FFF Class Auto Hero: The Weakest Class Turned Out To Be The Strongest?
Chapter 46: The Auction Part Two

Chapter 46: The Auction Part Two

The bidding began instantly.

"Five hundred!"

"Six!"

"Eight hundred gold!"

The crowd’s excitement surged with each shout, voices overlapping in a cacophony of greed and desire. Some masked nobles leaned forward, intrigued by the challenge of taming such a fierce-looking prize. Others simply saw value in the strength she promised.

Zynara scoffed. "Look at them. Like wolves circling a lioness."

Dazmar said nothing. His gaze was locked on Ruuha—on the fury in her eyes, the way her muscles tensed each time the crowd roared. She was calculating. Watching. Waiting for a moment. Not a broken slave... a predator biding her time.

The elf auctioneer raised a hand. "One thousand gold! Do I hear more?"

A deep voice in the back called, "One thousand three hundred!"

Gasps followed. All eyes turned toward a thickset man in crimson and obsidian, adorned with a Syndicate insignia over his cloak’s shoulder. A higher-up, no doubt.

Zynara leaned closer to Dazmar, her voice low. "That one looks like trouble."

"He is," Dazmar replied coldly. "Gorin Vask. Captain of Syndicate transport. Probably wants her for his private blood pit."

As if sensing the attention, Gorin grinned beneath his mask and raised his goblet in mock toast toward Dazmar’s direction.

Dazmar didn’t return the gesture.

"Fifteen hundred!" barked another bidder.

"Seventeen!"

"Two thousand!" Gorin called without hesitation, his voice thundering.

Silence followed. Even the elf paused, his smile twitching with excitement.

"Two thousand gold for the Bronzehide warrior! Any challengers?"

Zynara’s fingers drummed against the armrest. "What’s the move, boss?"

Dazmar exhaled slowly, then raised a hand.

The elf’s eyes darted toward the VIP balcony. "A bid from the upper tier. How much, sir?"

Dazmar’s voice rang clear, but calm. "Three thousand."

The crowd stirred again, murmurs rising like wind through dry leaves. Gorin’s expression soured.

The elf beamed. "Three thousand gold! An elegant leap! Do I hear more?"

Gorin stood from his seat, his voice low and venomous. "Thirty-five hundred."

Dazmar didn’t even blink. "Four thousand."

Now the murmurs turned to awe.

Zynara grinned, lips curling. "You’re making a show of it."

"I need him rattled," Dazmar said under his breath. "And I like having eyes on me."

On the floor below, Ruuha’s golden gaze shifted for the first time—meeting Dazmar’s.

He offered her the faintest wink of his left eye.

A flicker of surprise passed through her face, too quick for most to notice.

Gorin’s fist clenched. "Four thousand two hundred!"

The elf’s tone shifted to breathless reverence. "Do we have four-five? Or perhaps—"

"Five thousand," Dazmar said, cutting through the air like a blade.

The entire auction house fell into stunned silence. Even the music faltered.

Zynara leaned back and exhaled. "Now that’s how you shut up a Syndicate pig."

Gorin remained standing, seething.

The elf, delighted, turned toward the crowd. "Five thousand! Going once... going twice..."

Silence.

"Sold!"

A burst of applause erupted. Some of it genuine, much of it performative. A few masked bidders whispered to one another, now thoroughly intrigued by Dazmar’s identity and purpose.

The elf gestured grandly. "The Bronzehide will be delivered to our honored guest in the VIP chamber following tonight’s proceedings."

Ruuha did not flinch as the cage began to wheel away. But she looked up one last time—at Dazmar.

There was no gratitude in her stare. Only curiosity.

Dazmar leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

Zynara gave a mock clap. "Well, ’Liberator of the Fluffy.’ Step one complete, you know you actions will piss that old man off right, he’ll want payback."

"Obviously."

Zynara exhaled with a grin. "Think he’ll play nice?"

"No," Dazmar replied. "But he’ll think twice before playing dirty."

Dazmar’s smirk returned. "Now... we see how much noise one bear can make in a house of jackals."

Dazmar gave her a sideways glance, his gaze intense. "Also, stop it with the nicknames."

Zynara chuckled, clearly pleased with herself. "What? You don’t like Liberator of the Fluffy? It’s endearing."

He sighed. "I just spent five thousand gold on a warrior who might kill me in my sleep. Let’s not cheapen it with fluff."

"Fine, fine." She made a show of zipping her lips, then immediately ruined it by mumbling, "Fluffbane, then. Much darker."

Dazmar ignored her, eyes drifting back to the auction floor as the next item was wheeled in—a crate draped in enchanted chains, pulsing faintly with warding runes. Whatever was inside gave off the kind of pressure that made seasoned warriors straighten in their seats.

While that happened, Zynara leaned back with a dramatic sigh. "You’re no fun at all. But is this really going to be it, boss? Buying these beastkin one at a time would kill me from boredom. Please don’t tell me we’re actually going to do something the right way fluf once."

Dazmar gave her a slow, sideways look. "Did you just say fluf once instead of for once?"

Zynara smirked, unfazed. "Well, I have to be more fluffy with my words when I’m sitting beside Lord Fluffbane himself."

Dazmar groaned softly, rubbing his temples. "That’s not going to catch on."

"Oh, it already has," she teased, stretching her legs out and resting her boots on the railing. "By the end of tonight, the whole Syndicate will whisper your name in fear... and fluff."

Zynara tilted her head toward him, the grin fading just a bit. "Well, enough of this though—please tell me the actual plan. It’s not your style to make things this boring especially when we’re dealing with human scum."

Dazmar didn’t answer right away. He simply watched the next crate get wheeled in, the arcane chains rattling faintly with each movement. Then, in his usual cool tone, he said:

"Good things come to those who wait, Zynara."

She groaned. "Ugh, that’s it? You’re quoting wisdom scrolls now?"

He glanced at her. "Patience is a weapon. One most of our enemies don’t have."

Zynara narrowed her eyes. "So we’re sharpening ours?"

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Dazmar’s mouth. "Exactly. Let them think we’re collectors. Let them get comfortable, let them laugh and sip of their wine, the sun of binding our lords children shall be paid in blood, and gold."

...

...

For the next couple of hours, Dazmar made sure to buy every slave that entered the stage. It didn’t matter if they were bruised, feral, or docile—he raised his hand with the same grace and outbid everyone every time . His bids were sharp, deliberate, and always high enough to silence competition before it could truly begin.

With each successful bid, the crowd grew more restless. Some bidders tried pushing back—upping their offers in a flare of pride—but Dazmar never wavered. His gold flowed like an endless river, and his intent became unmistakable: no one else would leave with a slave tonight.

The elf auctioneer’s enthusiasm started to crack beneath the tension. Sweat beaded at his brow as noble after noble either stormed out or sat back in bitter resignation.

The next slave was brought forth.

A hush fell across the auction floor as the light touched her fur—silken white with black stripes like painted war marks. The tigerkin woman stood tall, shoulders squared, amber eyes cold and unflinching. Even in chains, she radiated a quiet dominance that made lesser nobles shift uncomfortably in their seats.

One of the Syndicate higher-ups leaned forward, frowning beneath his obsidian mask. "Where did that one come from?" he muttered to his companions.

"I don’t recall seeing her in the catalog," another said, voice low. "Was she added late?"

"Impossible," said a third. "We monitor all acquisitions."

Their confusion only deepened as the elf auctioneer approached the stage, clearly nervous.

In the VIP balcony, Dazmar allowed himself a small, knowing smile. "Ah. There it is."

Zynara arched a brow. "What is?"

He stood up smoothly. "Our cue to leave."

Zynara blinked. "Wait, what—now? Aren’t we—?"

"We’re done," he said, already turning. "Let the rest of the show speak for itself."

Still confused, she followed, her boots clicking behind him as they exited. But just before crossing the threshold, Dazmar glanced back at the stage and offered the tigerkin woman a slow, deliberate wink.

Her response was immediate. Her lips curled, revealing sharp canines, and she gritted her teeth hard.

The elf auctioneer, oblivious, raised his hand and called out, "A beauty such as this surely deserves no less than eight thousand gold to start the bidding!"

He didn’t get to finish his next sentence.

With a savage growl, the tiger woman flexed—and her enchanted chains exploded into shrapnel. The nobles gasped, some rising in alarm, others too stunned to react.

The elf turned just in time to see her leap across the platform.

Her hand clamped around his skull.

And then, with horrifying ease, she ripped it clean from his body.

Blood sprayed in arcs, painting the white marble in crimson.

Screams erupted. Chaos followed. Some guards rushed forward—only to be torn apart moments later.

From the corridor beyond the balcony, Dazmar adjusted his cloak as the first wave of panic swept through the auction house. He didn’t look back.

Zynara, still walking beside him, glanced sideways, stunned. "So... you planted her?"

Dazmar’s voice was cool, controlled, as behind them the room descended into a frenzy.

"Tonight," he said, "these nobles will learn—"

He paused, stepping into the night air as distant screams echoed behind them.

"—that beasts are in the wild for a reason."

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