Reincarnated as the Dragon Who Needed a Harem

Chapter 3 — The Price of a Human Life

POV: Aren

They stripped him before they bathed him.

Not with violence, not with urgency. The attendants moved with practised efficiency, hands impersonal as they removed his outer robe, then the inner layers beneath. Clothing that had once marked him as an Azure Pact disciple was folded away without ceremony, as if it had already lost the right to exist.

Aren stood barefoot on the cold stone as water was poured over him from above. Warm at first, then gradually cooling, washing away sweat, blood, and the faint traces of cultivation that still clung to his skin. Cleansing water, they called it. Purification before contract.

It felt less like preparation and more like erasure.

No one spoke to him. No insults, no explanations. The attendants avoided his eyes as carefully as his former friends had earlier that day. They scrubbed his arms, his shoulders, the base of his throat where the chains rested. When one of them hesitated briefly near his chest, fingers hovering as if sensing something wrong beneath the skin, a supervisor cleared her throat sharply. The hesitation vanished.

When the bath was finished, they dried him and pressed a thin, pale robe into his hands. It was not a disciple’s garment. No insignia. No rank markings. Just cloth, meant to be removed easily.

They chained him again afterwards.

These chains were different from the judgment bindings. Lighter, more intricate. Runes glowed faintly along the links, responding not to strength but to intent. Bond-restraint chains. Designed to prevent resistance during ritual, not escape afterwards.

As they fastened the final clasp around his wrist, the attendant murmured, almost apologetically, “This won’t hurt long.”

Aren did not respond.

They led him out through a side passage and into a wide, torchlit hall beneath the main complex. The air here was heavy with incense and expectation. Rows of stone platforms lined the chamber, each one occupied.

Men. Women. Some young, some older. All dressed the same way he was. All wearing the same light chains. Some stood stiffly, faces blank. Others trembled openly. One woman near the far wall was crying quietly, her shoulders shaking as she stared at the floor.

Aren’s steps slowed.

These were not criminals. Not heretics.

They were resources.

“Bond-compatible outer disciples,” a voice announced from above. “Verified. Stabilized. Ready for assessment.”

Assessment.

Aren was guided to an empty platform near the centre of the hall. As he stepped up, a formation flared beneath his feet, locking him in place. He felt a brief pressure, not painful, as the formation scanned him. Meridian integrity. Core status. Compatibility thresholds.

When it reached his chest, the sensation lingered.

The sealed Dragon Core did not react.

Not even faintly.

A clerk standing nearby frowned, then made a notation on a jade tablet. “Unresponsive core. Mark accordingly.”

The supervisor nodded. “Brand him.”

The word landed heavily.

Two attendants approached with a heated seal, its surface etched with overlapping sigils. Aren recognised the pattern. He had studied it once, back when martial arts had been theoretical knowledge instead of a personal sentence.

Bond-compatible mark.

They pressed it to the inside of his forearm.

Pain flared sharp and immediate, a clean, precise agony that seared through muscle and nerve. Aren’s breath hitched, teeth grinding together as the mark burned itself into his skin. The chains pulsed, suppressing his reflex to pull away.

When the seal was removed, the sigil remained. Faintly glowing, unmistakable.

Property classification complete.

Across the hall, the other platforms lit up one by one as similar brands were applied. Some screamed. Some sobbed. Some stared straight ahead, faces emptied of expression.

Aren watched in silence, cataloguing details with the same detached focus he had once applied to cultivation manuals. The way buyers were seated in raised galleries above, partially screened by curtains. The subtle shifts in the air when interest spiked. The low murmur of discussion, carefully controlled.

This was not a market.

It was a ritual.

The auction master stepped forward at last, robes layered with authority seals. He raised his hands, and the hall quieted instantly.

“Tonight,” he intoned, “the Azure Pact offers stabilised bond-compatible disciples to qualified parties. Each asset has been verified for compliance and suitability. Contracts are binding. Bids are final.”

Aren felt something twist inside him at the word asset.

The first platform to his left flared brighter. A young man, perhaps seventeen, with wide, terrified eyes. The auction master recited his details. Age. Cultivation stage. Compatibility range.

The bidding began.

Numbers were called calmly, dispassionately. Spirit stones. Technique access. Favour credits. The boy’s fate rose and fell with each offer until the hammer struck.

Sold.

The formation around the boy dissolved. Guards moved in, efficient and swift. He was led away without looking back.

Platform by platform, the process repeated.

A woman with silver-threaded hair fetched a high price, her compatibility unusually broad. A cultivator missing one arm sold cheaply; his value diminished. An older man was passed over entirely, marked for reassignment to labour instead.

Aren watched it all.

When his platform lit up, the hall seemed to lean closer.

“Asset number forty-seven,” the auction master announced. “Male. Age nineteen. Sealed Dragon Core. Non-advancing. Bond-compatible classification confirmed.”

A ripple of interest passed through the galleries.

“A sealed Dragon Core?” someone murmured. “Even unresponsive, that’s rare.”

“Risky,” another replied. “But the price will be low.”

Aren felt eyes on him now. Appraising. Calculating. He stood straight, refusing to lower his head.

The first bid came quickly. Modest. Insultingly so.

Another followed. Slightly higher.

The numbers climbed, slowly, cautiously. No one wanted to overcommit to a defective asset. He was a gamble. A curiosity.

As the bidding continued, Aren felt it.

Not a sound. Not a pressure.

A presence.

It brushed the edge of his awareness, vast and distant, like a shadow passing over something buried deep underground. The sealed Core in his chest remained silent, but the air itself seemed to shift, as if something unseen had turned its attention toward him.

Aren’s breath slowed.

He did not know why, but certainty settled over him. He was being watched.

Not by the elders. Not by the buyers.

By something older.

The bidding faltered, hesitation creeping in. Then, without warning, a new voice cut through the chamber.

“One thousand spirit stones.”

The number was absurd. The hall went still.

The auction master blinked. “Bid acknowledged. Bidder identification?”

Silence.

He frowned. “Please state your name.”

No response.

Aren’s skin prickled.

The presence deepened, like a gaze focusing at last.

The auction master hesitated, then raised his hammer. “Unnamed bid stands.”

Around the hall, murmurs broke out, confusion and unease rippling through the galleries.

Aren lifted his eyes toward the shadowed screens.

Whoever had spoken had not wanted him cheap.

They had wanted him unseen.

And for the first time since the tribunal, Aren felt something stir beneath the silence of his chest.

Not power.

Recognition.