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Instead of their usual clean clothes, both wore shabby outfits, flipping through thick books with utmost seriousness as they mixed the reagents.

Suddenly, Siris exclaimed with wide eyes, “Oh? You shouldn’t mix that now!”

“Huh?”

Her warning came a tad too late. Repenhardt was already tilting the test tube, causing red liquid to fall onto a green ore.

Boom!

A mild explosion followed, filling the area with black smoke. Siris coughed, waving away the smoke.

“Oh, Repenhardt! It exploded after all!”

“Why did it explode?”

Repenhardt scratched his head. Despite the explosion, there was no reaction from outside the basement. Explosions in a mage’s laboratory were so common that the dwarf soldiers guarding outside the mage tower didn’t even bat an eye.

‘Ah, His Majesty has caused another explosion?’

‘Why does he always do this after each experiment?’

‘I don’t know, mages live like that’

In the midst of the smoky aftermath, Siris’s continuous scolding was like rapid gunfire.

“How could you mix flame grass extract with Sidam? I told you not to do that!”

She began to scold him more intensely, hands on her hips, while Repenhardt rubbed his palms together guiltily.

“Sorry… It seemed like it would work, well.”

“You said the same thing yesterday and it exploded right away!”

-Whine

Repenhardt turned into a scolded puppy, sneakily glancing around. Eventually, Siris couldn’t help but chuckle at his behavior.

‘Ah, why is this person so adorable despite his age!’

It’s worth noting that women’s standards for cuteness are significantly different from men’s. In fact, it’s an area completely incomprehensible to men. Siris genuinely found the dejected middle-aged man cute and chuckled, pulling out a handkerchief.

“Come here. Your face is all black.”

“Umm…….”

Repenhardt, feigning indifference, allowed his face to be cleaned by her. As he submitted to her care, he frowned.

“But when will you stop calling me ‘sir’? Can’t you just call me by my name?”

Repenhardt’s complaint was met with Siris shaking her head modestly.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

Siris did not answer. She simply smiled gently at her bewildered lover. Her smile was so beautiful that Repenhardt forgot his complaints. Just the affectionate look directed at him was enough to satisfy everything.

The one he loved was right in front of him.

The one he had longed for was right before his eyes.

Her face was much younger than he remembered, but still, there wasn’t a single unfamiliar feature about her.

Yet, that cold voice was all too strange.

“So, you’re my new master.”

Having finished a fight at the call of the slave trader, Siris was looking at Repenhardt with a cold gaze. Though seemingly indifferent, her eyes deep down held boundless contempt. He looked down at her with regret.

“Ah…”

The image of her from his past life overlaid in his mind, causing a cold wind to blow through his heart. She had never looked at him with such eyes before. Despite the overwhelming longing that finally brought his lover before him, she only glared at him as if he were a disgusting bug.

“How much must she have suffered…”

Deciding he needed to take Siris away, Repenhardt caught the slave trader’s cautiously posed question.

“Will you purchase this girl?”

“Of course!”

The slave trader looked even more puzzled at the firm response. Honestly, this elf girl, with her many flaws and dirty clothes, didn’t seem like something that would incite a desire to buy. Yet, his attitude was so decisive.

‘Truly, a pervert is different in every way.’

Pervert or not, he was a valuable customer. Especially one that took some stock clearance off his hands! The slave trader’s face brightened.

He respectfully bowed.

“That will be 300 gold coins.”

In truth, it was 200 gold coins, but seeing how smitten the customer seemed with Slayer 148, he couldn’t resist the temptation to make a little extra.

Standing by, Sillan was surprised and asked,

“Only 300 gold coins? That’s incredibly cheap, isn’t it?”

“Well, it’s not exactly prime merchandise. I’m selling it because the customer insists, but I wouldn’t recommend it myself.”

The slave trader answered surprisingly honestly. He was a merchant who adhered to his own code of ethics. Though he had sneakily added an extra 100 gold coins, the value of an item truly does vary from person to person, and charging more to someone who truly wants it is the true way of commerce.

Of course, Repenhardt wasn’t concerned about the amount at all. He just wanted to get Siris out of there as quickly as possible.

“I’ll take her with me.”

The slave trader, seemingly remembering something as he hurried, asked, “Ah, shall I call a priest? Of course, we should take care of removing any blemishes…”

To provide the best elves, the Elvenheim Auction House had a long-term contract with the Neptune Order, which worshiped Nephyrias, the goddess of the sea and embrace. Upon calling, they would immediately come to thoroughly heal the injuries of Slayer 148.

Originally, they hadn’t bothered with treatment, thinking the product unsellable. But now that it was sold, it was only right as a merchant to provide the best quality possible.

“No need!”

However, Repenhardt immediately refused. He wanted nothing from this filthy place. After all, with Sillan there, healing wounds was hardly an issue.

Repenhardt turned to look at Siris. His cold expression softened remarkably. He called out to her with a gentle voice, “Let’s go.”

“Yes.”

With eyes that had lost hope in everything, she followed behind Repenhardt.

Repenhardt’s group quickly left the Elvenheim Auction House. They dashed out as if fleeing, to the extent that Sillan grumbled about why they were in such a hurry.

Stepping out onto the street, they finally seemed to come to their senses. Repenhardt caught his breath.

“Phew…”

Though he didn’t show it, he was actually enraged the moment he saw Siris. Seeing her injured and bleeding, his blood boiled to the top of his head, blinding him with anger. For a moment, his fist even moved about 10 centimeters. Had it moved 30 centimeters more, the slave trader would have been headless. It was only his years of experience that allowed him to regain his composure, narrowly avoiding a massacre.

But now, out in the cold air, his mind cleared significantly. He turned to look at Siris. Rushed out in her bloodied and tattered state, she looked miserable.

“Sillan, could you please do some healing?”

“I’m already on it.”

Sillan replied brusquely. Siris, now fully healed, looked noticeably more comfortable, though she was still trembling slightly. Repenhardt momentarily puzzled, then realized, ‘Ah, she must be feeling the cold now.’

Elves, living in harmony with nature, typically do not feel heat or cold, but that is the story of fairies living in the forest and masters of spirit magic. Siris, having lived as a slave, had not yet acquired such skills.

Repenhardt immediately took off his coat for her.

“It must be cold, I’m sorry. For now, wear this at least.”

Internally, Siris sneered. Was she expected to tremble with gratitude because her master had deigned to offer a slave his worn clothes? She knew exactly what was expected of her, but she had no intention of playing along.

She would act as a slave should. However, she resolved not to live with the heart of one. With that determination, she promptly reached out, took the coat, and draped it over herself. She had complied immediately, just as a slave would.

‘Seems like he’s trying to show off in this cold, let’s see how long he keeps it up.’

Yet, surprisingly, this new, well-built owner didn’t seem to feel the cold at all, despite only wearing a simple woolen top in the biting frost as if it were merely a spring breeze. His expression showed nothing but contentment that Siris was no longer cold.

‘Is he really not cold?’

To call it pretense seemed wrong; there wasn’t a hint of goosebumps on his skin. Siris slightly stuck out her tongue. Leading the way, Repenhardt said, “Let’s go buy some clothes first.”

The three of them moved towards the commercial district. The cold wind quickened their pace. Truthfully, the cold hastened the steps of Sillan and Siris, while Repenhardt walked as usual. The difference in their leg lengths meant their walking speed was now aligned.

As they walked, Repenhardt suddenly asked, “You don’t have a name yet, do you?”

“Yes.”

She had been returned three times and had once been given a name, but she had long since erased it from her memory.

“Um, how about… Siris?”

“My name is Siris, then. Understood.”

Siris nodded curtly, her face somehow appearing displeased, causing Repenhardt to cautiously observe her reaction.

“Is it okay? Do you like it?”

“……?”

Siris looked at Repenhardt as if she didn’t understand. What did it matter to a slave whether they liked their name or not? Was he suggesting he would change it if she didn’t like it?

“My name is Siris, I’ll remember that.”

Repenhardt was anxious about her still cold demeanor. Was that her way of saying she liked the name? Ah, understanding women’s hearts, be it in a past life or this one, remains a challenge!

Regardless, since there was no strong objection, he named her as he had in his ‘past life’.

“Then from now on, you are Siris Valencia.”

In his previous life, she had been profoundly moved by this moment. There was no owner in the world who would give a slave a surname. However, the current Siris merely looked indifferent.

“A surname is unnecessary for a slave. Is it perhaps your surname?”

“No, it’s a surname meant for you.”

“……?”

She couldn’t grasp what he meant. A flicker of curiosity arose, but Siris quickly dismissed it. After all, she was certain this man would return her in a few days, irritated and frustrated. There was no reason to invest interest in someone irrelevant.

Repenhardt, gesturing towards himself and Sillan, continued softly, “I’m Repenhardt. This is Sillan, and a priest of Philanence.”

“Understood.”

Siris nodded curtly, her face expressionless.

The owner of the Elvenheim Auction House, Rakus, was engaging in what he considered the most enjoyable part of his day, counting the gold coins in his safe. The elf slave business required a significant initial investment, but the returns were enormous. Though the start was tough, once on track, failure was virtually impossible.

‘Unless all men in the world become eunuchs or saints.’

Having become the 14th successor and owner of the auction house within a tradition spanning 300 years, Rakus felt his life was blissful. He had heard that the ancestors who started the auction house faced many hardships, but having inherited the business comfortably, he had no such troubles.

No matter how noble the teachings spread by various orders, men of the world never become saints. Thus, his business would thrive eternally!