3rd POV
Arto and Sona stood side by side on the observation deck, the city sprawling beneath them like a living tapestry of light and water. The Tree of Life pulsed softly, its branches of glowing river tracing elegant paths through towers, gardens, and mist-shrouded streets. Arto pointed occasionally—curious, precise—while Sona named each landmark in her calm, measured voice.
"That cluster of floating spheres is the Eastern Hydro-Labs—herb cultivation under controlled mana-flows." "The tall spire with the violet crown is the Sapphire Observatory—leyline charting station." "Down there, the curved building with the open roof is the River Concert Hall—acoustics tuned to the water's natural resonance."
Then Arto's finger paused on a structure near the river's central fork: a low, elegant dome of deep sapphire glass and black marble, ringed by subtle wards that shimmered like oil on water. No bright lights. No crowds. Just quiet opulence—and a faint, almost imperceptible hum of contained power. "That one," he said.
Sona followed his gaze. "The Sapphire Veil Exchange," she answered. Her tone flattened slightly—professional, but edged with distaste. "The Auction House. Where the rich throw money at meaningless artworks, artifacts and sometimes.....people"
Arto's eyes narrowed faintly. "What kind of people do they sell?"
Sona exhaled through her nose—short, controlled. "Many kinds. Mostly powerful individuals—rogue magicians, captured strays, disgraced retainers, even low-ranking nobles who fell out of favor. They're brought here by bounty hunters, rival houses, or sometimes their own clans as punishment or debt settlement. The nobles who bid don't want to waste time searching for peerage pieces themselves. They come here, throw money at the problem, and walk away with a ready-made servant—loyalty enforced by binding contracts, soul-oaths, or worse."
She paused, pink eyes fixed on the distant dome. "It's outright slavery. Legal, sanctioned, and untouchable. The Auction Houses are run by the highest houses—King-ranked like Bael, Paimon, Beleth, Purson, Zagan… and most Prince houses. Sitri is Prince-ranked, but even we can't touch them. Any move against one would be seen as an attack on the entire hierarchy of Hell. It would spark war—open or shadow. No one risks that over 'business.'"
Arto's expression did not change, but the blue flames in his pupils flickered once—sharper, colder. "Gremory has one too?" Sona nodded. "In Runeas. The Crimson Veil Exchange. It hasn't been active since the war with the Phenex Alliance twenty years ago. Gremory was deemed too weakened—financially and politically—to maintain the operation. The house couldn't afford the bribes, the security, the political capital it took to keep it running. So it was shuttered. Quietly. No announcement. Just… empty halls."
She glanced at him sidelong. "But with the growth since your arrival—the Stabilizer, the Simulation Room, the defense grid, the new revenue streams… the clan is rich again. Strong again. The elders have already started whispering about reopening it. Quietly. 'For tradition,' they say. 'For alliances.'"
He turned to her, voice low and calm. "Does your father have any stake in that business?" Sona's expression tightened—just a flicker—before she answered. "…Yes. A minor one. Nothing controlling, nothing visible in the public ledgers. It's just enough to maintain connections with the higher society of the Pillar houses. The King-ranked families expect everyone to show face at their tables, even if only symbolically."
She glanced down at the Auction House—its gold filigree catching the river's glow like veins of greed. "Father usually comes here with Mother. It's almost a weekend ritual. They arrive together, sit in one of the private boxes, watch the bidding for an hour or two, then leave. They've never bought anything. Mother doesn't allow it. She says the whole place reeks of desperation disguised as power."
Arto listened without interrupting, blue flames in his eyes steady and unreadable. Sona continued, voice quieter now. "They never told me the real reason they go. I always assumed it was politics—showing respect, keeping old alliances from fraying. But the way Mother speaks about it… there's something else. Something they don't share."
Arto exhaled once—slow, measured. "They come for intel," he said simply. Sona blinked. "Intel?"
He nodded. "Not the bidding itself. Not the relics or the people on the block. The room. The people in it. The Auction House isn't just a slave market or an art gallery—it's one of the few neutral grounds in the Underworld where the wealthiest, the most powerful, and the most ruthless gather under the same roof. Protected by King houses. No fees beyond the house cut. No surveillance from rival factions. No risk of assassination or arrest. Everyone lets their guard down just enough to talk. To negotiate. To whisper."
He gestured toward the distant black marble building. "Your mother is excellent at diplomacy because she learned it here. Not in council chambers or formal salons—those are scripted, predictable. But in that room. Where nobles bid on meaningless artworks or overpriced artifacts while their real business happens in sidelong glances, coded phrases, quiet asides in private boxes. Every smile, every raised paddle, every casual remark about 'future investments' carries hidden meaning. She reads the room like a battlefield. She maps alliances, weaknesses, ambitions, fears—all without ever lifting a finger to bid."
Sona stared at him—pink eyes wide, processing. Arto continued, voice low but certain. "Your father goes because he trusts her judgment. He sits beside her, says little, watches everything. They leave with more than they arrived with—not gold, not slaves, but knowledge. Who's desperate for cash. Who's overextended. Who's planning a move against another house. Who might be open to quiet alliances. That's why they never buy. Buying would make them players. They prefer to stay observers."
He met her gaze directly. "You won't understand it fully until you see it yourself. Words can describe the surface. Only being there shows you the undercurrents." Sona swallowed once. "You're suggesting… we go inside?"
Arto considered it for a long moment—blue flames flickering thoughtfully. "If you want to know what your parents have been protecting you from—and what they've been using to keep the Sitri clan safe—then yes. We walk in. We sit. We watch. No bidding. No engagement. Just observation. You'll see the dynamics hidden in the seats of nobles who pretend to care about meaningless art while they trade futures in whispers."
He paused. "But only if you're ready. Some things, once seen, can't be unseen." Sona looked down at the Auction House—its black marble facade suddenly heavier in the night light. Then she lifted her chin—small, determined. "I want to know."
Arto nodded once. "Then we go." Before Arto could turn to descend from the observation deck, Sona's hand shot out—light but firm—catching his sleeve. "Wait," she said, voice low and urgent. "You can't just walk in there unregistered. Your existence is still classified. Even if the Auction House is neutral ground, the King houses keep detailed logs of every visitor. One scan of your mana signature or your face and the entire Underworld will know the 'consultant' behind the Gremory-Sitri surge is here in person."
Arto paused, then turned fully to face her. The blue flames in his eyes dimmed to a low, thoughtful ember. "You're right," he said simply.
He reached into the inner pocket of his coat—slow, deliberate—and withdrew a jet-black mask: matte obsidian finish, featureless except for narrow eye slits and subtle silver filigree tracing the edges like frozen lightning. He fitted it over his face in one smooth motion. The mask sealed against his skin with a faint, almost inaudible click, mana runes activating in hair-thin lines that glowed briefly before fading.
Next came the cane. He extended his right hand, palm up. A ripple of void-black energy coalesced in his grip—coiling, solidifying—until a slender cane materialized: ebony shaft polished to mirror sheen, silver ferrule at the base, crowned with a crimson-and-silver crest shaped like a stylized hawk in flight, wings spread in silent challenge.
The Atreides sigil. Arto's posture shifted subtly—shoulders rolling back, spine straightening into something more aristocratic, more predatory. When he spoke again, his voice had changed: deeper, smoother, laced with the cultured drawl of a man born to old power and new cruelty. "Oh~ Lady Sona Sitri… what a pleasant coincidence."
He tapped the cane once—gentle, deliberate—against the glass deck, the sound carrying like a single struck bell. "I never thought this small Baron would have the chance to meet the princess of House Sitri at such an hour."
He lifted the mask just enough to reveal his face—blue flames now banked behind a veneer of aristocratic amusement—then let it fall back into place. "I am heading toward the Auction House to acquire some… powerful peerage members," he continued, voice smooth as oiled silk. "Are we on the same path, my lady?"
He extended one gloved hand in courtly invitation—cane resting lightly against his forearm, posture impeccable, every inch the infamous Arasto Atreides: the new Baron who had publicly humiliated Razer Phenex, forced the former Marquis of House Phenex from his throne in a single, televised duel, and—most shockingly—freed Grayfia Lucifuge from an arranged marriage orchestrated by the elders of her own clan.
Sona stared. She knew the name. Everyone did.
Four months ago the broadcast had played across every screen in the Underworld: Razer Phenex—arrogant, regenerating, untouchable—brought low in three strikes by a masked newcomer who called himself Arasto Atreides. The Phenex elders had tried to intervene; Atreides had broken Razer's regeneration with a single, azure-edged blade and forced the house to kneel. Then—most audaciously—he had walked into the Lucifuge clan hall, declared Grayfia's betrothal null under ancient precedent, and escorted her out under his protection. No one had dared stop him.
The mask. The cane. The voice. All of it matched the footage exactly. Sona swallowed once—composure cracking for half a heartbeat—then straightened. She understood the act instantly. She lifted her chin, schooling her features into polite aristocratic surprise. "Baron Atreides," she said, voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck. "I… had not expected to encounter you here. The hour is late for such… business."
She placed her hand lightly in his offered one—formal, gloved fingers resting on his. "But yes. It seems our paths converge tonight." She released his hand after the briefest courtesy. "Then let us walk together, Baron. I would be honored to accompany you to the Auction House."
Arto—now fully Arasto Atreides—tapped his cane once more against the deck, a soft, satisfied sound. "Splendid." He offered his arm. Sona took it—chin high, steps measured, every inch the princess of House Sitri. Together they descended from the observation deck—two figures gliding down toward the glowing city: the masked Baron and the Sitri heiress.
Together they descended from the observation deck—two figures gliding down toward the glowing city: the masked Baron and the Sitri heiress.
The promenade below was quiet at this hour—few pedestrians, only the occasional late-night vendor pushing a glowing cart of river-fruit skewers or chilled mana-infused tea. The Tree of Life still pulsed beneath them, its branches of light visible even from street level, but now the two of them walked on foot, side by side, Sona falling naturally into the poised, courtly step expected of a Pillar heiress accompanying a titled noble.
She tilted her chin just so—perfect noble etiquette—and spoke in a voice pitched for polite distance, yet carrying that subtle undercurrent of curiosity she could never fully suppress. "Baron Atreides," she began, using the full title with practiced grace, "might I inquire why a rising star such as yourself has come to the Sitri capital tonight specifically to acquire peerage members? Your recent… performance against Marquis Razer Phenex has made your name quite famous. One would think such a display of strength would have ambitious individuals lining up at your gates, eager to serve without the indignity of an auction block."
Arto—still wearing the jet-black mask and carrying the ebony cane—let out a low, cultured laugh that carried just far enough to sound natural to any passing ear. He tapped the cane once against the cobblestones—gentle, deliberate—before answering in that smooth, aristocratic drawl. "You are observant, Lady Sona. Indeed, my name has been on many lips this past week. House Atreides is suddenly the topic of every parlor and backroom discussion from Runeas to the lowest rings. But fame won in a duel proves only one thing: strength. And devil nobility, as you well know, has never been built on strength alone."
He gestured lightly with the cane toward the city around them—spires of light, flowing river, the distant silhouette of the Auction House. "Wealth. Connections. Perception. These are the true pillars. A display of force might win fear, but fear is fleeting. I am here tonight not merely to flex coin and acquire useful pieces—though I will do both—but to be seen doing so. To let the higher society of devils observe that Baron Atreides has the resources to play at their table, and the confidence to do it openly."
He slowed his pace slightly, allowing the words to settle. "A new Baron must learn quickly how to treat other nobles if he does not wish to be crushed by every established house. Publish the right image in the eyes of both commoners and aristocrats, and doors open without needing to break them down. Devoted workforces from below. Deals and quiet alliances from above. That is how houses rise—and endure."
Sona matched his stride, head tilted in polite interest, though her pink eyes gleamed with something sharper. "Very pragmatic, Baron. Though I must ask—quite delicately, of course—whether you are serious about pursuing Lady Grayfia Lucifuge? If memory serves, after your victory over Razer, the elder council of House Lucifuge took public note of you. They declared you would be considered a strong candidate in the suitor list… provided you could elevate House Atreides to a station befitting her."
She paused just long enough for the question to hang. "Or was that merely part of the performance?" Arto laughed again—this time fuller, richer, the sound carrying the amused arrogance of his assumed persona. "Maybe," he answered vaguely, deliberately leaving the word hanging like smoke.
He tapped the cane once more—rhythmic, almost playful—and lengthened his stride slightly, forcing Sona to quicken her step to keep pace. "Some questions, my lady, are best answered by watching what a man does… not what he says." He did not look back.
Sona stared after him for half a heartbeat—cheeks faintly flushed, lips parted in surprise—then hurried to catch up, mind already turning over the layers hidden beneath the polite mask and the teasing deflection.
[Auction House - Sapphire Veil Exchange]
Arasto and Sona walked side by side toward the Auction House, the ebony cane tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the polished cobblestones. The sound was soft but unmistakable—each tap carrying the quiet authority of a man who had already proven he could break a Marquis with three strikes. Sona matched his pace perfectly, chin lifted, expression composed into the polite mask of a highborn lady accompanying a powerful guest. No one who passed them dared stare too long; the combination of Sitri royalty and the masked Baron was enough to make even the boldest pedestrians avert their eyes.
The building loomed ahead—black marble veined with gold, its arched entrance flanked by two towering water-statues of serpentine guardians that seemed to watch every arrival. Mana barriers shimmered faintly at the threshold, scanning for weapons, curses, and forged identities.
They stepped inside. The lobby was cool, hushed, and opulent: high ceilings with floating crystal chandeliers shaped like inverted lotuses, floors of polished obsidian that reflected every light like dark mirrors. A long reception counter of water-forged glass stretched across the far wall, manned by two attendants in charcoal-and-sapphire livery.
Arasto approached first, cane tapping once more as he stopped before the counter. Sona stood a respectful half-step behind and to his right—perfect courtly positioning. The receptionist—a young woman with pale silver hair and eyes the color of river ice—looked up. Her professional smile froze for half a heartbeat when she recognized the Atreides crest on the cane. "Welcome to the Sapphire Auction House," she said smoothly, recovering instantly. "May I have your names and the session you wish to join?"
Arasto's voice rolled out in that cultured, velvet drawl. "Baron Arasto Atreides. And Lady Sona Sitri." He leaned the cane lightly against the counter. "We wish to participate in the session currently offering powerful individuals for bidding. I find myself in need of capable members for my peerage."
The receptionist's fingers flew across a hidden rune-panel. Names appeared on a floating holographic ledger. She glanced between them once—then nodded. "Both names confirmed. The current session—High-Grade Acquisitions—is in progress in the Grand Hall. Seats have been reserved for you—adjacent, private box tier three, balcony view."
She produced two small, obsidian-black microphones—each engraved with the house sigil—and slid them across the counter. "For your bids. Speak clearly; the enchantment carries your voice only to the auctioneer and the ledger. Anonymity is preserved unless you choose otherwise."
Arasto accepted his without comment, slipping it into an inner pocket. Sona took hers with a polite nod. The receptionist gestured toward a wide corridor lined with glowing water-runes. "This way, please. I will escort you to your seats." They followed her—cane tapping softly, Sona's steps measured and graceful.
Halfway down the corridor, Arasto turned his masked face toward Sona. "Lady Sona," he said, voice carrying just enough for the receptionist to hear without straining, "would you do me the honor of accompanying me during my search for new servants? Your insight into quality would be… invaluable."
Sona inclined her head—perfectly composed, though a faint flush touched her cheeks. "I would be pleased to assist, Baron Atreides." The receptionist's pace never faltered, but her shoulders tensed ever so slightly. The Sitri heiress and the new Baron—side by side—were already the talk of the upper boxes.
They reached the Grand Hall. The doors parted silently. Inside: a vast, tiered chamber shaped like an inverted dome. Private boxes ringed the walls in concentric arcs, shielded by one-way mana glass. Below, the central auction stage glowed under soft violet spotlights. Currently on display: a chained half-dragon warrior, scales dull but eyes still burning with defiance; beside him, a robed human mage whose mana aura flickered weakly under suppression cuffs; further along, a lithe kitsune with nine tails bound in silver chains.
Bidding paddles rose and fell in slow, deliberate waves from the shadowed boxes. The receptionist led them to a private balcony box on tier three—excellent sightlines, shielded from view, equipped with a small table, two high-backed chairs, chilled water, and a discreet bidding console.
She bowed once. "Your seats, my lord, my lady. The auctioneer will acknowledge your presence shortly. Enjoy the session." She withdrew. Arto and Sona settled into the chairs.The moment the door sealed behind them, Sona leaned closer—voice dropping to a whisper. "Do you actually have enough coin for this performance?" she asked, half-serious, half-teasing. "Those high-grade pieces can go for millions of gold marks. Some reach tens of millions if the bidding heats up."
Arasto—still fully in the persona—let out a low, amused chuckle. "My dear Lady Sona… my CFO and financial consultant—Miss Nami—has been nudging me for weeks to spend some of my 'enormous fortune.' Tonight seems as good a time as any to take her advice… and tip in just a little."
He tapped the cane once against the floor of the box—soft, satisfied. "Let's see what the market has to offer."
Arasto leaned back in the high-backed chair of their private box, the jet-black mask concealing any shift in his expression while the ebony cane rested across his knees like a scepter. The Grand Hall below them was already half-filled; nobles filtered in steadily—some in ostentatious robes heavy with gold thread and house crests, others in deceptively understated attire that cost more than most estates. Every seat was positioned with surgical precision: boxes angled to allow discreet sight-lines, sound-dampening fields tuned to let only chosen voices carry, private mana conduits for encrypted whispers that never left the box.
He tilted his head toward Sona, voice pitched low beneath the cultured drawl of Arasto Atreides. "Look around, Lady Sona. Really look." Sona followed his gaze—pink eyes sharp, analytical. She had been here before, of course, but never quite like this: not as an observer trying to map power instead of simply enduring it.
Arasto continued, words measured, deliberate. "This isn't merely a slave market or an art gallery. It is the beating heart of Underworld high politics, hidden in plain sight. King-ranked houses—Bael, Paimon, Beleth, Purson, Zagan—own the ground rules here. No arrests, no audits, no factional espionage. Every transaction carries a house cut, every whisper is protected by neutrality oaths enforced by the strongest bloodlines in Hell. That makes this room the one place where true power is negotiated without masks… because everyone is already wearing one."
He gestured subtly with the cane—tip indicating a cluster of boxes to their left. "See the Bael crest on the third tier? Lord Belial's second son is sitting beside the Paimon envoy. They haven't spoken a word aloud, but the way the son's fingers tapped the armrest twice, then once—coded signal for 'two shipments next quarter, one diverted.' Paimon is short on shadow-aspect reagents after last month's border skirmish; Bael has surplus from their northern mines. No official treaty will ever mention it. But the deal is already struck."
Sona's breath caught—just barely. Arasto's cane shifted again—pointing toward a lower box draped in muted crimson-and-gold. "House Zagan. Watch her left hand. Thumb and forefinger circling once every seven seconds. She's signaling her broker two boxes over—House Purson. Zagan needs more artifacts for their upcoming ritual; Purson has a surplus after the last expedition. They'll settle the price later over 'art appreciation' in a private lounge. No coin changes hands here. Favors do."
He leaned closer to Sona, voice dropping even lower. "Your father never truly wanted to destroy this place because it is the Underworld's most reliable intelligence sieve. Every noble who walks through those doors leaks information—through gestures, bidding patterns, who sits next to whom, who avoids eye contact. Your mother reads this room like a living ledger. She doesn't bid; she listens. She doesn't buy; she maps. Every alliance, every weakness, every hidden desperation is laid bare here under the guise of commerce."
Sona's gaze swept the hall again—slowly this time, methodically. She began to see it: the silent conversations, the coded paddles, the careful distances between boxes. Not chaos. Not greed. Structure. A shadow economy of power running parallel to every official treaty and council meeting. "This is why they come every weekend," she whispered—more to herself than to him. "Not to participate. To understand."
Arasto nodded once. "Precisely. Destroy this place and you blind every major house overnight. You cripple your own intelligence network along with everyone else's. Better to sit in the shadows, watch, and use the information to stay ahead. That is how Sora and Sena have kept Sitri stable through every crisis since the Civil War."
He straightened slightly. "And that is why we are here tonight. Not to buy. Not to posture. To see. To learn. To map the board before the next move is made."
Then Sona's posture changed. Her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly; her gaze snapped toward a particular box across the hall, lower tier, closer to the stage—prime real estate reserved for those who wanted to be seen. "Arasto," she whispered, voice suddenly tight. "Look. Lower box, stage left. Third row from the front."
Arasto followed her line of sight. A young man sat alone in the center of the box, posture rigid, arms crossed so tightly the fabric of his tailored coat strained across his shoulders. Flame-orange hair, sharp features, eyes narrowed into slits of barely contained fury. Even from this distance, the frustration rolled off him in waves—jaw clenched, fingers drumming an angry rhythm on the armrest, gaze fixed on the stage but not truly seeing it.
Riser Phenex. Arasto had never met him face-to-face, never even seen a clear image until now. But he knew the name. He knew the history. He knew exactly why Rias's shoulders had once carried the weight of that forced engagement.
He murmured a small, wordless spell under his breath—nothing flashy, just a subtle enhancement of vision that let him read the man's face and lips as clearly as if he were sitting beside him. Riser's expression was stormy—lips moving in short, furious bursts, third-person self-talk spilling out in a low growl Arasto could almost hear across the hall. "…Riser Phenex doesn't need this trash… Riser Phenex deserves better than scraps… Riser Phenex will show them all…"
Arasto's eyes narrowed behind the mask. "He's here to spend money to forget," he said softly to Sona. "The news hit him hard. Razer stepped down after I broke him… but Riser didn't inherit the throne. Ruval did. Older brother. Steadier hand. Better reputation. Riser was passed over. Again."
He tilted his head slightly, reading more. "And he's angry. Very angry. Temper runs hotter than his father's—at least Razer kept the arrogance behind closed doors. Riser can't even manage that. Look at his lips. He's talking about himself in third person. 'Riser Phenex will make them pay.' 'Riser Phenex deserves the title.' Even Razer never did that in public."
Sona watched the box intently, pink eyes narrowing. "He looks… unstable."
"He is," Arasto confirmed. "And that makes him dangerous. Not smart-dangerous. Reckless-dangerous. The kind that spends fortunes to feel powerful again, then lashes out when the high fades."
Then Arasto's gaze shifted—to the woman standing just behind Riser's chair. Plain dark suit, clipboard in hand, posture rigid with the practiced neutrality of someone who had been struck before. She leaned forward, speaking quickly, urgently.
Arasto read her lips too. "…Lord Ruval requires confirmation on the deal with House Belial before midnight. The shipment of aspect crystals—" Riser's hand cracked across her face so fast the sound didn't even carry to their box. The woman staggered back, cheek blooming red.
Riser stood—towering over her—voice rising enough that a few nearby boxes turned to look. "Don't mention Ruval's name in my presence again," he snarled. "Riser Phenex doesn't answer to him. Get out." He shoved her toward the box exit. She stumbled, caught herself on the railing, then fled without a word—head down, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield.
The box door sealed behind her. Riser dropped back into his seat, breathing hard, fingers white-knuckled on the armrests. Sona's breath hissed out between her teeth. "He just…"
Arasto's voice remained calm—dangerously so. "He's unraveling. Publicly. In a place where every noble in the Underworld is watching. That kind of temper doesn't stay hidden long. And when it finally snaps completely… someone will take advantage."
He leaned back in his chair, cane resting across his lap. "Ruval got the throne. Riser got the scraps. And now he's here—spending money he may not have, trying to buy back the feeling of being important. He's not here to build anything. He's here to feel less small."
Sona stared across the hall at the box—Riser now slouched forward, elbows on knees, staring at the stage without really seeing it. "He's a liability," she murmured. "To his own house," Arasto agreed. "And to anyone who gets too close when the mask finally cracks."
Down the stage,
The auctioneer—tall, impeccably dressed in charcoal velvet with sapphire embroidery—stepped onto the raised platform at the center of the Grand Hall. A single violet spotlight followed him; the rest of the room dimmed slightly, focusing every eye on the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen," his voice rang out—smooth, resonant, carrying to every box without amplification—"welcome to tonight's High-Grade Acquisitions session. We begin, as always, with artifacts and relics of exceptional provenance. The living lots—the true prizes—will be saved for last, when anticipation has reached its peak."
A low ripple of approving murmurs spread through the hall.
The first item rose from the stage floor on a velvet-draped pedestal: a slender obsidian dagger whose blade seemed to drink light rather than reflect it. Faint violet runes pulsed along the fuller. "Lot 1: the Voidfang Dagger. Forged in the shadow-forges of House Paimon during the Third Factional Schism. Capable of severing mana threads at the source. Starting bid: three million gold marks."
Paddles rose in scattered, deliberate waves. Bids climbed steadily—four million, five, six—each increase announced with calm precision.
Arto and Sona remained silent in their box. Instead, Arasto leaned slightly toward Sona, voice pitched for her ears alone beneath the cultured drawl of his persona. "Watch the room, not the stage," he murmured. "The dagger is bait. The real bids are happening in the boxes."
Sona's gaze shifted—slow, methodical—following his lead.
Arasto continued, cane resting lightly across his knees. "See the third-tier box, far left? House Beleth's third son. He raised his paddle twice—quick, almost casual—but his left hand never left the armrest. Thumb circling once every four seconds. He wants the dagger. Badly. But he won't push past seven million. He's waiting to see if someone else drives the price higher so he can gauge desperation."
He shifted his attention. "Now look two boxes right—Purson crest. The matriarch. She bid once at five million—then stopped. Her right index finger tapped twice on her fan. She's not interested in the item. She's inflating the price. Shill bidding on behalf of the house. They take a cut of every transaction; higher final bid means higher commission. She'll drop out at seven-point-five. Watch."
Sure enough, when the bid reached seven million two hundred thousand, the Purson matriarch lowered her paddle. The Beleth son immediately raised his—once, sharp—and the dagger sold for seven million four hundred thousand.
Arasto's masked face turned slightly toward Sona. "That's the first layer: personal desire versus house profit. Beleth's son needed the blade for his own peerage. Purson needed the commission. Now look higher—second tier, center-right. Zagan crest. The patriarch never bid. But his aide lifted a wine glass to his lips three times in quick succession. Signal to their broker in the fourth-tier box opposite. They just bought the dagger through proxy. Zagan is short on destructive weapons after their last expedition failed. They'll pay the markup quietly later."
Sona's eyes narrowed—pink gaze sweeping the hall again, slower this time. "You can read all that… from gestures?"
"Gestures. Timing. Who looks at whom. Who avoids looking. The Auction House is a theater. Everyone is performing. The trick is distinguishing personal motives from clan motives."
He pointed subtly with the cane—tip never leaving his lap. "See the two boxes directly across from each other, mid-tier? Paimon and Belial. They've been bidding against each other all night on small lots—pushing prices up. But neither ever wins. They're colluding. Driving up commissions for the house while settling the real deals later in private lounges. Personal rivalry for show. Clan-level cooperation underneath."
He lowered the cane. "You already read relationships between clans and individuals. Now learn to separate the two. Personal grudges can be exploited—turn one noble against another with the right rumor. But inter-clan alliances are ironclad until they aren't. Knowing which is which lets you maneuver for Sitri's benefit. Or your own."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto teaching chibi Sona how to read people via their armpits]
As the auction progressed, the initial wave of artifacts and relics gave way to more esoteric items—ancient grimoires bound in dragon hide, sealed crystals humming with suppressed power, ceremonial blades etched with forgotten runes. The bids rose steadily, but Arto and Sona remained silent in their private box, observing rather than participating.
Arto leaned slightly toward Sona, his voice pitched beneath the cultured drawl of Arasto Atreides—just loud enough for her alone. "Watch the seats," he murmured. "Not the stage. The real transactions are happening in the boxes."
He gestured subtly with the tip of his cane—never lifting it high enough to draw attention. "See the pattern? Two sides—A and B—almost always sit next to each other, or close enough that a glance, a finger tap, or a quiet word can be exchanged without anyone else noticing. They never bid against each other on the same lot. Instead, one pushes the price up just enough to create the illusion of competition, then drops out at the exact moment the other delivers the final bid—the price they agreed on privately before the session even began."
Sona's pink eyes narrowed as she followed his lead. "Like… shill bidding, but mutual."
"Exactly. They use the auction as a laundering mechanism and a cover for direct deals. No extra fees beyond the house cut, no paper trail beyond 'I won this lot.' The goods become proxies for the real exchange—mana crystals, rare reagents, territorial concessions, even favors. The auction is just the theater."
He pointed toward a mid-tier box on the opposite side of the hall. "Example: House Belial and House Paimon. They're sitting three seats apart—close enough for eye contact, far enough to avoid suspicion. Belial's representative bid on Lot 12—the power gauntlet—pushing it from 4.2 million to 5.8 million. Paimon's man never raised his paddle once. But watch Belial's left hand: thumb circles once every six seconds while the price climbs. That's their private signal—'hold at 5.8.' Paimon's man delivers the final bid at exactly 5.8 million. Belial drops out immediately. Deal done. No one else notices because everyone thinks it was a fair contest."
Sona's gaze sharpened. "And the real exchange?"
"Likely mana-flow rights along their shared border. Belial is short on shadow-aspect reagents after their last expedition; Paimon has surplus. The gauntlet is just the cover item. They'll settle the actual terms later in a private lounge."
He shifted the cane slightly.
"Another one—lower tier, far right. House Zagan and House Purson. Zagan's patriarch bids aggressively on Lot 15—the starlight-thread cloak—driving it from 9 million to 11.4 million. Purson's envoy raises once at 11 million, then stops. Zagan wins at 11.4 million. But Purson's envoy tapped her fan twice against her knee before the final bid. That's their signal: 'agreed at 11 million base, plus 400k in favors.' The extra is laundered through the house cut. The cloak is meaningless; the real deal is Zagan buying the rare ore Purson mined last quarter."
Sona exhaled slowly.
"So the final bid is always the pre-agreed price… plus whatever cover amount makes it look competitive."
"Precisely. They never exceed their ceiling. If someone else jumps in and pushes past their limit, they drop out immediately—no ego, no chase. The goal isn't to win the lot. It's to complete the hidden transaction under the auction's protection."
He leaned back slightly, letting her absorb it.
"General traces to watch for:
No real personal interest in the item—they never inspect it closely, never react emotionally when they 'win.' Always bid against each other on small lots early to establish the pattern, then coordinate on the real targets. The buyer delivers the final bid at the exact pre-agreed price. Immediate withdrawal if the price exceeds their limit—no lingering, no frustration. Frequent eye contact, subtle hand signals, or coded gestures just before or after the final bid.
Once you see these patterns, you can map who needs what, who has surplus, who's desperate. That knowledge is worth more than any single artifact in this room." Sona's gaze swept the hall again—slower, more deliberate. "I see it now," she whispered. "The surface is chaos. The underneath is structure. Every bid is a conversation no one else hears."
Arto nodded once—masked face unreadable. "Then write them all down," he said quietly, voice still carrying the smooth, cultured timbre of Arasto Atreides for anyone who might overhear. "Every gesture, every coded tap, every paddle raised at the exact wrong moment. Send the notes back to your parents once we're home. They'll either scold you for going too deep… or they won't. But I can be sure they will value what you bring back. Intelligence like this is currency in places where gold alone won't buy safety."
Sona's gaze lingered on the hall below for another heartbeat before returning to him. Her voice dropped even lower, almost lost beneath the auctioneer's smooth cadence announcing the next lot. "How do you know so much about this?" she asked. "Not just the patterns—the why behind them. You read this room like you've sat in hundreds of them before."
Arto's cane tapped once against the floor—soft, thoughtful—before he answered. "Because I was the leader of the Abyssgard Legion." He let the name settle between them like a stone dropped into still water.
"It wasn't just a military unit. With ten million souls under arms—individuals who could level armies, and a collective force that could have toppled kingdoms—the Legion was a political faction whether the rest of Hell wanted to admit it or not. We existed in the lowest ring, guarding the seal over the Abyss, but we still had to eat. We still had to arm ourselves. We still had to trade for mana crystals, rare ores, healing salves, and the silence of neighboring lords who might otherwise have sent legions of their own to 'relieve' us of our duty."
He leaned forward slightly, masked gaze fixed on the stage but words meant only for her. "As supreme commander, I didn't just fight battles. I played the game that kept the battles from coming to us. I negotiated with devil nobles who saw us as useful monsters—until they didn't. I read rooms exactly like this one: who was desperate for our blades, who was trying to short us on supplies, who was whispering to our enemies behind closed doors. I learned to spot the shill bidder, the proxy, the man who raises his paddle once to test the water and drops it the moment the real player commits. I exploited the tiniest gestures—finger taps, eye flicks, the way someone's shoulders tensed when a rival's name was mentioned—because a single misread could mean starvation for my legion, or worse."
His voice remained even, but there was a quiet weight behind every word. "Call it overthinking if you want. When politics decides whether your people eat, whether they have weapons, whether they live long enough to see the next dawn… overthinking isn't paranoia. It's survival. I've been doing this for more than a thousand years—leading, reading, maneuvering—so you can be sure the experience is solid."
Sona listened without interrupting, pink eyes steady and absorbing every syllable. When he finished, she exhaled slowly. "I don't think it's overthinking," she said quietly. "I think it's… necessary. My father does the same thing here, doesn't he? He sits silent, watches everything, leaves with more than he came with. Mother reads the room so he doesn't have to speak. They've been playing this game my whole life… and I never fully saw it until tonight."
She looked back at the hall—paddles rising and falling in their silent dance. "Thank you for showing me. Not just the patterns… but why they matter." He paused—then tilted his masked face toward her. "But it doesn't mean I stop learning."
The faintest curve touched the edge of his voice—almost a smile beneath the obsidian. "You showed me that already, Sona. Your questions about systemic spell architecture, mana governance, overlapping domains… I never asked them. Not once in three thousand years. I treated bigger spells as bigger numbers. You saw the politics underneath—the governance, the interference, the cost. So I will wait for you to point out what I miss tonight. Because I'm in new water here. Things I don't know. You don't need to just listen to me. I want to hear your arguments. Your corrections. Your observations. Speak freely."
Sona stared at him—pink eyes wide for a moment, then narrowing with something very close to respect. "You're serious."
"I am."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Nami checking Arto's account to see it has some reduction]
Arasto's masked gaze drifted downward as the auctioneer's assistants wheeled in the next pedestal. The hall's murmurs quieted a notch—anticipation shifting from cold artifacts to something warmer, something alive.
The creature was small, no larger than a ball of yarn, perched on a velvet cushion. Fluffy black feathers covered its round body, giving it an almost plush-toy appearance. Short wings—barely more than decorative tufts—ended in delicate white tips. Two small feather horns sprouted from its head like playful antennae. Big white eyes blinked curiously at the crowd, and its tiny white beak opened in a soft, inquisitive chirp that carried surprisingly far.
The auctioneer spread his arms with practiced drama. "Lot 47: Hell Singer. A rare avian species from the deeper rings. This little one possesses a singing voice capable of capturing souls, hypnotizing foes, and even reading the emotions and languages of those around it. Perfect as a familiar, a spy, or simply a companion whose melodies soothe even the most troubled mind. Starting bid: two million gold marks."
A ripple of low laughter and interest moved through the hall—two million was pocket change for most boxes here. A few paddles rose lazily, more out of curiosity than competition. Arasto straightened instantly. The blue flames behind his mask flared brighter for half a heartbeat—unseen by anyone but felt in the sudden tension of his posture.
He wanted it. Not for utility. Not for power. Something quieter. The bird's big white eyes reminded him—absurdly, achingly—of the first time he had ever seen genuine curiosity directed at him without fear or calculation. Of Robin's quiet smile when she asked questions no one else thought to ask. Of Nami's grin when she teased him about money. Of Rias's steady gaze when she refused to let him fall alone.
He raised his paddle—once, sharp, decisive. "Three million," he called, voice carrying the smooth arrogance of Arasto Atreides. The auctioneer acknowledged him immediately. "Three million to Baron Atreides." A brief pause.
No one countered. The gavel fell. "Sold. To Baron Arasto Atreides for three million gold marks." A soft wave of murmurs spread through the hall—heads turning toward the third-tier box. Whispers of "Atreides," "the one who broke Phenex," "already buying?" drifted upward like smoke.
But the reaction that mattered most came from lower in the hall. Riser Phenex's box.
The temperature around his seat spiked visibly—heat haze shimmering in the air like a mirage. His flame-orange hair seemed to flicker brighter; his fists clenched on the armrests hard enough to make the wood creak. His face—already sour—twisted into something uglier: frustration, envy, raw anger. He stared up at Arto's box with naked loathing, lips moving in silent curses.
Sona watched Arto—still masked as Arasto Atreides—settle back into his seat after the gavel fell. The Hell Singer had been carried offstage in its small velvet-lined cage, and the auctioneer had already moved on to the next lot, but Arto's attention remained fixed on the empty pedestal for a long moment.
She leaned closer, voice pitched low beneath the hall's ambient murmur. "Why did you buy it?" she asked. "Three million for a bird… that's not a political statement. Not a power play. You didn't even let the bidding climb to make a point. So… why?" Arto's masked face turned toward her slowly. The blue flames behind the slits dimmed to something softer, almost private.
He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a small pendant—simple, unadorned obsidian disc on a thin silver chain. He held it between thumb and forefinger so Sona could see both sides clearly.
On the front: a tiny, meticulously carved relief of a bird—round, fluffy, black-feathered, with short wings tipped in white, two little feather horns, big white eyes, and a small white beak. Identical in every detail to the Hell Singer that had just been sold.
On the reverse: a single sentence etched in elegant, angular script from a tongue Sona had never seen before. Arto translated it quietly, voice so low it barely carried past her. "'I love you.'" He closed his fingers around the pendant for a moment, then opened them again.
"This was the gift I made for her," he said. "My first love. Back in my home world—before the Abyss, before the Legion, before everything. We were young. The love was short, fierce, and ended against both our wills. I carved this pendant in the lowest depths of the Pit, after the Second Abyssal War ended in our victory. The Abyss was sealed. The Lowest Ring was saved. But the price… ten million legionnaires reduced to one. Me. Dragged down the hole where the monsters came from. I made this while I waited to die—thinking of her face, her laugh, the way she used to hum to that same kind of bird when she thought no one was listening. I never got to give it to her. I died first."
He slipped the chain back under his collar—out of sight, but not out of mind. "The Hell Singer… it's identical. Same legs, same fluff, same addictive singing voice. When I saw it on the pedestal, it wasn't strategy. It wasn't politics. It wasn't even about the bird's abilities. It was just… a reminder. Of her. Of what I lost before I even knew what loss really meant."
He turned his masked face back toward the stage—where the next lot was already being introduced—but his voice stayed low, honest. "No entrance. No provocation. Just self-interest. Pure and simple." Sona stared at him—pink eyes wide, then softening with something very close to understanding. "I… didn't expect that," she admitted quietly. "You bought it for a memory."
Arto gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Some things are worth three million gold marks," he said. "Even if they only sing." The auctioneer's voice rose again in the background—another artifact, another starting bid—but neither of them moved to raise a paddle.
Sona looked down at the stage for a long moment. Then she spoke—soft, thoughtful. "When we get back… I want to hear more. About her. About the bird. About what came before the Abyss." Arto's gaze remained on the auction floor. "If only I could remember to tell you"
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Arto looking at the necklace]
The auction progressed relentlessly, shifting fully into the living lots as the night deepened. The atmosphere in the Grand Hall thickened—less like a marketplace now, more like a pressure cooker with every new cage or chained figure brought to the stage. Arto and Sona remained silent spectators in their box, but their attention had long since split: half on the coded gestures and proxy deals still unfolding around them, half on the growing spectacle in the lower-tier box where Riser Phenex sat.
Riser was no longer just frustrated.
He was mad-buying.
Every time a new lot appeared—especially women—the paddle in his hand shot up like a weapon. Exiled princesses from minor houses, fallen aristocrats stripped of titles after failed coups, beauties kidnapped from border worlds and sold as "exotics," succubi with chained wings and defiant glares, even a few high-value hybrids whose mana signatures still flickered despite suppression cuffs. Riser didn't haggle. He didn't pause to consider utility. He simply outbid—higher, faster, angrier—until the competition dropped out.
Arto's cane tapped once against the floor of their box—slow, deliberate, the rhythm matching the growing unease he felt coiling in his chest.
He didn't need to name what Riser was doing. The pattern was obvious, ugly, and accelerating. Every woman who stepped onto that stage—every one with beauty, power, or simply the misfortune of being rare—became another acquisition in Riser's private collection. The prices climbed into absurd territory, not because the goods were worth it, but because Riser refused to lose. Again.
Sona's voice was barely a breath beside him. "He's not even pretending to be strategic anymore." Arto's masked gaze never left the lower box. "He's not here to build a peerage. He's here to feel like he still has power over something. Anything. Razer's defeat stripped him of status. Ruval's ascension stripped him of inheritance. Now he's stripping dignity from others to fill the hole."
The cane tapped again—sharper this time.
Around the hall, the unease was spreading. Nobles in higher boxes exchanged glances—some irritated, some openly disdainful. The flow of "normal" transactions—the quiet proxy deals, the coded favor trades—was being disrupted. Riser wasn't just outbidding; he was sweeping. Lots meant for subtle alliances or client appreciation vanished under his relentless paddle. Whispers turned to murmurs; murmurs turned to barely concealed glares toward the Phenex box.
A representative from House Belial—mid-tier, normally unflappable—lowered his paddle after Riser jumped from 14 million to 19 million on a captured valkyrie. The man's jaw clenched visibly. Across the hall, a Zagan envoy tapped his cane three times in rapid succession—code for "abort this lot, move to the next." Even the King-house overseers—two silent figures in the highest tier—shifted slightly in their seats, gazes sharpening on Riser's box.
Riser noticed none of it. Or didn't care. When a minor noble from a vassal house tried to counter-bid on a succubus lot, Riser shot to his feet, voice carrying across the hall before the auctioneer could intervene. "Riser Phenex doesn't lose to nobodies!"
The paddle slammed down at double the previous bid. The noble dropped out immediately—face pale, hands shaking. Riser sat back down with a smug sneer, loud enough for nearby boxes to hear: "Pathetic. Riser Phenex takes what Riser Phenex wants."
The tension spiked. A low growl came from a Beleth box. A Purson aide whispered furiously to his lord. Even the auctioneer faltered for half a second before regaining his composure and calling the next lot. Arto's cane stopped tapping.
Behind the mask, the blue flames in his eyes burned colder. "He's not just disrupting the atmosphere," Arto said quietly to Sona. "He's burning bridges he doesn't even realize exist. Every noble he outbids tonight is someone who will remember. Every house he humiliates is one that will wait for the right moment to repay the insult. He thinks money buys impunity. It doesn't. Not here. Not when the King houses are watching."
Sona's hands were clenched in her lap—pink eyes fixed on Riser's box. "He's going to start a feud he can't finish," she whispered. Arto's voice dropped even lower—dangerously calm. "If he keeps this up… he might not need to. Someone else will finish it for him."
The auctioneer's voice rang out again—trying to regain control. "Lot 52—Seraphine Vael, exiled high priestess of the Lunar Veil. Soul-binding affinity. Starting bid: twenty-eight million gold marks." Riser's paddle rose instantly.
Before the first paddle could rise, a low ripple of movement spread through the highest tier—the King-house boxes. Arto noticed it immediately. The representatives—two from each major King house, seated in their permanent, elevated alcoves—leaned forward almost in unison. No dramatic gestures. No raised voices. Just a subtle shift in posture that sent a chill through the room.
He murmured the enhancement spell again—lips barely moving—and focused on the closest King-house box: House Bael's overseer, an older woman with iron-gray hair and a face carved from granite. Her lips moved—slow, deliberate. Arto read them clearly. "…not Phenex. Just the boy. Ruval would never allow this disgrace."
Across from her, the Paimon envoy—younger, sharper—nodded once. "…Ruval's trust is solid. This one's insolence is personal. Needs reining in before he costs us more than coin." The Zagan patriarch's aide leaned toward his lord. "…disrupting the flow. Clients are pulling bids. If he keeps this up, next quarter's commissions drop. End it."
Arto translated in a whisper to Sona. "They're not talking about House Phenex. They're talking about Riser. They trust Ruval—respect him, even. But the younger brother is acting alone, and his tantrum is costing them money, alliances, and face. They're about to put him back in his place."
Sona's eyes flicked upward to the highest tier—pink gaze sharp, calculating. "They won't let it escalate to violence," she murmured. "Not here. But they will humiliate him. Publicly. Enough to remind him—and everyone else—who actually runs this place."
Arto nodded once. "Watch." The auctioneer cleared his throat—subtle, but enough to draw every eye. "Lot 52," he repeated, voice suddenly carrying an extra layer of authority. "Seraphine Vael. Starting bid: twenty-eight million gold marks."
Riser's paddle shot up instantly. "Thirty million," he called, smirking as though the room belonged to him.
The hall barely had time to register the bid before another paddle rose—calm, deliberate—from a mid-tier box bearing the Paimon crest. A tall, silver-haired lord in midnight-blue robes met Riser's gaze across the distance. No smirk. No flourish. Just cold certainty.
"Ninety million." A collective inhale swept the room. Tripling the previous bid in one stroke.
Riser's smirk faltered for half a heartbeat. His eyes narrowed, flames flickering involuntarily around his hairline. He looked down at the Paimon lord—who looked back without blinking, expression as unyielding as the marble beneath their feet.
But Riser was far from finished. He raised his paddle again—higher, angrier. "One hundred million." The Paimon lord didn't hesitate. "Three hundred million." The gavel hovered mid-air. The auctioneer's eyes flicked upward—briefly—to the highest tier, where the King-house overseers sat motionless. No one else bid. No one dared.
The message was unmistakable: three times the price. A silent, public reminder that a Marquis house stood three full ranks beneath a King house like Paimon. Know your place.
Riser's hand trembled on the paddle for a second. Then—slowly—he lowered it. He sat back down hard, flames guttering out around his head, heat haze still rising from his seat like smoke from a dying fire. His jaw clenched so tightly Arto could see the muscle jump from across the hall.
The auctioneer's voice resumed—smooth, as though nothing had happened. "Sold to House Paimon for three hundred million gold marks." Seraphine Vael was led offstage—still chained, still silent—while the hall exhaled as one. Arto leaned toward Sona, voice low beneath the mask.
"That's the mechanic," he murmured. "When a mad-buyer like Riser threatens to disrupt the flow, the King houses step in—not with force, not with words, but with absurd money. They buy the lot at a price no sane person would pay, then quietly cycle it back into the next session or a private sale later. The product isn't lost. It just… waits. Meanwhile, Riser is reminded who actually owns the room. No violence. No public humiliation. Just a number so large it crushes ego without touching blood."
Sona's gaze remained fixed on Riser's box—where the young Phenex now sat rigid, fists clenched, staring at the stage with barely contained fury. "He'll try again on the next lot," she said quietly. "He's too angry to stop."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto buying ice cream for himself and chibi Sona]
The auction session dragged on, lot after lot, and Riser Phenex showed no sign of slowing down. Every time a woman—or a particularly striking non-human female—was brought to the stage, his paddle rose like clockwork. He didn't negotiate. He didn't bluff. He simply overwrote the previous high bid with numbers that made even veteran bidders flinch.
By the time Lot 58—a captured high-elf enchantress with illusion affinity—reached the block, Riser had already secured nine women tonight: two exiled noble daughters, three succubi from border raids, a fallen valkyrie lieutenant, a kitsune shrine-maiden, a half-dragon dancer whose scales still shimmered under suppression cuffs, and now this elf. The prices had escalated into the stratosphere—tens of millions per lot, sometimes pushing past fifty when he felt challenged.
The King-house overseers had already intervened twice more: once tripling a bid to shut him down on a succubus lot, once simply withdrawing a particularly desirable half-angel from open bidding with a curt "reserved for private negotiation." Each time Riser backed down—jaw clenched, flames licking at his hairline—but only for a moment. Then he'd strike again on the next lot, angrier, louder, more reckless.
Arto watched it all from the shadowed comfort of their box, cane resting across his knees, mask hiding the slow hardening of his expression. "He's burning through a fortune," he said quietly to Sona. "Even for a Phenex third son, this pace is unsustainable. The Phenex regeneration gift makes them wealthy, but not this wealthy. Not without dipping into clan vaults or taking loans against future inheritance."
Sona's fingers tightened around her own paddle—unused all night. "Ruval controls the main accounts now," she murmured. "If Riser is spending like this without approval…" Arto's gaze never left Riser's box. He murmured the lip-reading enhancement again—subtle, silent—and focused.
Riser leaned forward in his seat, muttering to himself between bids. Arto caught the words clearly: "…Father will be happy with these… Riser Phenex will show him… these will make everything right…" Arto's cane tapped once—sharp, involuntary—against the floor of the box. "He's not just buying for himself," he said, voice low and cold. "He's buying for Razer too."
Sona's breath hitched. "His father?" Arto nodded once. "Razer stepped down after I broke him, but he's not calm. Not truly. That humiliation—losing to a masked nobody who called himself a Baron—burned deeper than any wound his regeneration could heal. He can't lash out publicly. He can't challenge me again without risking another loss. So he does what powerful men do when pride is wounded but pride won't let them admit it: he channels the rage sideways. Through his son."
He watched Riser raise his paddle again—another woman, another absurd bid. "Riser's mad-buying isn't random. It's a gift. A peace offering. A bribe. 'Look, Father—I've collected beauties, power, trophies. I'm still useful. Change your mind about the succession. Give me what I deserve.' Or worse—Razer is quietly encouraging it. Feeding the boy's temper, letting him run wild here so they can both release the heat… through these women. Control them. Own them. Do whatever cruel thing they need to do to feel big again. No one can stop them. Not here. Not under King-house protection."
Sona's face paled slightly. "They're using the Auction House as therapy," she whispered. Arto's voice dropped colder. "They're using it as a pressure valve. And when the valve finally bursts… someone else will pay the price." He leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on Riser's box. "Ruval may be the new Marquis, but Razer still has claws. And Riser is those claws right now—clumsy, angry, and spending money he doesn't fully control. If this continues, either Ruval will cut him off… or someone else will decide the Phenex line needs pruning."
The auctioneer's voice rose again. "Lot 59—Lysara Thorne, bloodline sorceress of the Crimson Thorn lineage. Starting bid: forty-two million gold marks." Riser's paddle shot up. Arto's cane tapped once more—slow, deliberate. "He won't stop," he said quietly. "Not until someone makes him."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Sona wearing Arasto Atreides's mask]
Sona's voice was low, barely carrying over the auctioneer's distant cadence and the soft rustle of paddles in the hall. "Are you going to save any of those women from him?" she asked, pink eyes flicking toward Riser's box—where the young Phenex sat rigid, flames still licking at his hairline, paddle already half-raised for the next lot.
Arto—still masked as Arasto Atreides—did not answer immediately. He watched another woman led offstage, chains clinking faintly, and felt the familiar cold weight settle in his chest. The blue flames in his eyes dimmed for a moment, thoughtful. "I haven't decided yet," he said quietly. "Those women aren't of my interest. I have no intention of buying them for myself."
Sona's brows knit slightly—surprise, not judgment. "Then why stay? Why watch him keep going?" Arto's cane tapped once against the floor—soft, deliberate. "Because Riser being here, in a session where women lots are this abundant, isn't random. He's not just venting frustration. He's hunting. He came with foreknowledge—someone fed him the catalog early. He's waiting for the last product. The one he truly wants. Lot 72."
Sona's gaze sharpened. "You think he has inside information?"
"I know he does," Arto replied. "Look at his pattern. He's aggressive, but not chaotic. Every bid he's made tonight has been calculated to exhaust his competitors early, to clear the field. He's saving his real reserves for something specific. Something he believes no one else will outbid him on. When that lot comes up… I'll deal him a fatal blow. Not with money. With humiliation. I'll take what he wants most—right in front of every noble in this room—and make sure he never forgets who did it."
He leaned back slightly, mask hiding any flicker of emotion. "If I buy anyone tonight, it will be her. Not for ownership. For freedom. And for the message it sends." The auctioneer's voice rose again—smooth, practiced, carrying effortlessly through the hall. "Lot 72—the final offering of the evening. A rare and exquisite specimen."
A single large cage rolled onto the stage, pushed by two attendants in black livery. Inside stood a woman who seemed to absorb the violet spotlights rather than reflect them. Long, raven-black hair cascaded past her waist like spilled ink. Massive black swan wings—feathers shimmering with an oil-slick iridescence—were bound tightly behind her back with glowing suppression chains. White horns curved gracefully around her forehead in a delicate crown. Yellow eyes—bright, almost luminous—stared straight ahead, unblinking, defiant. Her voluptuous figure was draped in a simple white dress that looked almost mocking in its purity against her dark, otherworldly beauty.
The auctioneer spread his arms. "Albedo. Virgin succubus of the highest lineage. Unbroken will, unmatched beauty, soul-binding affinity, and a voice that can command hearts. Starting bid: fifty million gold marks." The hall went still. Then—almost simultaneously—every paddle in the room rose.
But none faster than Riser's. "Sixty million," he called, voice thick with anticipation. Arto's eyes widened behind the mask—not at the bid, but at the name. Virgin Succubus.
He turned his head slightly toward Sona—enough to speak without drawing attention from neighboring boxes—his voice dropping to a near-whisper beneath the persona's cultured drawl.
"What exactly is a 'virgin succubus'?"
Sona leaned in just a fraction, her pink eyes never leaving the caged woman on stage. Her tone was calm, clinical—almost detached, the way she always spoke about Underworld realities she had grown up accepting. "It's the original form. Every succubus is born this way—virgin. All of them. They only transition into the 'usual' succubus after they have sex with a man for the first time. Until that moment, they remain in this state: pure power, no compulsion toward seduction."
Arto's fingers tightened imperceptibly around the ebony cane. "What makes them different?"
"Everything," Sona answered quietly. "In their virgin form they are extraordinarily powerful—raw strength, destructive magic, strategic wits that rival the sharpest tacticians. Their abilities are oriented toward combat, dominion, creation—not pleasure. Once they lose their virginity, that power redirects. It twists inward toward seduction, hypnosis, emotional manipulation. They become what most people think of as 'succubi': creatures of lust, desire, control through ecstasy."
She paused, letting the distinction sink in. "But the virgin state is what makes them truly valuable. They can still distinguish love from lust. Normal succubi conflate the two—love is lust to them, a tool for feeding or domination. A virgin succubus… she knows the difference. And when she falls in love, she falls completely. Eternally. Fiercely. Loyal until the end of time. No matter what the man does to her—cruelty, abuse, violence, betrayal—she will never leave his side. She will love him even as he destroys her."
Arto's masked face remained impassive, but the blue flames in his eyes dimmed to a cold, dangerous ember. "And if he rejects her?" Sona's voice softened—almost pitying. "She never finds another. She stays loyal to the love she chose, even if it was never returned. She withers. Slowly. Painfully. Until she dies—turning to ash with her heart still bound to a man who never wanted her."
She looked back at the stage—Albedo standing motionless in her chains, yellow eyes staring straight ahead, unreadable. "Noble houses have hunted virgin succubi for centuries. Not just for peerage strength—though they make terrifying Queens, Bishops, or Rooks. But for the harem. A lover who will never betray, never stray, never stop loving no matter how badly she is treated. Absolute devotion. Absolute obedience. No risk of rebellion. No fear of being cuckolded. That's why they're always the final lot. The crown jewel. The one everyone waits for… and the one no one ever actually buys in open session."
Arto kept his masked face turned toward the stage, but his voice—still carrying the smooth, aristocratic drawl of Arasto Atreides—dropped low enough for only Sona to hear. "If they lose their virginity, they become normal succubi," he said quietly. "So… is that a loss? All that power, redirected into seduction and hypnosis. Does the virgin state simply vanish forever?"
Sona shook her head once—small, decisive. "No. Not a loss. A choice—and the most dangerous one a virgin succubus will ever make."
She leaned closer, voice barely above a whisper beneath the auctioneer's ongoing chant. "The transition doesn't erase their power. It changes its direction. If she gives herself to a man she truly loves—someone who loves her back with equal depth and honesty—her power doesn't diminish. It amplifies. The love becomes fuel. Her strength, her magic, her wits explode to a new tier. She can stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the strongest high-ranking pure-blood devils—on par with the heirs of King houses, sometimes even surpassing them in raw potential. That's why they're hunted so relentlessly. A virgin succubus who chooses well becomes a queen in every sense: terrifying in battle, unbreakable in loyalty, a partner who elevates her beloved to heights no ordinary peerage ever could."
Arto's cane tapped once—soft, thoughtful—against the floor of the box. "And if she chooses poorly?" Sona's expression darkened.
"Then she becomes a prisoner. Not of chains. Of her own heart. There's a reason the noble houses pay obscene prices for love potions tailored specifically to virgin succubi. One exclusive, hideously expensive formula—brewed in secret by certain King-house alchemists—can bypass the natural 'love barrier.' It tricks her mind into believing the potion's target is her true love. The moment she sleeps with him… her power surges exactly the same way it would for genuine love. But now she's bound to a man who never earned it. She'll love him eternally, fiercely, loyally—even as he abuses her, degrades her, uses her power for his own ends. She'll never leave. Never betray. Never stop loving. No matter how cruel he becomes. She'll stay until she dies—withering away inside a toxic cage she built herself."
Arto's grip on the cane tightened—almost imperceptibly. "So it all comes down to the man she falls for."
"Exactly," Sona whispered. "If she loves someone who truly cares for her—respects her, protects her, cherishes her—everything becomes wonderful. A partnership of equals. Power shared. Love returned. But if she's tricked… or if she chooses wrong… she's trapped forever. A weapon. A lover. A prisoner. All at once. And she'll never see the bars."
Arto's gaze drifted back to the stage—where Albedo stood motionless in her chains, yellow eyes staring straight ahead, unreadable. "Riser wants her," he said quietly. "Not for her power. Not for her loyalty. For the fantasy. A woman who will love him no matter how badly he treats her. A woman who will make him feel like the most important man in the Underworld… even when the rest of Hell knows he isn't."
Sona's voice hardened. "He'll never let her go. And she'll never stop loving him. Even as he destroys her."
Arto sighed—quiet, controlled—and his gloved fingers tightened around the ebony cane until the silver ferrule creaked faintly. The mask hid his expression, but the blue flames in his eyes flared once—cold, decisive. He had hoped to stay an observer tonight. He had hoped the King houses would handle Riser's tantrum themselves. But Riser has set him a stage so perfect he can't ignore
He stood. The motion was slow, deliberate—every inch the arrogant new Baron. The paddle rose in his right hand, high enough for every tier to see. The auctioneer's voice cut off mid-sentence. "Baron Arasto Atreides bids… one hundred and fifty million gold marks."
A stunned hush fell over the Grand Hall. Then—pandemonium. Whispers exploded into murmurs, murmurs into outright gasps. Heads turned. Paddles froze mid-air. Every noble in the room—every broker, every hidden watcher—snapped their attention toward the third-tier box where the masked figure now stood tall, cane planted beside him like a standard.
Riser's face—already flushed—turned scarlet. The heat haze around him thickened until it looked like smoke rising from his shoulders. He shot to his feet so fast his chair scraped back. "Two hundred million!" he snarled, voice cracking with fury.
The auctioneer blinked—once—then recovered with professional speed. "Two hundred million to Lord Riser Phenex. Do I hear—" Arto didn't sit. He raised the paddle again—calm, almost leisurely. "Two hundred and one million."
A ripple of stunned laughter and approving murmurs swept the hall. Riser's eyes bulged. "Two hundred and ten!" Arto's paddle lifted once more—unhurried. "Two hundred and eleven million." The pattern was now unmistakable.
One million at a time. Slow. Deliberate. Relentless. Each increment a quiet slap across Riser's face. The hall watched in rapt silence—every noble suddenly riveted. The King-house overseers leaned forward in their highest boxes, no longer intervening, no longer needing to. Their expressions ranged from faint amusement (Paimon) to cold calculation (Bael) to outright approval (Zagan). They had wanted Riser humbled tonight. They hadn't expected a masked Baron to do it so publicly, so surgically.
Riser's breathing grew ragged. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His paddle trembled as he raised it again. "Two hundred and twenty million!" Arto's voice—smooth, cultured, infuriatingly calm—carried across the hall. "Two hundred and twenty-one million."
Riser slammed his paddle down on the railing—wood cracking under the force. "Two hundred and fifty million!" The room inhaled as one. Arto paused—long enough for the silence to thicken, long enough for every eye to lock on him.
Then he raised the paddle again. "Two hundred and fifty-one million." A soft wave of laughter rolled through the higher tiers—nobles who had suffered Riser's arrogance all night now watching the third son of Phenex be dismantled by increments. One million. One million. One million. Each bid a reminder: you are not untouchable.
Riser's face was purple now—flames roaring around his shoulders, threatening to ignite the velvet curtains of his box. He opened his mouth to shout again— But the auctioneer's gavel slammed down. "Two hundred and fifty-one million gold marks to Baron Arasto Atreides—going once… going twice… sold!"
The hall erupted. Cheers—genuine, unrestrained—from half the room. Murmurs of approval from the rest. Even the King-house overseers exchanged glances—small nods, faint smiles. A Baron had just done what they had been debating doing themselves: put the insolent third son back in his place. Publicly. Painfully. Without a single drop of blood.
Riser stood frozen—paddle still raised halfway, flames guttering out around him like a dying fire. His chest heaved. His eyes locked on Arto's box—pure, burning hatred. Arto remained standing—paddle lowered, cane planted beside him, posture relaxed.
He simply looked down at Riser—through the mask, through the distance, through the rage—and let the silence do the work. Riser's lips moved—Arto read them easily. "…Riser Phenex will remember this…"
The auction session drew to its close with the gavel's final crack still echoing through the Grand Hall. Albedo's cage was wheeled offstage—chains clinking softly, yellow eyes fixed straight ahead, unreadable as ever. The hall exhaled as one: nobles rose, murmuring in low clusters, some satisfied, some frustrated, most already calculating how tonight's deals would ripple through the next week's politics.
Arto remained seated for a moment longer, letting the energy settle. Then he turned to Sona—still masked as Arasto Atreides, voice low beneath the aristocratic drawl. "How much have you noted down?"
Sona opened the small leather-bound notebook she had been writing in all night—pages filled edge-to-edge with neat, precise handwriting: coded gestures, bidding patterns, seat positions, proxy signals, who pushed prices and who dropped out, who avoided eye contact with whom. Arrows connected houses to motives; tiny marginal notes flagged potential weaknesses, surpluses, desperation points.
She slid the notebook toward him just enough for him to see without exposing it to prying eyes from neighboring boxes. Arto scanned the pages—quick, professional—and the faintest upward curve touched the edge of his mouth beneath the mask. "You were observant," he said quietly. "Very. This is more than I expected. Your parents will value it. They'll know exactly what to do with every line."
He closed the notebook gently and returned it to her. "I can't guarantee they won't scold you for digging this deep," he added. "Some truths are safer left unseen. But if they do scold you… blame me. Tell them the masked Baron corrupted your pure soul with underworld cynicism."
Sona gave a small, almost reluctant smile. "I'll consider it." Arto rose smoothly—cane tapping once against the floor as he straightened his coat. "Now… call Bernardo. Have him prepare a car for the ride home. We're receiving new residents tonight."
Sona blinked—then understood. "The Hell Singer… and Albedo." Arto nodded once. "Bikes won't suffice. I need secure transport—discreet, fast, and shielded. Tell Bernardo to bring the reinforced carriage with the privacy wards. And make sure the estate staff knows to prepare two secure rooms: one for the bird, one for… her."
Sona stood as well, smoothing her skirt. "I'll fetch him immediately." She hesitated—just a heartbeat—then added quietly: "Thank you… for letting me see all of this. For teaching me." Arto inclined his masked head. "You earned it. Now go. I'll head to the Post-Auction Office to settle payment and collect them. Meet me at the private exit in fifteen minutes."
Sona nodded—sharp, decisive—and slipped out of the box toward the corridor where Bernardo waited. Arto remained a moment longer—watching the hall empty, nobles filing out in their expensive silks and calculated smiles. Riser's box was already vacant; the young Phenex had stormed out the moment the gavel fell on Albedo, flames trailing behind him like an angry comet.