CHAPTER 440: GET DROSMIR (2)

Moments earlier, in the grand auction hall, Drosmir stood on the stage, his voice carrying with that same oily charisma that made the wealthy buyers before him cling to every word. Slaves were paraded forward, their wrists bound, their faces marked with despair, while nobles and merchants in fine silks raised hands and voices, bargaining over human lives as if they were mere food items displayed in a market stall. Young, old, and middle-aged alike were reduced to property beneath the gleam of the auction lights.

Among the crowd, Elira and Serah—still cloaked in their disguises—endured the sight with tight jaws and carefully masked revulsion. Their expressions betrayed nothing, but their eyes burned each time another life was sold. Serah’s hands itched for action, but patience weighed heavily on her shoulders.

At last, movement on the stage caught her attention. A guard approached Drosmir, bowing close to whisper directly into the masked man’s ear. Serah’s eyes sharpened immediately. She needed no further hints. The plan had begun, Jorin and the others had struck—but already, it seemed Drosmir’s men had detected the intrusion. Worse, Drosmir himself now knew.

"Seems like things are about to go south for us," Elira murmured through the Whisper spell.

"Not quite," Serah replied under her breath, her expression calm though her mind raced. "Reinforcements are here—that much I can tell. That’s what stirred Drosmir’s guard into action, not just Jorin, Kael, or Myla." She tilted her wrist ever so slightly, her bracelet blinking faintly in confirmation.

"Then we should prepare to engage," Elira answered.

"Yes," Serah agreed, "but not yet. We wait. Let the moment ripen." Her gaze never left the stage, her attention locked on Drosmir and the guard whispering at his side.

After a brief exchange, the guard slipped away, leaving Drosmir to his act. In the same breath, nearly thirty guards, fully armed with swords and shields, moved into formation before the grand double doors. Their disciplined line faced outward, watching with the eyes of hawks, ready for whatever might emerge. A ripple of unease passed through the gathered buyers; whispers spread, noble faces turned pale, and hands twitched nervously at the sudden display of steel.

But Drosmir, ever the silver-tongued deceiver, raised his hands and spoke with practiced charm, his tone smooth as honey and twice as convincing.

"Please, please, ladies and gentlemen," he called, his voice echoing from behind his mask. "There is no need for alarm at the sight of my men. They are here only because of a minor inconvenience—nothing more, nothing less. Rest assured, your safety and mine are paramount. That is why they stand there—to ensure calm and order. There is no danger to you, none at all. So let us continue, yes?"

His voice wove a net of assurance, and slowly, like docile cattle, the buyers relaxed. Their murmurs faded, their eyes returned to him, and their fear slipped back into eagerness for the trade.

"Good," Drosmir said smoothly, a gloved hand flicking in command. "Bring forth the next slave."

From the shadows, a cage rolled forward along the conveyor system, its bars rattling faintly. The slave within sat slumped, eyes hollow, awaiting the inevitable.

Outwardly, Drosmir radiated composure, his posture proud, his gestures practiced and confident. Yet beneath the mask, within the shadows of his thoughts, he was anything but calm.

’How in the hell are the King’s knights here?’ he seethed inwardly. ’And Kroiph of all men? Commander Kroiph himself? Impossible. This place is buried, hidden beyond chance discovery. It cannot be found—not without alerting me long before they could ever come close. Which means... this was done quickly, far too quickly. But what drew their attention to me?’

His thoughts darkened, suspicion gnawing at him. ’Could it have been those three failures who went missing last time? No... impossible. Those three had no reason to betray me. Even the boy would not, not with his sisters still in my hands. Then how? How did this happen?’

Grinding his teeth behind the mask, Drosmir’s mind raced, even as his outward charm never faltered. He watched the buyers raise their hands, shouting numbers, greedily competing over the slave now on display. Yet he could not silence the dread hammering in his chest.

’My chamber has been breached. Nearly a hundred knights storming my domain, and Kroiph among them... no. I cannot let this end me. I must finish this auction swiftly, take the coin, and vanish before they pierce too deep. If I am caught here, I am finished.’

"One thousand. SOLD!" Drosmir declared, his commanding voice carrying through the hall as the gavel struck and no new bid arose. His gloved hand gestured to the slaves’ handlers, ready to proceed.

"Next slav—"

The words never finished.

A thunderous bang split the hall as the grand double doors were blown open, shards of wood and iron scattering across the floor. The sheer force of the blast sent a gust roaring down the aisle, the lined guards stumbling a half-step back though their formation held tight.

Gasps and screams erupted. Some of the wealthy buyers leapt to their feet, instinct driving their hands to draw steel, while others shrank away, pale with fear, clutching their cloaks and jewels as chaos stirred.

From within the drifting dust and debris, silhouettes formed, and then emerged three figures clad in black leather. The first bore a double-headed axe in each hand, their edges gleaming wickedly under the auction torches. The second, a woman, twirled twin daggers between her fingers, her stance sharp and predatory. The third strode forward with a short sword in one hand, an arrow gripped in the other, and a bow strapped across his back beside a quiver full of death.

Behind them followed ten armored knights, shields raised and swords at the ready, their polished steel reflecting the flickering firelight.

Behind his mask, Drosmir’s eyes widened, a chill running through his veins. ’No. I must leave. Now.’

"Wow..." Jorin’s voice cut through the silence, carrying a mocking lilt as his eyes swept across the hall. "This place is pretty damn luxurious." His gaze slid from the line of guards before them to the nobles, merchants, and traffickers clutching their blades. "Looks like we’re outnumbered." He smirked, rolling his shoulders as the axes tightened in his grip. "But who cares?"

With that, Jorin lunged, his axes carving arcs of steel and blood as the three of them surged into the waiting guards.

The clash rang out instantly—steel against steel, shields shuddering under crushing blows, sparks dancing in the torchlight. The ten knights slammed into the enemy line behind them, swords meeting flesh, boots grinding forward as the hallway became a maelstrom of war cries and screams.

Seeing the battle unfold, some of the armed buyers made their choice. Greed and fear twisted their faces as they drew their own blades, rushing forward to join the guards in overwhelming Jorin, Kael, Myla, and their supporting knights. The buyers sought to drown them in sheer numbers.

But as the first wave of these opportunists surged forward, a torrent of fire erupted. A blazing surge roared across the marble floor, engulfing the nearest buyers in an inferno. Screams filled the air as the unlucky ones burned alive, their wealth and arrogance crumbling into ash, while the luckier few scrambled back, singed but breathing.

All eyes snapped toward the source.

There stood Serah, no longer in the silks of disguise but in her battle-worn black leather attire, the red of her hair glowing brighter beneath the flames that licked at her shoulders. Beside her stood Elira, equally clad in black, her hands already alive with the shifting glow of conjured magic.

The surviving buyers snarled, rage and desperation twisting into battle fury, and turned their blades toward the two women.

Serah’s response was wordless but resolute. From Elira’s dimensional pouch, she drew her long sword, steel singing as it cut through the air. She met their charge head-on, her strikes sharp, precise, and merciless. Elira remained at her side, but instead of steel, she wielded fire, earth, water, and even spatial magic. Walls of stone surged upward, bursts of flame roared, water spiraled into whips, and space itself seemed to bend at her fingertips.

From the stage, Drosmir froze, realization dawning darkly. ’Imposters. All this time, right under my nose.’ His blood boiled with fury even as fear gnawed at him. He snapped his hand upward, his command immediate.

"Guards! To me!"

At once, the four guards stationed in each corner of the hall moved, their discipline sharp as they converged on him. They drew close, forming a protective wall around their master. All four guards whispered the words, and already smoke began to curl around them and their master—thick, black, and cloying as shadow magic gathered to whisk them away.

But Serah saw it.

"Do not stop fighting!" she barked, her voice sharp with authority. "Cut down all armed, but leave some of the buyers alive—we’ll need them for interrogation! As for Drosmir—he’s mine!"

As she surged forward, Drosmir and his guards were already fading into black smoke, their forms blurring like ghosts slipping into shadow.

"Elira!" Serah’s voice rang above the din. "The pathway—now! To his vault!"

Without hesitation, Elira slammed her palm against the marble floor. The ground rumbled as her earth magic tore open a passage, a tunnel driving deep into the fortress. She carved it with precision, following the X marked upon Ubbe’s makeshift map. The path led straight to the vault—the one place Drosmir could not afford to abandon.

"Go!" Elira shouted.

Serah wasted no breath. With fire bursting at her heels, flames coiling around her like wings, she dove into the tunnel, speed and fury driving her like a comet through stone. She darted forward, the air hissing with her passing, her flames painting the tunnel walls in streaks of red-orange light.

Seconds stretched into heartbeats, and then, bursting through the tunnel’s end, she emerged into the vault chamber.

And there he was.

Drosmir, his mask turned sharply toward her, eyes wide. Two guards flanked him at the front, blades drawn, their stances braced to intercept. Behind them, two more guards scrambled, hands clutching at heavy bags of coin and gems, dragging them from the yawning mouth of the vault. Gold and silver spilled across the floor, the glint of wealth mocking the desperation in the air.

Serah landed in a slide, her flames snapping upward as she rose to her feet, sword poised, her red hair whipping behind her.

Drosmir’s composure shattered. Panic cracked his voice as he barked the order.

"Kill her! Get rid of that red-haired witch now!"

The two guards roared as they lunged for Serah, blades gleaming under the vault’s torchlight. And Drosmir—mask trembling—stumbled back toward the shadows of his treasure, clutching desperately at his ill-gotten wealth.