Chapter 124: Contract Market II
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In the courtyard, a scene unfolded near a counter.
A noble-looking man shouted at a clerk. "This is illegal," he snapped, voice sharp enough to slice paper.
The clerk did not look up. He continued writing, calm as a man ordering breakfast. "It is legal," he said. "You signed."
"My daughter did not understand," the nobleman argued, and for the first time his confidence cracked. "She did not know what the clauses meant. She thought it was only a temporary arrangement."
The clerk finally looked up, eyes tired and merciless, as if he had heard the same lie a thousand times and stopped caring on the second day of his first month. "Then perhaps you should have explained," he replied. "Or perhaps you should not have used your child as a receipt."
A woman stood behind the nobleman. She looked about twenty, dressed well, hair braided neatly, face pale. She did not cry. She did not beg. She stared at her father like he had already died, and all she was doing now was waiting for the body to fall.
Sekhmet watched, expression unreadable.
Auri’s gaze sharpened. "Master," she said quietly, "he is trying to cancel."
"He cannot," Sekhmet said.
Auri did not ask how Sekhmet knew. She simply watched the woman again, the way her shoulders held a tension that was not fear but disgust.
Sekhmet’s eyes lingered on the counter, on the papers stacked like bricks, and on the faint glow of runes pressed into the parchment itself. The Contract Market did not use normal ink for contracts that mattered. The papers were not just paper. They carried a binding thread, something woven into the fibers like a hidden net.
The clerk tapped the parchment with a flat finger. The seal on the corner pulsed once, faint and cold.
"This is Contract Market paper," the clerk said, voice patient now, the way a man became patient when he was explaining an unchangeable law to someone who still believed shouting could rewrite reality. "Created under the authority of the Contract God. Mid-level. Not a fairy tale. Not a rumor. A real god who specializes in agreement and consequence."
The nobleman’s face tightened. "So what," he snapped. "I will pay a penalty. I will—"
"You will not," the clerk interrupted calmly. "You will either fulfill the contract, or you will break it."
The nobleman’s mouth opened, then closed again.
Breaking a contract in Null was not like breaking a promise in a tavern. It was not a moral failure. It was a measurable action with a measurable punishment.
The clerk’s voice remained even. "Once both parties sign, neither can break it unless they are stronger than the Contract God’s binding. If you are strong enough to override a mid-level Contract God, you do not stand here arguing with me."
The nobleman’s anger faltered.
A guard nearby shifted slightly, the rune in his palm dim but ready. The guard did not need to threaten. The market itself threatened through law.
The clerk continued, not cruel, simply factual. "If you attempt to break it, punishment activates through the contract. Sometimes it is immediate. Sometimes it is delayed. Sometimes it is physical. Sometimes it is financial. Sometimes it is... personal. The Contract God has many methods."
The woman behind the nobleman stared at the ground now, not because she was ashamed, but because she was tired. The conversation had stopped being about her life a long time ago and become a debate about whose power mattered more.
The nobleman swallowed. "Then report it," he said harshly, as if reporting could scare the market into mercy. "Report this injustice."
The clerk’s eyes did not change. "Breaking of rules must be reported," he agreed, and his tone almost sounded like he was reciting a prayer. "You can file a claim. The market will investigate."
He gestured toward a side desk, where another clerk sat under a plaque that read DISPUTES AND JUDGEMENT.
"The Contract Market will collect witness statements," the clerk said. "Check the seals. Check the signing ritual. Confirm whether coercion occurred. Then the market passes judgement."
The nobleman’s face brightened for a breath, like a man grabbing hope with bloody hands.
Then the clerk added, "If your claim is false, the judgement will fall on you. False reports are also rule-breaking. The market hates wasted time more than it hates criminals."
The nobleman’s expression collapsed into something sick.
Sekhmet watched quietly.
This was why the Contract Market existed. It was not because the city loved cruelty. It was because the city loved certainty. The market sold certainty wrapped in paper.
A second argument broke out near another line.
A bulky beastkin man with horns tried to drag a smaller woman forward. His grip was hard enough to bruise. His pride was hard enough to break bones.
The woman planted her feet. "I said no," she hissed.
He sneered. "You said yes when you took my stones."
"I took your stones to pay my mother’s healer," she spat, voice shaking with fury. "I did not agree to become your bed furniture."
Someone behind them coughed into their fist, trying to hide laughter. Someone else muttered that bed furniture sounded like a rich man problem, and another voice replied that rich men were always the ones who needed furniture instructions.
The Contract Market guard stepped in instantly. He did not raise his voice. He simply raised his hand, and the rune in his palm glowed once.
The bulky man’s arm stiffened mid-motion as if invisible chains had tightened around his joints. Not physical chains. Contract chains. The kind you could not bite through.
"Rule," the guard said, voice flat. "No force beyond contract terms."
He nodded toward the woman. "If she signed only for repayment labor, you do not touch her body. If you force a body, you break contract."
The guard’s rune brightened slightly, as if the market itself leaned closer to listen.
"If you break the contract," the guard continued, "punishment will trigger. And if you do not report your own breach, we will. The market will investigate. The market will judge. Then you will lose your stones and your teeth, and if you are unlucky, you will also lose your future."