Venus D. Romero, my so called grandpa sitting behind us with that eternal half-smile, leaned back in his chair and said quietly, "Ah…now this is where the fun begins."

The man on the elevated platform growled as he tried picking up the sword.

His hand tightened, body straining, with muscles outlined beneath the robe.

But the blade didn't move.

Another explosion of energy shot outward, striking the protective barriers around the VIP lounges.

The glass before us rippled like water, the protective seals glowing briefly.

Without them, I realised, we might've been shredded by the sheer force of the sword's rejection.

The man staggered again. His knees softening.

The glow around the hilt grew brighter, the cracks along its black surface pulsing like a beating heart.

For a moment, I thought he might succeed. For a moment, I thought the sword would actually yield.

But then—

A deafening crack rang out.

The man's body was hurled backward, flung across the stage like a ragdoll.

His hood fell back midair, revealing a pale, scarred face twisted in agony before he slammed into the rune-carved floor.

Gasps and shouts tore through the hall. Blood spilled from his lips as he coughed, twitching once before going still.

The sword hadn't moved an inch.

Silence followed, heavy and crushing.

Then, slowly, Mr. Lapui raised his hand, his expression unreadable.

"Failed," he declared.

His voice echoed across the auction house, final and absolute.

The guards rushed onto the stage, dragging the man's limp body away.

Some people cheered at his failure while some jeered. Some, surprisingly, muttered words of respect for his courage.

But me?

I just stared at the sword.

Because even after rejecting him, its aura pulsed stronger. Hungrier. Almost as if it was waiting.

And just as that thought burned in my chest, Mr. Lapui's voice rose again:

"Next number—step forward."

The massive screen above the platform flickered.

The glowing numbers shuffled inside the projected sphere like dice rolling endlessly. Everyone leaned forward, waiting and hoping for their number to appear on the screen.

And then—one number glowed brighter, sliding free from the mix.

The crowd gasped.

And the chosen person stood up.

The glowing number hung in the air, shining for everyone to see.

The crowd erupted again, people pointing, whispering, some already laughing at whoever had been unlucky enough to be chosen.

A man stood up from the center rows, his chest puffed with forced confidence. He walked with heavy steps, almost as if trying to convince himself he could handle it.

I leaned forward.

The Hollow weapon was waiting.

The man reached the platform, bowed gracefully to Mr. Lapui, and placed his hands on the sword.

For a moment…nothing.

And then—another burst of energy shot out, rattling the floor beneath us.

The blade refused him.

He screamed as his palms split open, blood spraying across the dark steel before his body was flung back violently.

He hit the stage with a crunch and didn't get back up.

The crowd cheered, booed...and cursed.

They did whatever made them feel better about themselves, but seeing the difficulty of the task, my confidence on having a high soul power wanted t the sheer display of the bidding ceremony.

I just felt my stomach twist tighter.

One after another, the numbers kept being called.

One after another, challengers stepped forward.

And one after another, they were rejected.

Each failure seemed worse than the last. Some were knocked unconscious instantly. Some were left coughing up blood, trembling like broken dolls. The rune-carved floor was already stained red.

And still, the sword pulsed with that same hunger.

Grandpa Venus, who had been unusually quiet, finally let out a low chuckle.

"See, kids," he said, voice smooth, almost playful, "this isn't just some weapon. This thing was forged from the carcass of the Demon King himself.

The Hollow King.

His soul lingers in that steel, refusing all who are weak. It's not about strength, nor talent. It's about worthiness. Sentience is carved into its very bones."

I turned slightly toward him. His words weren't loud, but everyone in our VIP box was listening closely.

"W-what do you mean by worthiness?" Seraphina asked softly, her voice uncertain.

Venus smiled faintly. "Weapons like this are alive. They don't want to be wielded.

They want to choose.

Each person you've seen walk up there was strong enough to face armies. But to that blade?" He shrugged.

"They're less than ants."

King Philip, sitting tall beside him, finally spoke. His tone far heavier, words sharp and cutting.

"He's right. Such cursed weapons have rules of their own. They don't care about bloodlines or fame.

Even gods would think twice before touching it." The man's eyes narrowed slightly, the weight of his authority pressing over us. "And now, with how long it's been sealed, its hatred has only grown. Every failure…feeds it."

I swallowed hard.

Feeds it?

The thought sent a shiver through me.

On the stage, another challenger screamed as the sword's energy pierced through his chest.

He dropped to the floor, shaking violently until the guards dragged him away.

More numbers were called.

More challengers walked forward.

None succeeded.

The crowd, once loud and wild, had grown quieter now. Excitement had been replaced with unease. Even the nobles shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Venus leaned forward this time, his half-smile gone, his voice almost a whisper.

"And here lies the true complexity, Noah. The longer this continues…the hungrier it becomes. Eventually, someone will have to be chosen. Or it will take that choice for itself."

I gripped the railing tightly. My throat felt dry.

Another number was called. Another man fell, blood spraying across the stage.

The screen above flickered again.

More numbers rolled.

I found myself holding my breath.

And then it stopped.

A number glowed brighter, sliding free from the mix.

This time, when the crowd turned to see who would rise…

A figure stood up slowly.

Covered head to toe in a thick black robe, not a patch of skin visible.

But it wasn't just the robe.

It was the smoke.

A weird, dark smoke curled around his body, clinging to him like a second skin. It twisted unnaturally, rising and falling as though alive.

The crowd murmured, confused, unsettled.

Even Mr. Lapui's calm face twitched for the first time.

The figure began walking forward, each step silent but heavy, the smoke trailing behind him as if marking his path.

I couldn't breathe.

Something about him felt…wrong.

After all, I considered myself pretty strong, so the fact that this unknown man made the hair on my skin tingle did not sit well with me.

The Hollow weapon pulsed harder on the platform, its cracks glowing brighter than before.

Almost as if it had been waiting for him.

And in that instant, I knew—

This was no ordinary challenger.

***