Beneath Guest No. 40’s mask, his face was stiff like lacquered clay, and he trembled like a reed in wind. His finery couldn’t smother his fury; veins corded his hand like taut ropes on a dock.

Onstage, the young auctioneer kept asking, her tender voice tolling like a death bell in fog. No. 40 almost struck like a storm, but a companion barred him like a stone wall.

“Congratulations to No. 45 for winning again,” she chimed, her smile bright as lantern light. “In my own name, I promise the lots will only grow more precious.”

The third count fell like a gavel thunderclap, and the lot belonged to the round VIP box of No. 45. Eyes swung toward that ring like arrows, and wary hearts rose like shields.

“Quite a bold hand… Lilo, the security of this auction…” Aphelia’s concern came first, a chill like night mist, then her words followed like measured footfalls.

“At least within the imperial capital,” Lilo said, calm as banked embers, “there’s no problem.”

Aphelia’s worry sketched blood in the water, the thought of post-auction ambushes prowling like wolves. Many auctions turned to chaos the moment the curtain fell, a battlefield blooming like thorns.

Lilo shook her head, her tone cool as winter glass. “Elsewhere, maybe. But this house bears royal backing, a crest like a crown over iron. Their people handle delivery, and anyone who moves before that gets erased like chalk in rain.”

She smiled, the edge hidden like a blade in velvet, leaning on her last sentence like a hidden trap. Safe until delivery, like a boat in harbor. Afterward… the seas open like jaws.

It was shrewd as a fox in snow. The royal family keeps peace within the walls like a garden gate, then lets the outside brawl like thunder, even stepping in to cull rivals like pruning shears.

At that thought, Aphelia almost applauded the Demon World’s royals, her admiration a flare like gold leaf. Not a lofty art, more a weight of iron, yet it feeds them like a river.

Seeing she understood, Lilo stopped speaking, her smile a thin crescent like a waning moon. She turned her gaze to the stage, waiting for the next lot like a hunter in brush.

The next lots weren’t tied to any True God, but they glittered like dew on jade—rare treasures or inheritance scrolls humming like bees. Bidders burned hot as summer fields.

Even Lilo waded in, her bids stirring mud like oars in a lake. She scooped up rare pieces like shells, each useful to her or her house like timber and stone.

Their dark-red wine settled as time fell like ash; the color softened, impurities sloughing like old bark. What remained was essence, bright as the ruby heart of dusk.

Watching them nearly crack skulls for one inheritance, Aphelia let out a quiet, bitter smile like smoke. With enough coin, her former self would have lunged the same, rain or blade.

The auction was, as Lilo said, worth more than its weight, a harvest like heavy grain. Earlier, Aphelia even saw materials fine enough to forge a second Elven Holy Sword, gleaming like frost.

Temptation warmed her like embers, then cooled. She remembered her state and let it go like a leaf on water.

The Holy Sword was built to magnify Arcane Power, one spark into ten like mirrors. But the strength in Aphelia now had left Arcane Power behind like a shed skin, an unknown star burning inside her.

She felt if she wielded it now, the blade would turn to ash like paper in flame, undone by her own force like night devouring a candle.

So she set that plan down, her calm smooth as river stone, and waited for the curtain to fall like snow.

“Ah—what a delightful night with all of you,” the girl beamed, hands opening like petals. “We’re near the end. The next lot is dessert before the finale.”

Spotlights split like rings of moonlight and circled the stage like swallows. From behind the curtain, servers pushed transparent display cases, gliding out like icebergs into light.

Gasps rippled through the guests like wind through wheat; someone even cried out, quick as a sparrow’s chirp.

“Lilo… are Demon World slave auctions really something you’d put onstage?” Aphelia’s frown stitched her brow like a tight seam.

“Mm… it depends,” Lilo said, brows pinched like hooks. “Simple population trade sits inside Demon World law, neat as ink.”

Aphelia said nothing more, her restraint cool as shade. She wasn’t a hothead from cheap tales, leaping to break deals like a glass hammer.

With a slave-based system, that trade runs on the surface and below like twin rivers—an economic pillar, a bridge between nobles like braided rope. Many serfs arrive through it like caravans.

So even if she disliked it, Aphelia couldn’t judge it through simple right and wrong, balance scales like night and day. All she could do was refuse to join, her silence a closed fan.

Her unease didn’t come from the trade, but from the figures in the glass like stars caught in ice. Brown skin and white hair, women whose aura felt out of joint like a lone drumbeat, yet stamped like the bloodline of a great beast.

“As you can see,” the auctioneer sang, smile sweet as candy, “these women are descendants of the Abyss. Whatever your ‘use,’ they’re rather… practical.”

Aphelia barely heard the patter; a force was calling her like a tide, tugging her heart like a fishing line. She couldn’t find its source, only feel it hiding among those displayed women like flame behind silk.

“Lilo, can you buy them for me?” Her request landed soft as snow, but the need thrummed like a bowstring.

“Aphelia, do you know what descendants of the Abyss are?” Lilo’s frown deepened, wary as a cat in rain.

Aphelia shook her head, calm as a lake at dawn. “I don’t. But something inside me answers them like thunder. I need contact to know.”

Hearing that, Lilo stopped digging, trust settling like sand. She read Aphelia’s hunger and found no strange desire, only clarity like cold light.

She’d meant to win the final lot for Aphelia, a promise held like a coin, but her friend’s wish came first like spring. If the True God’s power was involved, this was no pebble but a mountain.

And with Merlin behind Aphelia like a great tree, even Abyss blood wouldn’t trouble them like weeds.

Thinking that, Lilo bid with barely a pause, her number flashing like a banner. Yet the hall stayed quiet, empty as a winter pond.

The auctioneer blinked, surprise folding like a fan, then hid it like a pearl. She tried to stir the room, voice bright as bells, hoping for more hands like leaves in wind.

This time only a few rose, timid as shy deer; the increments crawled like ants. Both Aphelia and Lilo were caught off guard like grass in sudden rain.

Even No. 45, who had cut in earlier like a blade, stayed still as stone. Lilo watched him like a hawk, and no one raised before the hammer fell like a final drumbeat.

Even knowing some of the background, Lilo puzzled over the room, her thoughts circling like crows. Why abandon the Abyss blood now, prize ripe as fruit? Even if the Demon King had forbidden it, tonight looked like an exception carved in ice.

Buying that lot didn’t drain much coin, a light pull like a ladle. Hope for the final item rekindled in Lilo like fire under tea, and even she began to smile, expectant as dawn.

Aphelia stayed uneasy, her heart a thrum like rain on tiles. She closed her eyes, turned inward like a diver, and followed the current of power to its source like a stream to a spring.

“Looks like everyone’s saving strength for the last lot,” the auctioneer sighed, regret warm and soft as peach blush. “Even the Abyss couldn’t rouse you—my own failure, hmm?”

As the display cases drifted away like retreating tides, she spoke with a tender look, sweet as honey, and the room rustled like leaves.

“Then I hope you go all out for the final piece,” she said, and her regret fell away like a mask. Her smile flared like sunrise; she snapped her fingers, and the spotlights died like stars. In the same breath, she vanished from the stage like a flicker of smoke.