The numbers climbed with sharp efficiency. The bidders weren’t wasting time or posturing. They wanted her, and they had the money to back it.
Michael’s hand hovered near the signaling gem embedded in the armrest of his chair. One tap would raise his bid by the minimum. A second would double it.
He watched the elf’s face.
"You’re thinking about it," she said quietly, almost amused.
The bidding had reached 5,900.
Then, for the first time, a pause.
Silence stretched like drawn wire.
The auctioneer lifted his hand slightly. "Do I hear six thousand?"
Michael tapped the gem. Just once.
The bidding crystal embedded in the balcony wall lit up faintly.
"Six thousand," the auctioneer announced, a flicker of intrigue in his voice. "From Room Eleven."
Every eye turned toward their balcony.
Michael leaned back in his chair.
Arianne gave him a sideways glance, her smile returning. "Well then," she said, "you’re in it now."
The hall buzzed with tension.
As soon as Michael’s bid rang out from Room Eleven, the price reached a psychological threshold. Most casual bidders dropped out immediately—either out of budget or sense.
"Six thousand one hundred," came the voice of a man from Room Four. Confident. Arrogant.
Michael’s finger hovered again.
"Six thousand two," he tapped.
The battle was no longer fast—but it was persistent.
Arianne sipped her wine calmly, but her eyes followed the numbers with interest. Then, just as Michael raised the bid to 6,800, the hall shifted.
A gruff voice cut through the air with deliberate volume.
"Room Eleven," the man from Room Four spoke again, "surely this noble one can give this face and let it end here?"
Michael’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Arianne stopped mid-sip. Her gaze flicked sideways. "Did he just...?"
As if to confirm his audacity, the man added smoothly, "I am Vane Callidor, third son of Marquis Callidor. I assume even Room Eleven wouldn’t wish to offend a major house over one slave."
A few nobles murmured from the audience below.
It was a subtle threat.
Michael remained silent. But before he could respond—
Her voice was crisp. Clear. And carried weight.
"Marquis Callidor’s son... are you threatening the Evermoon household?"
Michael turned to her—briefly surprised by how fast she’d acted.
Below, the auctioneer went still. The attendants held their positions. Even the girl in the cage finally blinked once.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Room Four went quiet for a full beat.
Then the voice returned—but more restrained now. "...My Lady, I meant no offense. I did not realize the Evermoon household had such direct interest."
He was trying to backtrack, but the tone had changed—neither fully apologetic nor defiant. A coward’s middle ground.
Arianne’s expression remained neutral, but Michael could sense the heat behind her calm voice.
Arianne was angry because someone had tried to use status to pressure the person sitting beside her—and in front of him, no less.
She sat down again, but this time without her usual grace. "That man’s face is too thin for such a thick ego."
Michael didn’t reply. His eyes returned to the bidding crystal.
"Six thousand nine hundred," he tapped again.
Room Four didn’t bid again.
The silence stretched for ten heartbeats... then the auctioneer raised his hand.
"No further bids? Going once..."
He looked around the chamber.
"Sold! To Room Eleven."
A final chime echoed through the chamber.
Michael leaned back in his seat.
He hadn’t just bought a powerful asset.
Michael leaned slightly toward Arianne. "What now?"
She didn’t hesitate. "Now? You wait. Someone will bring her to here. Probably one of the auction staff."
Arianne set her wine down and folded her hands across her lap, tilting her head toward him with a casual smile. "You’ll need to sign the ownership contract once she arrives. They’ll also confirm the transfer of funds and imprint the slave seal—unless you request a delay."
Michael raised a brow. "Delay?"
Arianne nodded. "Some buyers prefer to hold off until they have better containment or transport arranged. In your case..." she gave him a once-over, eyes twinkling faintly, "I doubt that’s necessary."
He didn’t rise to the tease.
Down below, the auction resumed.
The auctioneer cleared his throat, his voice steady but subtly charged with anticipation.
"And now, for our eighth item of the evening... something extraordinary."
The lights dimmed slightly. The attendants wheeled out a new pedestal, this time carrying a heavy black iron box covered in intricate, rune-like engravings.
Michael tilted his head, brow furrowing slightly.
The moment the latch was undone—
A wave of invisible pressure erupted from the box like a thunderclap. Michael’s eyes widened faintly as a pulse of crimson aura flooded the hall. The walls shook ever so subtly.
Arianne’s face paled and she instinctively sat straighter beside him, her glass still in hand but unmoving.
Gasps echoed throughout the hall.
The auctioneer didn’t lose composure, though even his voice was a notch tighter.
"Contained within this sealed relic is the blood essence of a Peak Grand-Tier Poison Wyvern."
"This essence was extracted from a slain wyvern in the Ashen Wastes nearly six years ago by one of our top warrior groups. It has been refined and sealed to preserve its purity. Suitable for high-grade pill crafting, advanced alchemy, and—most notably—for bloodline infusion."
"Particularly favored by those walking the path of Bloodline Knights or attempting to awaken draconic affinities," the auctioneer added. "This essence has been appraised by three guild-verified alchemists and confirmed to still retain seventy percent of its original potency."
This was what it meant to the others in the hall.
To Michael, it was different.
Ordinarily, he might not have cared much about a drop of monster blood—no matter how rare or potent.
But the situation had changed.
This wasn’t just any material.
This was a perfect fit for his undead.
"Isn’t this... really, really suited for Lucky?"