CHAPTER 672: GOOD FOR HIS HEART?!

Twitching.

There was a lot of twitching as Minister Kordell stood there, bracing as though the sky itself was about to fall.

He felt sick. Not because House Orell and House Aramont were throwing money around like spoiled children, but because he was being prevented from winning.

He couldn’t care less how much they planned to dump into the pot; he was sure the Federation was behind them anyway. But how could he stand here and just watch while something this game-changing slipped into the hands of others?

Down below, the auction house was bedlam.

The numbers on the screen flipped so fast that poor Master of Ceremonies Mitchel wasn’t even able to say them aloud before they changed again.

"Ten billion... ten point two... no, ten point five... ten point seven—wait—eleven point—oh twelve!"

The man was practically tearing his hair out while the audience clutched their seats with white-knuckled grips. Every bid came with anguished groans, gasps, and the occasional howl.

Though really, by Mitchel’s expression, he was likely thinking something along the lines of, "Oh, for crying out loud, make up your minds!"

And then there were the master mechanics.

It was less an auction now and more like a civil war. Entire groups of them were nearly leaping out of their seats, snarling at one another over who deserved to bid this time.

Minister Kordell’s eye twitched again.

But really, he wasn’t the only one.

The Patriarch of House Orell, seated two rows from the stage, was already drenched in sweat. He had prepared for this—he swore he had prepared. After the humiliation of the last auction, he had been scolded, scorned, and practically roasted alive by both allies and rivals. He had vowed not to make the same mistake again.

They had funds. They had backing. They had prepared for war.

But this? This was madness!

Why did it feel like they were being humiliated all over again? Worse, why did it look like these items weren’t even part of the main event?!

If the Federation leaders learned that House Orell had failed again, and with items of this level, he might not survive the fallout long enough to see another auction.

Meanwhile, Minister Kordell rubbed at his temple, feeling his life expectancy shrink. Thank the stars the booths above were one-way. If anyone below could see his face right now, they would be whispering about how fast the great Minister Nox was going gray.

But when he turned his head, he nearly keeled over.

Because sitting right beside him, with all the serenity of a saint, was that mop-haired blonde.

The boy was smiling.

Smiling.

And worse, he was insisting that the Minister should not bid. Not truly. It would be fine to make noise, fine to place token bids here and there, but absolutely not fine to actually win.

"Father, it would really be the best for your heart to do it like that," Ollie said sweetly.

His eyes sparkled. His antenna bobbed with pride. His chest puffed out as though he had just uttered the wisest piece of financial advice in the Empire.

Kordell’s mouth twitched so hard it almost spasmed.

Good for his heart? How could losing at an auction of this scale be good for anyone’s heart?

He wanted to roar.

Instead, he sat there twitching while the numbers climbed higher. In fact, his gut was out there churning, but because his wife agreed to it, he really couldn’t do anything but watch as the future crumbled before him. Although considering his wife’s unique trait, he really should just follow.

Finally, the hammer dropped.

"Sold! Fourteen billion! Congratulations to Duke Samuel Zorath!" Mitchel declared, voice cracking like a man barely clinging to life.

A wave of sighs rippled through the hall. Kordell at least lightened his grip, which had already dented the chair, because it was an Imperial house that managed to snag the item.

But then again, while it looked like there were many possible winners, in truth, this particular auction was more complicated than it seemed.

The money wasn’t even the main issue anymore. Nearly everyone here had extra billions, most even trillions, sitting in their coffers. No, the true headache was how to use such a part after buying it. Because bidding against the master mechanics meant angering the very people needed to install and maintain it.

Already, Master Mechanic Allan punched the air in triumph. "Yes!" he bellowed, looking like he had just personally landed the bid himself. Well, he might as well have, since he was Zorath’s retainer.

But for the other houses without retainers?

They looked like they had swallowed glass.

What was the point of spending billions on a part you couldn’t even use—because the mechanics you had just outbid were now sharpening their tools to cut you off?

The atmosphere below was chaos. The atmosphere above was suffocating.

And Minister Kordell?

He was sure he would not last to the main event.

Oh, but of course. They were just getting to the core systems.

The last A-grade component had barely been hammered down. Duke Caius, who wore the triumphant expression of a man pretending he didn’t just spend so much on a part, secured the Joint Gyro Balance Ring for fifteen billion.

The hall was already filled with groans and muttered prayers. Everyone thought that was the end of it. The lucky ones slumped in relief, the unlucky ones slumped in despair.

And then—

"!!!"

The holographic screen flickered back to life.

"Another one?!" voices shouted across the floor.

Apparently so.

When Master of Ceremonies Mitchel opened his mouth again, the words sounded as though they were dragging his soul out of his body. "Next item... an S-grade Power Core Housing. CF rating... eighty-five percent. Durability... ninety-two percent."

The room erupted in chaos.

Mitchel almost dropped the mic. He couldn’t believe he had just said those numbers out loud. How could such words exist in the same sentence?

Yet there it was, projected before them in brilliant detail.

Spiritual energy flared all across the hall, uncontrolled, pulsing in waves of disbelief.

"Impossible," one bidder gasped.

"Not just impossible—criminal!" shouted another.

Master Colton looked two seconds away from hurling himself over the railing just to get a closer look. He was already restraining three fellow mechanics who were foaming at the mouth and muttering about divine intervention.

It was one thing to craft a mecha with effort, funds, and technology. That was doable. But to create one approaching the pinnacle of all mechas? With stats like this? That was the stuff of fantasy and fever dreams.

And yet, it was right there.

"Tell me I’m not hallucinating," croaked Master Yorrick, rubbing his eyes furiously. "Do you all see the numbers I see?"

"I see them," snapped Master Feng. "CF eighty-five, durability ninety-two. If this is a hallucination, then we’re all sharing the same one."

"Don’t look at me," barked Master Allan. "At this rate, I might drink myself blind every day of the week."

"You already do!"

"Shut up!"

"Focus, you brainless lot!" Master Colton snarled, slamming his cane on the floor. "The question isn’t whether we’re hallucinating. The question is whether it’s real enough to bid on."

"Bid?" another scoffed. "No, we don’t bid. We conquer. We need to do everything in our power to get our hands on that!"

The agreement was immediate, resounding, and almost frightening.

For the first time that night, the masters were no longer bickering among themselves. They were murmuring together, voices low, sharp, and unified.

And every other noble bidder in the room went pale.

Because if there was one thing scarier than a master mechanic trying to bankrupt you, it was a group of master mechanics agreeing with each other.