Westminster Bank

The High Priest clapped his hands on the stage. A cage covered by a gray cloth was pushed forward. As the light hit the cloth, the faint outline of a humanoid figure could be seen behind it. It looked as if there might be two people inside.

The guests present were stunned for a moment. Recalling what the High Priest had said earlier about the Magical Creatures Protection Organization, their interest was suddenly piqued.

Various speculations, accompanied by hushed whispers, began to circulate throughout the venue.

"A Magical Creature with a human form... could it be a Mermaid from the Arctic?"

"No, no, no. If it were a Mermaid, they’d use a fish tank, not a cage. I think it’s more likely a Birdman, the kind that was once mistaken for an Angel in Mesopotamia."

"If it were a Birdman, it should have feathers. This figure looks small and thin, so that’s unlikely. Maybe it’s a Centaur from the Greek Peninsula."

"..."

Hearing the guests’ speculations, a thought struck Baron. He recalled the Dragon Attendants he had seen in the Dragon Eater Association, people who could freely switch between human and dragon forms. He connected this to the plot he was aware of: the Dragon Eater Association planned to use the attack on the auction as a cover to release the Mad Dragon from beneath Traitor’s Cliff.

Baron felt it was highly probable this was a Dragon Attendant from the Dragon Eater Association. His knuckles tightened. ’Is it about to start?’

The High Priest was clearly satisfied with the chattering speculation from the guests below the stage. He clapped his hands to signal for silence and then said with a smile:

"Ladies and gentlemen, you must all know that every patient infected with Demon’s Blood will inevitably develop a tendency toward physical Demonization.

In the academic field of Alchemy, this phenomenon is generally called ’Contamination.’ Based on the location and degree of the ’Contamination,’ there are also specific classifications."

The guests exchanged glances, each realizing something from the High Priest’s words.

"’Contamination’ primarily changes the patient’s appearance, so the main basis for classification is also appearance."

"Generally speaking, as long as the ’Contamination’ is harmonious and well-proportioned with the person’s body—for instance, a Demon’s hand replacing the original, a Demon’s tail actually growing from the tailbone, or a Demon’s horns growing on the head instead of somewhere else—then this can be called ’Good Contamination.’ Everything else... well, that’s what we have on stage,"

Sure enough, the next moment, the High Priest clapped his hands, and a group of attendants dragged out people whose heads, and in some cases their entire bodies, were covered with gray cloths.

As he spoke, the hoods and long cloths covering them were stripped away one by one. Revealed to the crowd was a line of infected individuals who, in Baron’s previous life, would have been dubbed "Aberrants" or "Pokémon" by countless netizens.

The individuals stood awkwardly on the exhibition platform, put on display. They uncomfortably met the gazes of the aristocrats in the auction hall, who scrutinized them the way one might inspect livestock at a market.

After a brief moment of silence, a lady’s giggle, like the honk of a goose, broke the quiet. The crowd erupted in laughter. The sound echoed back and forth across the magnificent, resplendent hall, and even the orchestral music playing in the background seemed to shift into something from a ’Tom and Jerry’ cartoon.

Even Freya’s lips curled up in a slight, unconscious smile, for she had spotted a man on stage subconsciously picking at his foot with a hand that was growing out of his leg.

Only a few people weren’t laughing. For instance, Isabella and the members of the Beowulf Clan she led. The clansmen knew that Miss Eldest despised bloodline discrimination. To laugh now, knowing she had already been designated the next head of the Beowulf Family, would be tantamount to having a death wish.

Barbara Hestia seemed utterly uninterested in the proceedings. Since the auction began, she had done little more than drink and explain to Baron the origins of each Taboo Item that appeared. She would only offer a polite, perfunctory smile when someone happened to look her way.

It seemed she was more interested in Baron than in the auction.

And then there was Baron Constantin. He wasn’t laughing either, even though some of the contaminated people on stage were, admittedly, laughably grotesque.

On the stage, the contaminated individuals could only respond to the jeers of the noble gentlemen and wealthy young ladies with fawning, forced smiles.

"Hey, Mr. Auctioneer! With so many of these infected, give us a starting price! I’ll buy them!" someone in the crowd shouted, raising their paddle. "I want to buy them all for my collection."

Baron raised an eyebrow. Isabella said coolly, "Anke, fourth son of the Demon Hunter Wesel Family. A Black Iron Demon Hunter. If I’m not mistaken, your clan has a match scheduled at the Demon Hunter Association’s Christmas event. Cripple his hands and feet for me."

A young man from the Beowulf Clan acknowledged the order.

Those nearby felt a collective twitch of their brows. ’Just as the rumors say,’ they thought, ’the eldest daughter of the Beowulf Family is truly a tyrant.’

The High Priest chuckled. "Sir, I’m very sorry to inform you, but they are not for sale."

The roar of laughter in the hall grew even louder, and the smiles on the faces of the "not-for-sale items" on stage became even more strained.

Baron rubbed his arm, silently warning himself to resist the urge to flip the table.

Isabella’s expression grew even darker. Even Daoist Nun Lucy, who normally chirped away like a lark, fell silent. She obviously knew that her older sister despised this kind of bloodline discrimination more than anything.

Freya had been about to laugh, too. But when she turned and saw that neither Baron nor Isabella were smiling—and that even her own future sister-in-law looked utterly bored—she inexplicably thought of the other woman dwelling inside her. ’What would *she* do right now?’

Then she remembered the truth about Anthony from the recording pen, and her heart instantly went cold.

In the end, however, she only clutched the hem of her long dress. ’No matter what Anthony was ultimately trying to do, he’s still my brother,’ she thought. ’And I will never forgive the one who killed him!’

She looked toward Elder Pence of the Hestia Family. Elder Pence happened to turn his head and look at her at that exact moment. His old face, cracked like tree bark, remained as placid as an old well, but behind his murky eyes, the faint shadow of a fierce beast flickered.

When the laughter finally died down, a man in an elite-looking suit shouted from the audience.

"Sir, we’ve seen enough of these defective products. Isn’t it about time we got to the main event?"

"Yes, just as this gentleman says. The reason I’m showing you these ’defective products’ is merely to whet your appetites. It is as they say: one cannot truly appreciate the beauty of Windsor Castle without first having seen the Taj Mahal."

The High Priest smiled. "And now, I invite you all to forget the Taj Mahal, and let us behold Windsor Castle."

He gestured to the Attendants around the cage and to the orchestra on the other side. The music swelled, and at its crescendo, the Attendants all grabbed the gray cloth covering the mysterious cage.

The gray cloth was finally yanked away. The petite figure inside the cage was like a flower bud being forcefully pried open, blossoming before everyone’s eyes.

She had a small face, exquisitely carved like jade, and it was stained with tears. She had clearly just been crying. Her crimson pupils brought to mind the forbidden fruit from the Garden of Eden.

Her mouth was gagged with a strip of cloth. Her wrists and ankles, as white as frost and snow, were bound in heavy, black shackles. She was sprawled awkwardly on the floor, a humiliating position that nevertheless revealed the graceful curve of her body.

Her long, silver-white hair was spread across the floor like soft silk. Dressed in a moon-white robe, she looked like a silver-white Angel against the backdrop of her hair, or perhaps an Elf.

The reason one might think of an Angel was because she had a pair of smooth, pure white wings. The enormous appendages drooped weakly behind her, explaining the double silhouette everyone had seen behind the gray cloth—one of the shadows had been cast by these massive wings.

—————————————

[Yelena Constantin’s Secret Notes

March 4, 1975 / Plains / Overcast

Baron asked me today if I missed Mother.

He said he might have a way to bring her back, but that he would need my help.

I agreed.

I don’t know how to tell Baron, but I think I saw Mother in a dream today. She looked rather haggard and kept repeating a single word I couldn’t make out.]

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