FFF Class Auto Hero: The Weakest Class Turned Out To Be The Strongest?
Chapter 45: The Auction

Chapter 45: The Auction

Dazmar snorted, waving her off. "Keep dreaming, Zynara. My loyalty’s to Lord Lunareio, not to outshining Lilith or Vellrek. Though..." His smirk turned wicked. "If I pull this off perfectly, I wouldn’t mind a bit of divine praise."

Zynara chuckled, sprawling back in her seat. "That’s the spirit! Alright, boss, let’s make this epic. Free the beast kin, stick it to the Syndicate, and maybe get a shiny new title from our lord. ’Dazmar, Liberator of the Fluffy’ has a nice ring, don’t you think?"

Dazmar was a bit irritated. "Don’t start with the nicknames again."

...

The train slowed as it pulled into Vyrathia’s grand station; its platform was filled with travelers and hooded figures.

The cabin door slid open, and the conductor—a silent man in a black cloak—nodded to Dazmar, signaling their arrival.

Dazmar adjusted his coat, his expression sharpening as he prepared to step out.

Zynara, still grinning, tucked her dagger into a hidden sheath and hopped up, her cape swirling, grinning as she placed both hands behind her head.

"Showtime," she whispered, nudging Dazmar. "Ready to make some poor humans cry, boss?"

Dazmar’s eyes gleamed. "Always."

They stepped onto the platform; the air was filled with incense and the distant roar of the city.

The auction house loomed nearby, its marble and iron exterior lit by crimson lanterns casting an ominous glow.

Masked attendees in regal clothing approached, their whispers trailing Dazmar and Zynara as they neared the entrance, flanked by Syndicate guards in crimson armor, their eyes cold and calculating.

Zynara skipped ahead, her playful demeanor masking the sharp awareness in her gaze, while Dazmar strode forward, his presence drawing attention like a magnet.

As they walked, Zynara couldn’t help but gaze at all the masked humans present, smiling as she waited a bit for Dazmar to catch up so she could chat a little. "You know, this kinda reminds me of that masked ball in Tradais, you know, the one where a vampire prince got assassinated."

Dazmar raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grin. "The one where you charmed half the noble court, poisoned the duke’s wine, and made off with the treasury ledgers?"

Zynara flashed a smug grin, twirling a lock of her black-and-white hair. "Guilty. I still think the prince would’ve lived if he hadn’t tried to grab my ass before the toast. Shame, really. He had nice fangs."

Their boots clicked against the marble steps as they ascended toward the main hall. Crimson lanterns swayed in the breeze, casting ghostly shadows over the engraved iron doors ahead. From within, the sound of murmuring voices and distant music seeped out, layered with an edge of anticipation—like the moment before a blade is drawn.

A pair of Syndicate guards crossed their polearms in front of the entrance, their crimson cloaks fluttering. One of them stepped forward, voice low and gruff. "Name and business?"

Dazmar didn’t break stride. He simply reached into his coat, pulled out a small obsidian token engraved with the crescent sigil of Lunareio, which also served as the logo of his rather well-known businesses, and held it up. The token shimmered with soft silver light, pulsing like a heartbeat.

The guard paled slightly, eyes flicking to his companion before stepping aside.

Inside, the auction house was a cathedral of wealth and cruelty. Marble columns rose high, wrapped in chains for aesthetic—or perhaps practicality. Raised platforms showcased the merchandise: beast kin of various tribes, bound or caged, their eyes full of defiance, despair, or dull resignation. Silverclaws, lean and swift; Ironfangs, broad-shouldered and scarred; Duskmane felines with moon-pale fur and mournful stares.

A hush fell across the floor as Dazmar and Zynara made their entrance. Cloaked figures turned, some nodding in polite acknowledgment, others whispering behind gilded masks.

"They’re watching us," Zynara murmured, all playfulness now sheathed beneath a blade’s edge. "Big fish, small pond. Wonder how many know what we’re really here for?"

"Enough," Dazmar replied calmly, scanning the crowd. "But not the important ones."

He turned on his heel and motioned subtly. Zynara followed as they made their way toward the velvet-rope-lined staircase that led to the elevated VIP section.

A pair of guards shifted aside the barrier wordlessly upon spotting the obsidian Lunareio token. At the top, plush seats arranged in a semi-circle offered an elevated view of the auction floor. A table of rare vintages and exotic fruit stood ready for indulgence.

As Dazmar settled into one of the cushioned chairs, a man a few seats down glanced his way—and his expression changed immediately.

"Well, well..." the man murmured, rising from his seat with a gloved hand over his chest in mock formality.

He was older, clad in regal purple and gold, with a polished smile and the scent of cinnamon oil. "I didn’t expect to see the Dazmar of Lunevale gracing such a modest affair. Word has it your vaults are heavier than most kingdom treasuries. An honor."

Dazmar offered a smile—charming, humble, and completely rehearsed. "You flatter me. I wasn’t aware my reputation wandered this far north."

An obvious lie, but he loved to act.

Zynara coughed into her hand to hide her grin.

"Oh, come now," the man chuckled. "A merchant prince with a shadow syndicate’s spine, the coin-favored—your name travels with the wind, my dear sir. But I must ask: surely a man of your... caliber isn’t here just for sightseeing?"

He leaned in slightly, eyes glinting beneath his silver half-mask. "Looking for a fine female beast kin perhaps? A lovely, thick-skinned Duskmane to keep your bed warm and your nights warmer?"

Dazmar gave a theatrical sigh, resting his fingers on his chin. "Hardly, the idea is rather tempting, but I must point out I’m a man with far more refined aesthetics," he said with a crooked grin. "But tonight is not about what I want or my preferences."

He narrowed his eyes with a bit of intensity.

"I’m simply here to fulfill my lord’s will."

His voice was playful, but the words rang with a small weight, and when the man looked into Dazmar’s eyes, his smile faltered slightly.

Something ancient and cold shimmered behind that mischievous gaze—like looking into the reflection of a full moon before a storm.

The man cleared his throat and stepped back. "Ah... of course. The gods do call us in curious ways. I... understand."

Zynara kicked up her feet with a smirk. "They never really do," she whispered just loud enough for the man to hear.

He gave a tight smile, murmured something about refreshments, and returned to his seat, noticeably less interested in further small talk.

Dazmar leaned back, arms resting across the velvet. "And now," he murmured to Zynara, "we wait for the game to unfold."

She chuckled, plucking a grape from the table. "You do love your dramatic entrances."

He flashed her a grin. "Only when they lead to dramatic exits."

A bell chimed. The auctioneer stepped up to the central dais—an androgynous elf in crimson robes, their voice magically amplified.

"Esteemed patrons! Tonight, the Crimson Veil presents a collection unlike any before! Warriors, dancers, hunters, artisans—every beast kin offered tonight is in peak condition, primed for your service and delight! Is it for combat, labor, or..."

He grinned, then giggled softly.

"Pleasure, we assure you our goods are top quality."

Applause rippled through the crowd.

Zynara’s eyes narrowed. "Disgusting," she whispered. "They speak like they’re selling furniture."

Dazmar’s expression didn’t shift, but his fingers tightened slightly around the emblem at his chest. "Hold your fire," he said softly. "Not yet."

Zynara’s left eye twitched as she gritted her teeth. "If you don’t let me hex that elf bastard in the third row, I swear—"

"Calm down, Zynara, the mindless chatter of the fools is enough of a pain for me tonight; I don’t want to have to deal with your quick temper as well," Dazmar said in a mildly sharp tone.

The elf continued.

"The first of tonight’s treasures hails from the southern tribes, captured at great cost and transported through storms, rebellions, and three attempted raids. A rare jewel for any collector of exotic strength."

A heavy thrum echoed from behind the side curtain as a massive, rune-marked cage was wheeled forward by armored handlers. A low growl rumbled from within.

"She is known as Ruuha of the Bronzehide—a beast kin warrior of the Ursine bloodline. A feral lineage famed for their stamina, unrelenting strength, and... other appetites."

Laughter rippled through parts of the crowd.

The curtain lifted with a hiss of steam, revealing the captive.

Ruuha stood chained by heavy shackles, towering even while slightly hunched, her dark bronze skin marred by signs of battle but not defeat. Thick muscle rippled across her arms and shoulders, and her golden eyes glared at the crowd with open contempt. Her hair, a wild mane of dark curls streaked with bone beads, swung as she shifted—already testing her restraints.

Gasps and murmurs filled the air.

"Discipline enchantments are active," the elf continued smoothly, "but her spirit remains... unbroken. A rare find indeed. Let the bidding begin at five hundred gold."

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