CHAPTER 55: AUCTION WAR1

The auction house wasn’t the grand marble building gilded in light and banners that I had expected. It was underground.

Literally.

Nestled deep beneath the bustling merchant district of the capital, masked behind the grimy façade of a raucous, third-rate tavern, the true auction hall lay hidden from the prying eyes of the surface world. A warded, downward-sloping tunnel, wide enough to drive a small carriage through, led us deep beneath the city’s foundations of stone and soil. The further we descended, the heavier the air grew—thick with the cloying scent of raw, untamed mana, the bitter tang of greed, and something else, something more foul and ancient.

The smell of coin and blood.

This wasn’t a place for the delicate sensibilities of the nobility, with their carefully constructed masks of honor and propriety. This was a market of shadows, a place where power was the only currency that mattered, open to anyone who could pay the price.

And anyone meant everyone—from wealthy, amoral foreign merchants and obsessive artifact hunters to rogue mages with bounties on their heads and exiled nobles desperate to reclaim a fraction of their lost glory. Even those whispered to have ties to the demon cult or the black-market slave trade walked these halls freely, their faces hidden behind masks or cloaks, their auras a swirling vortex of dark ambition. There were no guards posted at the door, no magical checks, no bloodline validations.

Just coin.

Layla’s heels clicked sharply on the smooth, polished obsidian floor behind me, the sound a stark, jarring note in the low, guttural hum of the crowd.

She glanced around, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "What is this place...?" she whispered, her voice a low murmur of aristocratic disdain. "It reeks of filth and desperation."

We passed a massive, reinforced glass cage where a caged wyvern skull, its empty eye sockets seeming to watch us with a malevolent intelligence, was being polished by an old, gnarled dwarf. A woman in a cloak of dark, shimmering feathers laughed madly as she counted a pile of glowing soul gems at a nearby exchange booth. And on a massive, obsidian wall, a list of ’available assets,’ including rare beasts, cursed artifacts, and, chillingly, slaves, flickered magically, the names and prices shifting with each new acquisition.

"An underground auction," I replied calmly, my own senses on high alert. "No rules. No bloodline status. If you can pay, you can play."

Layla’s gaze swept across the diverse, dangerous crowd—orc chieftains in heavy, iron-shod armor; masked elves with eyes that glittered like shards of ice; hulking beastkin mercenaries, their muscles bulging beneath their leather armor; and, here and there, nobles who clearly didn’t want to be recognized, their faces hidden in the deep shadows of their cowls. "I see... and people attend this willingly?"

"They do more than attend," I said, my voice a low murmur. "They thrive here."

She shook her head, a look of profound disgust on her beautiful face. "It’s disgusting. There are slaves walking around in chains, children being sold in back rooms... Where is the class? The honor?"

"This place isn’t about honor," I murmured, my gaze sweeping the crowd, my mind a whirlwind of calculations and strategies. "It’s about power. And opportunity."

As we moved toward the grand, cavernous main hall, my eyes caught sight of a familiar figure seated near the back of the seating area.

Erwin.

A former noble from one of the fallen border houses. Once a respected name, now just a man with hollow, desperate eyes and a rusted signet ring on his finger. I knew him.

Well, not personally.

But in the previous timeline, he was the man who, in a fit of desperate, reckless ambition, had accidentally bought the very item I was here for tonight. That one decision, that single, fateful purchase, had changed his entire fate—turning him from a forgotten, disgraced noble into a threat powerful enough that the demon cult had taken notice and brought him into their fold.

Eventually, he’d become a wanted man. A villain. A tragic, cautionary tale.

But not tonight. Tonight, he was just desperate.

I could help him, I thought, a cold, calculating part of my mind taking over. Give him just enough to get strong, to reclaim his honor, without letting him fall into the abyss. Funny how mercy, when wielded by someone like me, could look so much like manipulation.

["Helping him not turn evil now, are we?"] The system’s voice echoed in my head with an amused, sarcastic chuckle. ["Such a kind, benevolent soul you are, Ashen Crimson."]

’Shut it.’

We were greeted by a man in ostentatious golden robes, his hair slicked back with some kind of greasy pomade, his smile as plastic and insincere as a cheap counterfeit. A small, enchanted badge with a glowing red gem shimmered on his lapel.

"Sir Crimson and Lady Layla Nowa," he said with a practiced, obsequious bow. "We are honored by your presence. We’ve prepared your seating in the private, sound-proofed tier. This way, please."

We followed him up a winding, obsidian staircase to a small, elevated balcony with plush, velvet seats and tinted, one-way magical barriers that offered a perfect view of the stage while concealing us from the prying eyes of the crowd below.

Layla, however, still looked unimpressed. "The chairs are decent," she muttered, running a gloved hand over the velvet. "But everything else still reeks."

"I’ll let you pick the venue next time."

She snorted. "As if there’ll be a next time."

Soon after, the lights in the grand hall dimmed. A single, brilliant orb of light floated into the center of the hall, illuminating the main stage. A tall, impossibly elegant man in violet robes stepped forward. He was a dark elf, with skin the color of polished obsidian, eyes of molten gold, and a silver, crescent-shaped tattoo over his brow.

"Welcome, esteemed bidders," he called, his voice, magically amplified, echoing through the cavernous chamber. "Tonight, we bring you the finest, rarest, and most dangerous treasures this world’s shadows have to offer."

Scattered, polite claps echoed through the chamber.

"Hold your purses tight, dear guests," he grinned, his white teeth a flash of predatory light in the dimness. "For tonight may cost you more than just coin."

I settled into my seat, my own senses on high alert.

It had begun.

The first item, a massive, torso-shaped artifact sealed in a reinforced crystal case, rolled onto the stage.

"A golem shell!" the auctioneer announced, his voice ringing with a theatrical excitement. "Harvested from the ruins of the Fallen Warden, this exterior is forged from a nearly indestructible, unknown alloy. Perfect for crafting high-grade shields or the core of an advanced spellstaff!"

"The starting bid is fifty gold!"

The bidding began instantly, a chaotic, frenzied chorus of voices.

"Sixty!"

"Ninety!"

"One hundred and twenty!"

"One hundred and fifty!"

A black-bearded dwarf in the corner, his eyes gleaming with a manic, obsessive light, slammed his fist on the railing before him. "Two hundred gold!" he roared.

The auctioneer smiled. "Sold!"

Layla glanced at me sideways. "That much gold would pay a decade’s tuition at the Academy."

I shrugged. "They’re all rich, desperate idiots."

More items followed, a parade of the rare, the powerful, and the profane.

A scaled, pulsating egg, said to be from a serpent of the Skyreach Mountains, was sold for one hundred and sixty gold.

A cursed, obsidian circlet that enhanced fire magic but caused debilitating hallucinations went for a mere eighty gold.

A pair of twin daggers, forged from a shimmering, ethereal miststeel, fetched a staggering two hundred and forty.

I stayed quiet, my expression a mask of bored indifference. None of this was what I had come for.

Until...

"And now," the auctioneer said, his voice shifting, becoming low, reverent, "we present the crown jewel of tonight’s auction. An item so rare, so unique, it will surely make history."

All the lights in the hall dimmed, save for the single, brilliant orb above the stage. A circular platform, hidden beneath the stage, began to rise, a low, grinding sound echoing through the now-silent chamber.

And standing upon it—

A girl.

She couldn’t have been older than six.

Fluffy, snow-white hair, as pure and soft as freshly fallen snow, curled gently over her shoulders, tied with pastel pink ribbons that matched her glowing, rose-pink eyes. Her peach-toned skin seemed to shimmer under the magical lights, and her frilly, light blue dress was clean and flawless. Tiny, buckled boots with flower-shaped clasps adorned her feet.

The crowd, once a raucous, greedy mob, stilled.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t cry. She just... looked around, her head tilted in a gesture of innocent curiosity, as if she were unaware of the thousand pairs of hungry, predatory eyes that were fixed upon her.

"Her name is Yumi," the auctioneer said, his voice a soft, seductive whisper. "A pure-blood vampire girl, untouched by contract or curse. Her mana core has yet to fully mature—imagine the potential she holds."

He smiled wide, his teeth a flash of white in the dim light.

"The starting price—five hundred gold!"

My hands clenched the armrests of my chair, my knuckles white.

Bastards.

Every single one of them.

"She’s a child," I muttered, my voice a low, dangerous growl.

Layla looked at me, her own eyes, for the first time, filled with a cold, hard fury.

"This is wrong," I said aloud, my voice ringing with a conviction that surprised even me. "They’re auctioning off a kid."

Layla’s lips curled in disgust. "This place is worse than a cesspit. We should burn it to the ground."

And yet... the bidding had already begun.

"Five hundred and twenty!"

"Five hundred and sixty!"

"Six hundred gold!"

A cloaked woman with a voice like shattering glass raised her hand. "Six hundred and fifty!"

"Seven hundred!" came the booming call from a massive beastkin warlord, his tusks gleaming in the dim light.

"Eight hundred!"

"Eight hundred and fifty!"