Daevan tossed a small scroll onto the table. Feran unrolled it—a fake document complete with an impeccably forged royal seal.
"If you want to help, I can get you in as shadow nobles—black market traders from a foreign territory. But the risk is clear: if you're caught, you won't get out alive. We could rescue one or two slaves each week… sneakily. But if you go in… we can take down the head organizer. One swift strike."
Altair was silent for a moment, staring at the map. His heart was cold, but his eyes glowed.
"We didn't come here to sneak around."
Daevan looked at him sharply. "Big words, Golden Boy."
Altair turned, his gaze sharp but calm.
"Not words. Just a plan yet to be executed."
Three days felt like a rapidly fleeing shadow. Since the meeting beneath the harbor, Altair and Feran had divided tasks—while Daevan handled documents and entry routes, they had to arrange disguises, communication codes, and convey all of it to Ilanor.
At the inn, the night before the big day…
Quartzis was trying on a new pitch-black robe with a lightly spiked collar, then spun around in front of the mirror.
"I look like a dark prince," he said with a proud smile.
"A delusional prince," Lazric retorted, poking his back with a roll of fabric. "You can't even hold one glass of wine without coughing."
Quartzis scoffed. "At least I'm not the boastful one's backup."
"Shut up, both of you," Feran said flatly,
inspecting a small locket that would be used as a magical communication token. "One mistake in there… means death."
Altair stood before the table, his eyes fixed on a small map of the auction area. "Ilanor will wait on the west side of the main building. We need to cause a small disturbance early on, just enough to scatter the guards. But don't let it break out before its time."
Daevan entered carrying a small wooden box. "These are your costumes. Nobles from the north, the Dagreth clan—known for buying strange slaves for magic experiments." He opened the box, revealing luxurious robes full of foreign symbols and half-face masks with carvings.
Feran picked up one mask, turning it over. "We'll use this identity?"
"And a made-up foreign language. Don't talk much. Let Altair and me do the talking,"
Daevan replied. "One more thing… the auction's person in charge, his name is Velkram. Formerly the head of the Niaris Empire's western forces. Cruel and greedy. If we can take him down, the other networks will collapse on their own."
Altair clenched his fist. "Tomorrow night, everything changes."
The Tomorrow Night
The building where the auction was held was once the ruins of an old theater—its stage cracked, its walls overgrown with traces of fire magic. But that night, the ruins were brought back to life. Magical candles hung from vaulted ceilings, casting a pale green light, and the stage floor was replaced with obsidian wood that reflected light like frozen blood.
One by one, black carriages stopped in front of the main gate. Dark nobles descended, wearing long robes and faces covered by half-masks. They were escorted by hired guards, and some brought their own personal slaves, as if to show off.
Among the crowd… there was one special carriage more heavily guarded than the others. Inside, Ilanor sat bound, his body wrapped in shabby cloth like a tamed, high-class slave. His eyes were downcast, but beneath those lids… his mind worked sharply.
He had deliberately allowed himself to be "captured" three days ago. All on Daevan's advice—to infiltrate as an auction item and disrupt the system from within.
When the carriage stopped and the door opened, a guard pulled the chain around his neck.
"Get out. Today you become gold."
Ilanor didn't answer, only bowed his head. But he counted his steps… the floor… the number of guards… the position of the magic control device on his bracelet. Everything.
On the upper balcony, Altair and Feran were already seated in VIP positions, their faces hidden behind masks full of ancient carvings. Their voices were modulated by minor magic. Daevan stood behind them, whispering crucial info via an illusory voice spell:
"Ilanor will be presented in the middle of the session. One of the most expensive bids. That will be our signal."
Altair looked down at the line of slaves kneeling in silence. The magical candle light cast long shadows on their faces.
Feran spoke softly, "He's there…"
Altair nodded. "Just waiting for the small disturbance…"
Outside the building, Lazric and Quartzis crept underground, carrying tubes of the Professor's corrosive liquid. Lazric placed it at a structural point, then lit a small fuse.
"Quartz, ready?"
"If peeing your pants means ready, then I'm very ready."
Inside, Velkram ascended the podium with a rotten smile. His robe was layered with fake dragon skin, and the golden chalice in his hand gleamed.
"Welcome, Gentlemen… Tonight, we present the spoils of the dirty world… the oldest races, powerful blood, exotic slaves… and the rarest of all…"
He snapped his fingers.
Magical music flowed, and two guards pushed a woman in chains—Ilanor.
Three days ago at night…
In the inn's basement, Ilanor stood in the middle of a magic circle drawn by Daevan. Around him, illusion scrolls hung in the air—ready to project his disguise magic.
"So… I'll look like… a young female elf slave?" Ilanor murmured, looking at the temporary reflection in the magic mirror—a young girl with silver hair, shabby clothes, and greenish eyes. Her skin was pale, her posture alluring, and her face… almost too perfect.
"Yep. An exotic young elf. The most sought-after species at auctions, especially if they look 'obedient but stubborn'," Daevan explained while opening a box containing a fake control bracelet.
Feran stood in the corner of the room, maintaining his usual cold expression. But when Ilanor turned and smiled weakly with the soft voice of an elf girl, Feran quickly turned away.
Daevan squinted. "Huh? Your face is red?"
"I… I'm just hot," Feran replied, but Altair immediately interjected.
"You're having a nosebleed."
Feran quickly wiped his nose.
"An interesting reaction," Ilanor muttered flatly in his original deep voice, though his face still looked like a young girl's. "Don't worry, Feran. After this, I'll be back to being a dusty old man grumbling all day."
Quartzis in the corner burst out laughing. "Bro, imagine an old man with a mustache using a girl's voice! This is going to be super traumatic for the nobles later!"
"That's exactly what we're hoping for," Altair said. "They'll be fooled… then humiliated."
Ilanor took a deep breath. "Alright. Send me as bait. But when the time comes, I want to hit someone over the head."
Back to event...
Thin fabric covered her body, but the scars and the forcibly diminished noble aura could not be completely hidden. The room grew quieter.
"This woman," Velkram continued, "a former captain of a nomadic race. Now… hers to whoever dares to pay!"
Some nobles chuckled lowly, starting to raise their hands and offer magic coins and rare artifacts.
Altair closed his eyes for a moment. "One minute left."
Daevan nodded. The reserve team had infiltrated. Feran gripped his locket and activated the magical link.
—Wait for a small explosion sound. You start then.
Ilanor, who had been kneeling silently… finally opened his eyes. His gaze was cold.
BOOM—
A small explosion shook the north side. Dust fell, guards around the stage began to move in a panic.
Velkram looked up. "What was that?!"
Suddenly, the magic bracelet on Ilanor's hand cracked, like invisible shattered glass. The chains released from his hands with a small rumble, broken by a trigger magic channeled through the ground.
He stood. Calm. Firm.
One of the guards tried to grab him—but Ilanor immediately swung his handcuff chain like a weapon and struck the man's face, sending him sprawling.
"You!" Velkram shouted.
"Bastard," Ilanor said, his steps firm, "that's a more fitting word for you."
He struck the magic control pillar for the slaves in the middle of the room. The pillar exploded in a deep blue light—and all control bracelets on the other slaves immediately went dark.
From the upper balcony, Altair, Feran, and Daevan jumped. Their robes fluttered, stirred by magic. Three shadows fell like meteors in the dark. But when their bodies touched the floor, only one moved instantly—Feran.
Without much theatrical movement, he swung his hand. Thin iron plates emerged from beneath his robe, embedding themselves between the rows of slaves and nobles.
Building a flat wall of grey metal, cold, neat, and brutally separating them.
Feran stood before them all. Upright. Firm. His white eyes glowed calmly.
"This place… is not an auction stage. It's an altar of sin."
He drew two black daggers from his back, his eyes fixed on Velkram on the podium.
"And tonight, I… am the executioner."
Meanwhile, Daevan immediately activated a sealing scroll. Red glowing magical ropes spread to the walls, enveloping the building like a fine snare—cutting off outward communication. No one would call for help. No one would escape.
From the side of the stage, Ilanor slowly emerged, his body returned to its original form: old, weary, yet still holding a spark of life. He looked at Feran, then Altair.
"I thought you'd come sooner."
"We wanted them to hear the bang," Altair replied curtly.
From above, Velkram roared. Magical shields ignited all over his body, energy whips coiled.
"KILL THEM ALL!!"
And hell broke loose.
Hired guards scattered in all directions.
Feran immediately struck the ground. Iron plates protruded like thorns, sending three guards flying backward. He moved quickly, almost invisibly. Like a cold spirit cutting without a sound.
One dagger strike severed a tendon. Two opposing movements pierced a chest. And a small throw—**an iron spike—**stabbed a sorcerer's eye before his spell could be cast.
"Don't use magic… if you're not ready to die quickly."
Feran's steps never slowed. He darted into the center of the room, clearing a path for the slaves who were beginning to flee.
On the other side, Lazric and Quartzis emerged from a secret passage. They pulled the slaves towards the exit, giving brief instructions while clearing some obstacles.
One noble tried to stop them—Quartzis kicked his stomach, sending the man crashing into a crate.
"Sorry, sir! The path to hell is that way!"
Lazric pulled him along, laughing. "You're crazy."
"And productive!"
In the center, Velkram descended from the podium. His energy whip vibrated in the air. Feran stood before him, unmoving.
"You think just because you can kill a few guards… you can fight me?! I'm an Imperial army head!"
Feran looked at him.
"Then who is more shameful… an army head, or the slave you sold who now stands behind me?"
Velkram groaned and attacked. His whip struck the air with a loud crack. But Feran dodged almost silently—as if reading the wind.
Then—the first attack. A knife embedded itself in Velkram's shoulder, then a second slash cut his whip in two. Feran bent his knees, pushing his body forward and hitting Velkram's stomach with his elbow, sending the man flying.
Velkram staggered, bleeding.
"W-who are you…!?"
Feran slowly approached, his white eyes glowing faintly through the dust.
"We are no one…"
He raised his knife.
"We are simply… remnants of a world once destroyed."
Velkram tried to retaliate—but from behind, Altair stomped his foot. Golden spikes emerged from the floor, binding Velkram's body like a crucifix. His magic shield collapsed. His breath remained… but his power was over.
The room was silent.
After all...
After a small fire was lit to destroy the documents and the stage of sin, they exited through the underground passage. Their breaths were heavy, their clothes covered in dust and traces of burnt magic.
The sky at the harbor slowly changed color. The sun began to penetrate the city's grey haze, dispelling the remnants of night and all the sins hidden within it.
At the edge of the harbor, on an old pier facing the sea, Ilanor stood calmly. Beside him, Daevan, Altair, Feran, and Quartzis and Lazric were waiting, the latter two sitting leaning against wooden crates, exhausted but still quietly joking.
For a moment, no one spoke. Only the sea wind and the gentle sound of waves accompanied them.
Altair finally broke the silence.
"Velkram is captured. The auction destroyed. The first chain is broken…"
He looked at the others, especially Ilanor and Daevan.
"…how about we hunt down Cidra Varnen immediately?"
Daevan's eyes widened slightly. He chuckled stiffly, then slowly shook his head.
"I think my task was more than enough to give you trouble. I… am not a fighter. You have a fire I can't follow."
Ilanor added in a heavier tone.
"Velkram is the heart of this system. He's the hunter, the guardian, the overseer. The nightmare catcher. Now he's in our hands… the slaves will start moving. Cidra Varnen is just a shadow without his guards."
"We will mobilize trusted channels from the Caelvarion Kingdom. Help will come. You can… leave."
He looked at all of them. "And before you go… is there anything you need?"
Altair slowly shook his head.
"No. We… are used to walking on our own feet."
But Feran immediately interrupted.
"A ship."
Altair turned sharply to him. "Feran…"
"We need a ship," Feran repeated firmly.
Daevan frowned. "What for?"
Altair opened his mouth, wanting to be honest.
"We… have to go to—"
"To continue our adventure."
Feran clapped Altair on the chest and immediately closed his brother's mouth, forcing a slight smile at Daevan and Ilanor.
"We don't know our exact destination yet. But the wind's direction is clear… not towards land."
Ilanor looked at them sharply, yet in his eyes was something different: not suspicion, but… understanding.
"In that case," he said, "you will get a ship. But not just any ship. I will prepare a ship with a name that… won't be suspicious. And a trustworthy crew."
Daevan added, "A small ship, but fast. Suitable for narrow channels or deep waters. You'll need that if you really want to disappear from the map."
Feran just nodded. Quartzis stood up and stretched.
"I like the sea. Hopefully I don't get seasick."
Lazric raised his hand. "I get sick of lessons, the sea seems easy."
Ilanor chuckled softly, then approached Altair.
"Whatever your path… make sure you still have a reason to return."
Altair only responded with a nod.
The sun still hung in the western sky, illuminating the city that was beginning to slow down.
And though their feet had yet to move, the journey had already begun…