CHAPTER 435: THE AUCTION (1)

Following the steady stream of people through the winding hallway, Serah and Elira quickly realized that Ubbe’s map had been entirely accurate. The passageways twisted and curved deceptively, designed to disorient anyone who lacked a clear sense of direction. Left to chance, they might have wandered in circles endlessly, but with Ubbe’s notes etched into memory, the two women already carried a fair idea of where to turn and what to avoid.

Though it was their first time stepping foot in this underground labyrinth, their preparation made the ordeal far smoother than expected. Even more so, being swept along with the crowd of nobles and merchants disguised their movements further, allowing them to blend seamlessly into the tide of bodies heading exactly where they needed to go. The crowd itself was an unspoken guide, granting them cover and certainty all at once.

Yet, as they pressed deeper into the chamber’s corridors, another detail became apparent—one far less comforting. Guards. And plenty of them. Every two hundred meters without fail, two guards stood stationed, one to the left side of the passage, the other to the right. The placement was precise, deliberate, and suffocating in its thoroughness. Their posture was rigid, eyes ever watchful, weapons within immediate reach. Security was layered almost to perfection, precisely as Serah and Elira had anticipated.

The sheer density of armed presence forced Serah to quietly reassess her earlier approach. She had once believed that a raid with nothing but her squad of five could have been enough to infiltrate, dismantle, and strike at the very heart of this vile gathering. But seeing the reality firsthand—the guards for Drosmir himself, combined with the additional personal guards of every wealthy buyer in attendance—painted a much bleaker picture. The odds were staggering, the risk nearly insurmountable.

And yet, she admitted to herself that agreeing to her father’s suggestion of having reinforcements waiting along the perimeter of Fina had been the right call. It was the smarter play, the safer one, the move of a strategist instead of a reckless gambler.

But even so, deep in her heart, Serah could not shake her conviction that her original plan would have sufficed all the same. It would not have been clean, nor would it have ended in capture and shackles. No, her first plan had been sharpened with blood in mind. In her eyes, it would have brought the guilty to their rightful end—not bound in chains, but lying cold in death.

After pressing forward through the winding and misleading hallways for nearly five minutes, a towering double door finally revealed itself at the end of the passage. Its black oak panels gleamed with polished sheen, framed with golden trimmings and runic engravings that pulsed faintly, as though warning intruders of the threshold they were about to cross. With the silent guidance of the guards flanking it, Serah and Elira passed through—and the moment they did, both women were momentarily struck by awe.

The chamber that sprawled before them was grander than they had imagined. It was a vast, circular hall, the ceilings arched high above like the dome of a cathedral, painted in deep crimson and laced with murals depicting dragons, chains, and empires forged on blood. Dozens of chandeliers hung down, each crystal piece catching the light in dazzling fragments that scattered across the marbled floor. The air was faintly perfumed with incense, as if to mask the foul truth of what the place represented, and the walls were draped with silk curtains embroidered with golden threads. It was obscene in its beauty—ornate, excessive, and meticulously kept, as though to remind every guest of the wealth and power behind its existence.

A wide stage stood at the front of the chamber, raised high and framed by velvet curtains of deepest black. Every row of seats before it was crafted from dark mahogany, cushioned with crimson padding that matched the overarching theme of sinister luxury. Already, masked buyers of different regions and households were gliding calmly to their places, each moving with an air of practiced poise as though this vile gathering was nothing more than another noble’s banquet. Serah and Elira followed suit, never breaking their composure as they walked elegantly across the floor, each step measured to mirror the noble roles they wore. They chose a pair of seats not far from the center, the perfect vantage point to blend in without drawing suspicion.

Meanwhile, the guards belonging to every buyer were stopped at the threshold. None were allowed into the chamber proper. Instead, they were ordered to line up in disciplined formation outside the double doors. A row on the left, a row on the right—standing stiff and silent like statues of steel and flesh, their weapons visible at their sides. The chamber itself was thus left pristine, a place only for the masters and mistresses of gold and cruelty.

Once every guest had filed in and taken their place, the atmosphere shifted. The brilliance of the chandeliers dimmed all at once, shadows spilling across the chamber like a dark tide. Only the stage ahead remained illuminated, drenched in light that made its black curtains shimmer ominously. The air grew tense, all masked faces silently turning forward, anticipation rippling through the crowd like a single shared breath.

Then, without warning, a puff of thick black smoke erupted at the center of the stage. From within the curling haze, a figure emerged, stepping forth with deliberate grandeur. He was a man dressed in a masterfully tailored suit, the fabric pressed sharp and fine, his form outlined in elegance despite the faint chubbiness of his frame. His mask was a creation of artistry itself—black as midnight, streaked with lines of radiant gold, crafted to gleam beneath the light. Behind it, dark hair combed neatly back shone with oil, every strand perfectly in place.

His presence was undeniable. Though not towering in stature, he carried himself with the confidence of one who owned every soul present in that chamber. His movements were calculated, yet theatrical; his aura demanded attention as effortlessly as a king before his court. When he spoke, his voice rang out deep and charismatic, filling every corner of the grand hall with clarity and charm.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the masked man began, spreading his arms as though embracing them all at once. "I bid you welcome. Welcome, honored patrons, to this sacred night of power, wealth, and indulgence. Welcome, to the one and only—greatest in all the regions—the Drosmir’s Slave Auction!"

The name thundered across the chamber like a drumbeat, and as though rehearsed, the entire hall erupted into roaring applause and cheer. The sound was loud, shameless, a symphony of clapping and jubilant voices behind layers of masked anonymity.

Serah and Elira clapped along as well, hands meeting in measured rhythm, their masks hiding the disgust in their eyes. They raised their posture, nodding faintly, moving just as any noblewoman of status would.

"And I," the man continued with a sweeping bow, "am your humble host, Vaelen Drosmir!"

The cheers rose even higher, the chamber practically vibrating with the excitement of its guests. All the while, Serah’s smirk was hidden beneath her mask, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

At long last, the heart of the beast had shown its face.