Starting With an SSS-Rank Goddess Summon!

A low collective rumble of excitement rippled through the hundreds of masked spectators below.

"Tonight," the auctioneer continued, his eyes gleaming behind his porcelain mask, "we present a curated collection of rarity, harvested from the deepest rifts, the forgotten tombs of the Old World, and the borders of the foreign empires! Artifacts of war, forbidden alchemical blueprints, untamed beast cores, and dimensional relics that the World Council would rather bury in the dust of history!"

He raised his right hand, pointing dramatically toward the ceiling.

"And for those patient enough to endure the crucible of bidding until the final hour... our grand finale lot features a weapon of calamity... a relic forged across the continental divide, capable of altering the military balance of an entire sector!"

Murmurs of intense speculation and hushed whispers erupted across the lower tiers, while several VIP suites subtly flared with suppressed mana signatures.

"Let the shadows claim their prize!" the auctioneer roared, slamming his gold-headed gavel against a floating obsidian podium.

BANG!

"Bring forth the premier lot of the evening!"

From the subterranean lift beneath the stage, a circular anti-gravity pedestal rose smoothly into the center of the spotlight.

Resting atop a cushion of dark velvet was a jagged fist-sized crystal that glowed with a deep violet luminescence.

Thin arcs of crackling unstable plasma danced across its multifaceted surface, causing the air above the pedestal to warp and shimmer with uncontained pressure.

"Lot Number One!" the auctioneer announced with electric fervor. "The Heart of the Thunder-Wyrm! Harvested from the core of an Tier-1 Abyssal Wyrm in the Western Rift Expanse! This pristine unrefined core contains over five hundred thousand units of elemental lightning mana, perfectly suited for forging Vanguard armaments or powering an entire municipal defense barrier for half a decade!"

The auctioneer slammed his gavel onto the podium.

"Bidding commences at a baseline of Five Hundred Thousand Spirit Credits! Increments of fifty thousand! The floor is open!"

Silas, Harper, and Seraphina watched the glowing violet crystal through the observation glass.

"A decent core," Harper commented casually, leaning her cheek against Silas’s shoulder. "High purity, but the internal mana conduits are slightly fractured... It would take weeks of alchemical stabilization before you could use it in a weapon forge so it’s not worth the hassle."

"Agreed," Seraphina chimed in, crossing her legs. "House Bloom harvests dozens of similar cores from our southern territory rifts each quarter. It’s quite a crude entry piece."

Silas didn’t bid either.

’Do I even have any Lightning mages in my territory? Ah yes, I think there are one or two.’

Even then, this wasn’t really good for him either...

However, on the general floor below, the crowd did not share their noble indifference.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Glowing digital numbers lit up across the massive circular display ring suspended above the stage as masked bidders aggressively hammered their consoles.

[CURRENT BID: 650,000 SC - FLOOR TIER 3]

[CURRENT BID: 800,000 SC - FLOOR TIER 1]

[CURRENT BID: 1,100,000 SC - FLOOR TIER 2]

[CURRENT BID: 1,350,000 SC - FLOOR TIER 1]

The numbers climbed with furious breakneck speed.

Bidders shouted across the stone tiers, waving their transaction wands as the price easily doubled within sixty seconds.

"One point three five million to the gentleman in the raven visor!" the auctioneer shouted, his voice building the hype. "Do I hear one point four?! One point four million?!"

BZZZZT-CHUNK.

Suddenly, the massive holographic display above the stage flashed with a deep, authoritative crimson hue.

=========================================

[BID: VIP SUITE TWELVE]

CURRENT BID: 2,500,000 SPIRIT CREDITS

=========================================

A collective stunned hush instantly fell over the general floor.

The lower-tier bidders slumped back into their stone benches, muttering in bitter frustration as they lowered their wands.

Dropping two point five million credits on an entry-level core was an aggressive arrogant flex designed specifically to crush the competition in a single blow.

Silas glanced across the dark expanse of the colosseum toward VIP Suite Twelve.

The one-way glass of Suite Twelve was dark, but an arrogant aura of refined wind mana subtly leaked from the ventilation conduits, signaling the presence of a wealthy corporate scion or a high-ranking director.

"Two point five million credits from VIP Suite Twelve!" the auctioneer cried out, scanning the arena. "Going once... Going twice..."

BANG!

"Sold! To the sovereign patron of Suite Twelve!"

Beside Silas, Harper let out a sharp audible tch, aggressively clicking her tongue against her teeth as she glared at Suite Twelve through her crow mask.

"Arrogant prick," Harper muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes. "Dropping two point five mil on a cracked wyrm core just to flex on people. If you’re wondering, that’s House Thorne corporate box over there and they always act like obnoxious peacocks."

Silas leaned back into the plush leather cushions with a deeply thrilled smirk spreading beneath his crow mask as he watched the glowing stage reset for the next lot.

’This...’ Silas thought, his golden mana thrumming with eager anticipation. ’is going to be a very interesting night.’

The underground auction had officially begun.

...

Perched high upon the western mezzanine of the colossal amphitheater, suspended in the cold, cavernous shadows like a predatory nest, was VIP Suite Twelve.

The suite was bathed in the harsh flickering amber glow of enchanted gas sconces.

The air inside was suffocating, choked with the pungent acrid haze of imported dread-tobacco and the sharp sting of spilled alchemical spirits.

Polished mahogany tables were littered with crystal carafes, half-empty chalices of spiced brandy, and discarded trade manifests bearing the gilded insignia of the Blackwood Consortium’s thorny black briars intertwined with the storm-crested gale-hawk of House Thorne.

Lounging in the center of an expansive emerald-velvet sofa was Cedric Blackwood.

He was nineteen years of age, blessed with the sharp noble jawline and haughty bone structure characteristic of the High Spire bloodlines.

His hair... a lustrous vibrant golden-blond was meticulously combed and slicked straight back with fragrant pomade, gleaming like polished brass under the ambient mana-light.

His tailored three-piece suit was woven from shimmering gale-silk, fastened with diamond-encrusted silver buttons that bore the Thorne family crest.

By right of birth, Cedric was an untouchable sovereign scion.

His father was the heir of the Blackwood Consortium, while his mother was the direct heiress to the sprawling commercial empire of the Thorne Conglomerate.

As the sole recognized heir to the Blackwood lineage who also commanded the bottomless liquidity of the Thorne financial vaults, Cedric was accustomed to walking through the world as if every cobblestone had been laid specifically for his boots.

Yet, despite his astronomical pedigree, Cedric’s handsome face was currently twisted into a dark twitching scowl of pure venomous frustration.

’Fuck...’

His manicured fingers absentmindedly rose to his left cheek, lightly brushing the skin.

Beneath his fingertips, phantom heat seemed to burn against his flesh.

It had been weeks since the incident in the grand promenade of Weaver’s Spire, yet the memory of that humiliating thunderous slap delivered by a dirty common-born brute whose name had been forgotten still festered in Cedric’s mind like an infected wound.

Every time he closed his eyes, he could still hear the collective gasps of the onlookers, still feel the disgraceful impact that had thrown him backward like a discarded sack of flour.

"Where in the hell is Valerius?!" Cedric barked, his voice echoing sharply off the soundproofed obsidian walls.

He slammed his crystal glass onto the mahogany side table with enough violent force to crack the base, sending spiced brandy splashing across the lacquered wood.

Standing three paces behind the sofa, her hands clasped tightly over the starched white fabric of her apron, was his personal attendant.

She was a young woman with neat brown hair pinned into a modest bun, her delicate features pale and taut with anxiety.

Her gaze remained rigidly fixed upon the emerald carpet beneath her polished shoes, not daring to meet the young master’s volatile eyes.

"Young Master," the maid began softly, her voice carrying a fragile cautious tremor that she desperately tried to suppress. "Lord Valerius sent an encrypted transmission nearly an hour ago... His armored transport was unexpectedly detained at a junction by an inquisitor from the High Council. They initiated a full-scale contraband sweep across the northern lines..."

Cedric’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ground together audibly.

"And why has he not updated me?! We have an entire secure comm-array in this damn box!"

"The dampening wards of The Obsidian Sanhedrin, Young Master," the maid explained, swallowing the dry knot in her throat. "The moment the external blast doors cycled shut for the session, all wireless networks, satellite relays, and transponders were forcibly severed. No signals can penetrate these bedrock walls until the auction concludes and the master seals are disengaged... We are completely isolated."

Cedric let out a furious sharp hiss of air through his teeth, violently running both of his ring-adorned hands through his slicked-back blond hair.

"Incompetent fools," Cedric snarled, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "The one evening my elder brother promised to personally mentor me on black-market leverage, the one night he was supposed to teach me how to manipulate the bidding spreads, and he gets himself locked outside the gate like a common vagrant in the rain."

He slumped back into the plush cushions of the sofa, crossing his legs and glaring down through the one-way obsidian observation glass at the circular stage below.

Down in the spotlight, the massive circular display had just flashed with the confirmation of Lot Number One... the Tier-1 Heart of the Thunder-Wyrm which Cedric had just secured for a staggering two point five million Spirit Credits with a single aggressive tap of his terminal.

Seeing the young master’s turbulent temper, the maid took a small hesitant step forward.

She knew the scale of the funds at play tonight, and more importantly, she knew the terrifying instructions Lord Valerius had given her prior to the auction.

"Young Master Cedric," she murmured, keeping her tone as deferential and non-threatening as possible. "If I may humbly offer a reminder... Lord Valerius and the elder council explicitly designated ninety percent of our vault reserves for the Grand Finale lot. The classified intelligence reports regarding the foreign weapon suggest that several continental cartels and foreign military proxies are present tonight... If we spend millions of credits flexing on beast cores and decorative curios in the early rounds, we risk depleting our liquidity before the true war begins."

The room went deathly silent.

Cedric did not move for several long seconds then, slowly his blond head rotated toward her.

His pale gray eyes locked onto the trembling maid with the frigid, unblinking disdain of a high-born lord staring down at an insect that had dared to crawl across his dinner plate.

"Are you lecturing me?" Cedric whispered with his voice sounding dangerously soft.

The maid’s breath hitched in her chest. "N-No, Young Master! I would never—"

"Are you, a nameless low-born servant whose entire bloodline survives on the copper scraps tossed from my family’s banquet tables, attempting to instruct an heir of the Blackwood Consortium on financial strategy?" Cedric’s voice dropped into a chilling purr as he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Did you truly just suggest that my household could go broke over a few million credits?"

"Forgive me, Young Master! I was only relaying Lord Valerius’s parameters—"

"Silence," Cedric snapped, the single word cutting through her frantic apology like a whip.

He pointed a single diamond-ringed index finger toward the emerald carpet directly at the base of his sofa.

"Get on your hands and knees," Cedric commanded smoothly.

The maid’s eyes widened in sheer, agonizing terror. Her lower lip began to tremble as hot tears of humiliation stung the corners of her eyes.

"Young Master, please... I have served your mother’s household for six years—"

"I said get down," Cedric repeated, his tone entirely flat, lacking of a single ounce of human warmth. "Your vulgar insolent mouth has grown entirely too comfortable in my brother’s absence... You seem to have forgotten your fundamental purpose in this room. You are not an advisor, you are not a strategist either. You are a domestic fixture and a footstool. Now get on the floor and act like one, before I have the enforcers toss you into the incinerator chutes below."

A shudder ran through the young woman’s entire body.

She knew that within the black-tier perimeter of The Obsidian Sanhedrin, an heir of the Blackwood Consortium could murder a servant with zero legal repercussions.

No court in Valoria would ever question a missing maid.

Slowly, her knees trembling so violently they nearly gave out beneath her, the young woman sank to the floor.

She crawled forward onto the plush emerald rug directly in front of the sofa, lowering her chest and placing her palms flat against the fabric.

She bowed her head, pressing her forehead against the floorboards and locking her spine into a flat horizontal bench.

Cedric watched her with a cruel triumphant smirk curving his lips.

He leaned back into the deep leather cushions of the sofa, reached out with his heavy leather boots, and rested both of his heels directly upon the back of the maid’s neck and shoulders.

He dug his heels in, applying his full body weight until the girl let out a muffled, choked gasp of pain beneath him.

"Much better," Cedric sighed comfortably, reaching over to the silver tray on the table to pluck a thick dark cigar. "I want to do this to that guy too... the next time I see him."

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