Chapter 112: The Blood Auction and the Heir of Ash
I. The Game of Rich Fools
The atmosphere within the Golden Lotus Auction House was a cavern of luxury and vice, where opulence smelled of expensive perfume and greed left a metallic aftertaste on the tongue. Jade lamps hung from the ceiling, casting emerald glints over the audience—merchants, low-lineage cultivators, and the emissaries of clans who believed themselves untouchable. They sat in velvet-lined boxes, hiding their true intentions behind silk fans and porcelain smiles.
Samael, concealed under the identity of "Dorian Vylos," reclined in his private throne with the sluggishness of one who has learned that true power does not need to announce itself. A wine glass rested in his gloved hand. His eyes, disguised beneath a minor glamour, scanned the room with a predatory patience, while Kael, stationed behind him, feigned boredom. Tension floated in the air: everyone sensed that the night brought danger, but no one wanted to be the first to admit it.
The auctioneer, a small man with a sugary voice and a false smile, presented the Millennial Ice Pearl, lifting it with jeweled fingers as if holding the heart of a dragon.
—"Starting price: five thousand spirit stones!"
In an opposite box, Lorian of the Star Ice Empire raised his paddle with indifference, his face as cold and smooth as a slab of stone.
—"Six thousand," he said, without looking at the stage. It was a matter of pride; no ice-attribute object should escape his collection.
Samael didn't even flinch. He swirled the wine in his glass. Kael, acting as his spokesman, raised his voice:
—"Ten thousand," Kael said, as if buying a sweet for a child.
Lorian gritted his teeth. A murmur rippled through the hall.
—"Twelve thousand!" Lorian spat, his voice no longer so serene.
Samael let out an audible yawn, not deigning to look at his rival.
—"Twenty thousand," Samael said himself, dropping the figure like a stone into a pond.
Silence fell like a leaden shroud. The pearl's actual value barely reached eight thousand. The murmurs turned into anxious whispers. Merchants exchanged looks filled with avarice and resentment. Lorian turned red. He couldn't spend that much on something so trivial, but he couldn't stand public humiliation either.
—"Keep it, you wasteful idiot!" he spat, slamming the armrest of his chair.
The manager nearly fainted when Samael, without even glancing at the pearl being offered to him, tossed it over his shoulder to Kael.
—"Use it to cool your drink. It's hot in here," Samael said with disdain.
The stifled laughter and the sound of Lorian's broken chair sealed the humiliation. A single look was enough for some attendees to understand: this "nouveau riche" was dangerous not for his gold, but for his absolute contempt for the unwritten rules of the aristocracy.
II. The Ghosts of Silver
A chime of crystal bells announced the next segment. The lights dimmed, and from the stage rose bars of black iron, stained with rust and dried blood. The auctioneer lowered his voice, turning it almost solemn.
—"Distinguished guests… the special lot of this evening. Rescued—or rather hunted—in the southern purges, the remains of a vassal clan that dared to challenge the order."
Inside the cage were twelve figures: filthy, famished, bound with Qi-suppression shackles that cut to the bone. Gray rags barely covered bodies marked by hunger and torture. But what truly distinguished them was their hair—a dull silver like ash—and their hollow gazes, resigned to death or servitude.
—"Cultivation slaves of the Silver Ash Clan!" the auctioneer announced. —"Their men are exceptional miners. Their women… valuable for dual cultivation."
An old man in the front row licked his lips, looking at the women with greed. Around the room, some attendees looked away, while others made bets with practiced indolence.
Kael exhaled a growl; the air vibrated with the threat of violence. These were vassals of Lilith's line, fallen so low that almost no one remembered their loyalty. Samael remained motionless, but his eyes—beneath the illusion—sharpened, scanning every face. Almost all of them had broken spirits. Almost.
III. The Chained Wolf
In the darkest corner of the cage, a young man—barely older than Kael—stood tall. He didn't look at the floor, nor at the others. He looked at the audience, his lips pressed tight and his eyes a stormy gray. A deep scar crossed his throat, and burn marks decorated his bony arms. The air around him vibrated, not with fear, but with distilled hatred. A hatred so pure it felt tangible.
Samael sensed the echo, a spark he recognized.
[System: Target Analysis]
Name: Altair (Ashborne).
Age: 19 years old.
Cultivation: Transcendence Stage 8 (Sealed and degraded to Stage 2 due to torture).
Status: Critical. Malnutrition. Metal poisoning.
Potential: S-Class (Latent).
Hidden Bloodline Detected: Ash Monarch Body. (Absorbs and purifies metal residues and dead fire to strengthen itself. The more damage he receives, the tougher his skin becomes).
There you are… Samael thought. A reflection of what I once was? Or the knife I need?
IV. The Bidding War
—"Starting price for the complete lot: fifty thousand spirit stones!"
The lustful old man raised his hand: —"Sixty thousand."
Lorian, his ego still wounded, smirked: —"Seventy thousand," looking at Samael with resentment.
Samael stood up, his figure casting an unusual shadow over the box. He didn't shout. His voice, reinforced with a slight touch of Void Qi, rumbled in the bones of those present:
—"Two hundred thousand."
The room froze. The old man coughed and nearly choked. Lorian stammered, and the attendees looked like fish gasping out of water. This was the price of a Heaven-grade artifact, not a handful of dying slaves.
—"T-two hundred thousand?" the auctioneer stammered.
—"Did I stutter?" Samael replied coldly. —"And I want them released and brought here. Now."
Lorian tried to open his mouth, but his advisor stopped him with a gesture. The humiliation was worse than the defeat.
—"Sold to the Young Master of Box Three!" the auctioneer declared, his voice trembling.
V. The Patriarch's Test
Minutes later, the door to the box burst open. Guards pushed the slaves inside; the stench of dried blood, sweat, and fear contaminated the golden air of the room. The captives fell to their knees, bracing for a blow. All except Altair.
The silver-haired youth stood his ground, though his legs were shaking. His eyes, gray and icy, locked onto Samael.
—"If you're going to kill us, do it fast," Altair rasped, his voice a relic of rusted iron.
Kael stepped forward, releasing a Dragon aura that made the guards recoil. —"Careful, pup," he warned.
Samael raised a hand, restraining Kael. He approached Altair, observing him like one evaluates a broken dagger.
—"You have guts," Samael said softly. —"Or you're stupid." —"I'm the walking dead. The dead have no manners."
Samael smiled, a genuine look. —"Good. I need that rage."
With a simple gesture, a dark line cut through the air. Cling! The shackles on Altair and the others fell to the floor, sliced clean. The group gasped; some wept, others touched their wrists in disbelief. Altair looked at his hands, then at Samael, with suspicion and something else… hope.
—"What do you want? No one pays that much to free ghosts." —"I want to see if you are worthy."
[System: Recruitment Mission Activated]
Target: Altair Ashborne.
Mission: Iron Baptism.
Condition: He must defeat and kill Gorno, the Auction Master who executed his father. Samael must not intervene.
Samael pulled out a black sword, heavy and unadorned, and threw it at Altair's feet. The youth hesitated. He looked at his people: tears, open wounds, gazes that no longer believed in anything. A memory flashed through Samael's mind—his own prison, the night he decided to stop being a victim.
—"Gorno has the keys to your past. And your future. Do you want to run when hell burns, or do you want to avenge your father?"
Altair wavered. Hatred and hope fought in his expression. His fingers closed around the cold hilt.
—"If I die," he said without looking away, "get my people out of this place." —"You have my word," Samael answered, and there was respect in that promise.
Altair turned and walked out, dragging the sword. The door closed behind him with a crash. For an instant, the room seemed to hold its breath.
VI. The Shadow Game
Samael broke the silence.
—"Malak."
The shadow beneath his throne rippled, and a figure made of solid darkness emerged, red eyes glowing.
—"Ensure no one interferes in Altair's duel. One on one."
Malak obscured his form, his voice like a promise whispered by blades.
—"And give the signal to Violeta." —"Ready to burn the nest, Master?" —"Tonight, the blood auction has only just begun."
In the hall, nervous murmurs filled the air. No one yet suspected that the Golden Lotus Auction House was about to become a battlefield of wills, blood, and fire. While Altair ascended, alone and wounded, toward the executioner's office, shadows already danced on the ceilings, and the golden fragrance of wealth mingled with the omen of ash.
Outside, the storm lurked. And for the first time in years, the ashes were ready to choke the fire.
[END OF CHAPTER 112]