Now, when you hear the words "something beautiful," what comes to mind?

Translucent skin. Finely chiseled features. Eyes like the moon floating in the night sky. Or perhaps hair that holds a brilliance similar to jewels?

If that is your answer, then unfortunately, you are a stranger in this world.

Because this world is a little—no, quite strange.

Here, skin as white as porcelain is considered an ominous sign associated with death.

Symmetrical, well-proportioned features are loathed as unnatural and eerie. Clear eyes signify a lack of soul, and lustrous hair is feared as a symptom of disease.

Those things that people call "ugly" are, in truth, the very essence of beauty that everyone should envy.

Therefore, the beautiful are despised.

They are lined up in markets, tagged with prices, and bought and sold as property. They are treated as objects, not people. Like rare beasts, or perhaps unlucky cursed items.

Then, what is "beauty" in this world?

—It is distortion.

Deeply etched scars. Asymmetrical facial features. Clouded eyes. Rough skin. Missing teeth.

Features that people would normally turn their eyes away from are revered in this world as proof of being blessed by God.

They are called "The Ugly Saviors."

Because people believe. That perfection breeds arrogance, and imperfection breeds mercy. That only those with wounds can understand the pain of others.

For that reason, the ugly are respected. They become kings, scholars, and clergy, existing to lead the people.

And no one questions it.

That the beautiful are ugly, and the ugly are beautiful.

No one notices.

That value is not something one is born with, but merely a fragile sandcastle shaped by the illusions of the majority.

Now then—.

If you had been born into this world.

Would you have been able to find beauty with your own eyes?

Markets are truly interesting things.

Under a clear sky, people line up goods and compete over their own values. Fruits, jewels, crafts—and humans.

On this day as well, countless products were lined up in the plaza. Those bound in chains, those locked in cages, those hanging their heads with price tags attached. The sellers shout at the top of their lungs, speaking of their value as if introducing rare antiques.

Through such hustle and bustle, Rosa and Venom walked quietly.

Normally, Rosa does not care for such places. But her beloved daughter Bella's birthday was approaching. She had begged with an innocent smile, saying, "I want a pet."

And that was when it happened.

In a corner of the market. Under a grimy tent, a single slave—Guest—was sitting.

A slender frame. A demeanor that still held a hint of elegance. There were marks of worn-out restraints on the wrists, yet the spine was stretched surprisingly straight. Like a young tree that, though broken by a storm, still continues to stand.

Rosa stopped in her tracks.

She didn't know why. But her intuition whispered to her.

—This child is suitable for Bella.

Beside the slave stood a merchant with a greasy smile. He approached while rubbing his fingertips together, bowing with strange friendliness and saying, "You have a keen eye."

Rosa, while staring at the slave, asked quietly: