They’re trying to raise their market value to sell them for a higher price,” Emilia said softly, turning her pained gaze from the innocent children to the shrinking Lana, who definitely didn’t get terrified of me who had gone completely silent and was quietly switching into combat mode at the mention of “pig” and “pig farm.”

“Well, that side of it is true too, nya. The master is a merchant who turns a profit, after all. But you’ll get the full story faster if you ask him yourself. Come on, let’s go already, nya.”

Chaton pointed ahead down the corridor and began walking off briskly. Reluctantly, we tore ourselves away from the scene and followed her.

♢♦♢♦♢

The mahogany door opened silently, as if it had been meticulously maintained, revealing a tastefully furnished reception room beyond.

In the center of the room, which was fully carpeted in red, sat a set of black leather sofas and an oakwood table. Along the walls stood shelves decorated with wine bottles and intricate Eastern vases, as well as a row of bookshelves.

“Welcome.”

As soon as the door opened, a line of women dressed in apron dresses bowed their heads in unison and spoke in perfect chorus.

We all instinctively hesitated at the threshold. No matter how you looked at them, these were well-trained, properly mannered maids.

As the maids parted to either side, a man in his mid-fifties stepped forward, dressed with refined elegance. His hair had probably once been black, but now had turned a striking shade of silver-gray. He had an average build, but his shoulders hinted at a well-trained physique from his younger days, noticeably more developed than the average person.

Though his expression was gentle, an old, twisted scar ran from beneath his left eye down to his cheek, lending him a silent, imposing air that marked him as someone not to be underestimated. There was no mistaking it, this man was the master of the mansion, the one who ran a child-focused slave trade operation in the central capital of Cilento.

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