Demonic Dragon: Harem System-Chapter 768: Slave owners? Not here.

The morning in Asgard had a rhythm all its own.

It wasn't hurried like ordinary commercial capitals, nor too solemn like cities built solely for ostentation. It was a strange balance—alive. Strax walked down one of the central avenues as he stretched without ceremony, arms raised, back cracking slightly, a long sigh escaping as if he were waking not from sleep, but from an entire chapter.

"Hm..." he murmured. "This grew fast."

The sun illuminated the city at a comfortable angle, reflecting off the light stone structures mixed with enchanted metal and ancient wood. Asgard did not follow a single architectural style. It was a sum of influences: solid foundations, functional towers, open areas designed for circulation and coexistence. Nothing seemed designed just to impress—everything had a purpose.

And that was new.

When Strax founded Asgard, it was a gamble. A strategic point. An experiment in organization. Now... it was a real city.

He walked more slowly, observing.

Merchants opened their shops, some human, some not. Elves, dwarves, demi-humans, minor races that rarely mingled in urban centers — all coexisting with a naturalness that did not come from chance. It came from the right rules, applied in the right way.

A caravan from the Veil Company crossed the main road, its banners discreet but immediately recognizable. Guards accompanied them without tension, more as a ceremonial escort than surveillance.

Strax smiled slightly.

"Monica..." he thought. "You really did a miracle."

The Veil Company had been the key. Not just for the capital, but for the trust. Where the Veil established itself, the merchant guilds followed. Where the guilds went, infrastructure emerged. Warehouses, routes, contracts, stability.

And stability attracted people.

He passed through a square that hadn't existed a few months ago. Children ran between enchanted fountains that kept the water clean. A group of bards discussed chords while an older wizard explained something, gesturing wildly. Guards leaned on their spears, alert but relaxed.

There was no fear there.

Strax paused for a moment, hands on his hips, observing the whole scene as if looking at a work that was unfinished... but already functional.

"Asgard is no longer a point," he murmured. "Now it's a node."

He resumed walking, heading toward a higher area of the city. As he climbed, the sound changed. Less market, more metal. Hammers. Charms being tested. Technical voices.

Construction.

A huge area was surrounded by temporary structures and containment runes. Engineers, structural wizards, and arcane architects worked together, something that rarely worked well elsewhere. Here, it seemed almost natural.

Strax raised an eyebrow.

"So that's it..."

A new wall was being erected—not for immediate defense, but for future delimitation. It was not a barrier of war. It was a planned urban border. Wide gates, roads designed for expansion, spaces reserved for districts that did not even have names yet.

A supervisor noticed his presence and approached, clearly nervous when he recognized him.

"Lord Strax," he said, bowing his head. "We weren't expecting your visit today."

"You weren't expecting it because I didn't tell you," he replied calmly. "What are you building?"

The man hesitated for just a second.

"A new urban ring. The population forecast has been... revised upwards."

Strax chuckled softly.

"Of course it has."

He observed the floating projection schemes: advanced commercial districts, mixed residential areas, spaces reserved for institutions that did not yet exist.

"Who approved this?" he asked.

"Lady Monica," the supervisor replied immediately. "Based on the commercial flows predicted for the next two years."

Strax closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

"Two years..." he murmured. "She's still being conservative."

He opened his eyes again.

"Good work," he said to the man. "Keep it up."

The supervisor almost smiled with relief.

Strax walked away, heading for a higher point from where he could see most of the city. Asgard stretched out before him like something alive, growing not chaotically, but intentionally.

He sensed something different there.

Not just power.

Responsibility.

Strax descended from the elevation with calm steps, still immersed in that rare state where satisfaction and vigilance coexisted. The city was alive—and precisely because of that, imperfect. It was in this interval, between growth and stability, that cracks usually appeared.

He noticed the commotion before he heard it.

The flow of the street slowed. People veered off course. An informal circle formed, not out of open curiosity, but out of that collective discomfort that no one wants to take responsibility for.

Strax frowned slightly and changed course.

As he approached, the voices became clearer.

"Get up, you useless thing!" growled a man, his tone laden with impatience and something else, something dirtier. "I don't have all day!"

On the ground lay a motionless figure.

Strax stopped a few feet away.

The woman was lying on her side, partially curled up, trying to protect her body. Her clothes were too simple for the climate, torn in more than one place. Her skin—naturally tanned—was so covered in dust, dried mud, and old blood that it looked almost black. There were marks on her arms, legs, and back. Some were recent. Others were not.

She tried to move when the man took a step forward, but her body didn't respond as it should.

"Come on!" he insisted, kicking the ground next to her, not her... yet.

Strax took a deep breath.

"Hey."

His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

The merchant turned with obvious irritation, clearly annoyed at being interrupted.

"It's none of your business," he snapped immediately. "This is my property. Now get out of the way."

Strax tilted his head slightly, assessing him.

The man wore merchant's clothes far too expensive for someone so far removed from any relevant guild. A fake signet ring. New boots, but poorly cared for. Restless eyes. Cold sweat.

An opportunist.

Strax took another step forward.

"I asked what you're doing," he repeated, his tone still calm... but now firm.

The merchant swallowed hard.

"I... I'm trading," he said, trying to regain his composure. "This thing is my merchandise. It fell on its own. It's not my problem."

Strax looked away from him and fixed his gaze on the woman.

Her hair was long and black, but with a shade of purple so dark that it was only visible under the right light. A dark elf. Rare. Her fine features were swollen, marked. One of her eyes barely opened. Her chest rose and fell with difficulty.

She didn't look at anyone.

Only at the floor.

Strax closed his eyes for a second.

When he opened them, something had changed.

"Interesting," he said, almost to himself. "I remember the laws of this city very well."

The merchant laughed nervously.

"Look, whoever you are, I paid entry fees. I have documents. This isn't a paladin's kingdom."

He turned back to the woman and pulled the chain attached to her wrist.

"Get up!"

The movement was incomplete.

The chain stretched... and stopped.

The merchant blinked, confused, pulling again.

Nothing.

"What...?"

Strax held the chain with two fingers.

There was no visible effort. No tension.

"Take your hand off her," he said, finally.

The merchant felt the chill down his spine too late.

"Listen here, you bastard," he began, his voice rising in aggressive desperation, "you don't boss me around! I—"

The chain fell apart.

It didn't break.

It simply turned to dust between Strax's fingers, as if it had never been solid.

A heavy silence fell around them.

The merchant took a step back.

"W-who do you think you are?"

Strax sighed.

A long, weary sigh... disappointed.

"Who let a worm into my city to sell slaves?" he asked aloud.

The word "my" fell like an invisible hammer.

Some guards, watching from a distance, immediately stiffened. One of them turned pale.

"M-my city?" stammered the merchant. "Who do you think you are? Some nobleman?"

Strax finally looked directly at him.

There was no explosion of aura. No explicit threat.

Just presence.

The kind of presence that made the body understand, before the mind, that something was deeply wrong.

"Ah..." he let out a sigh that brought a little smoke out of his mouth... "COME HERE." He shouted, and quickly, all the knights of the city appeared close to him, kneeling on the ground.

"YES, LORD!" They all said together.

Strax kept his gaze fixed on the merchant for another second—not out of indecision, but so that everyone around him would understand exactly who was being judged there.

Then he turned to the kneeling knights.

"I want to know," he said, his voice low and heavy, "who authorized the entry of a slave trader into Asgard."

The silence was immediate.

The knights exchanged tense glances. One of them, more experienced, took a deep breath and spoke, choosing his words carefully:

"Lord... there is, as yet, no explicit law prohibiting the slave trade within the walls. We have been given no protocol for—"

Strax raised his hand.

The knight fell silent instantly.

Strax was silent for a few seconds. It wasn't explosive anger—it was calculation. He looked around: the people watching, the guards, the merchants, the city itself listening.

"Then this failure is mine," he said at last. "And it ends now."

He took a step forward.

"From this moment on," he continued, "any slave trader who attempts to enter Asgard will be considered a hostile criminal."

The knights raised their heads.

"Do not arrest them," Strax added. "Eliminate them. Free the slaves immediately. Provide assistance. If there is resistance... do not hesitate."

"YES, LORD!" they replied in unison, their voices echoing down the avenue.

The merchant began to shake visibly.

"W-wait..." he stammered, his eyes wide. "This can't be... I have rights! I can pay! I can leave the city right now, please—"

Strax turned slowly toward him.

Each step he took seemed to suck the air out of the surrounding area.

The man fell to his knees, completely broken.

"I beg you..." he sobbed. "It was just business... I didn't know... I—"

Strax stopped in front of him.

"You knew exactly what you were doing," he replied, without raising his voice. "You just chose the wrong place."

The movement was quick.

A single blow.

Clean.

Final.

The body fell limp, and the silence that followed was absolute.

Strax looked at the horsemen.

"Clean up."

They moved immediately, efficiently, without question.

Strax then turned to the dark elf.

He knelt again, this time with genuine care. He slipped one arm under her legs and the other around her back, lifting her with ease, but also with respect.

She was unconscious now, her body too light for someone who should have lived for centuries.

"I'll take care of her," he said, more to himself than to the others.