FFF Class Auto Hero: The Weakest Class Turned Out To Be The Strongest?
Chapter 47: Chaos as Currency

Chapter 47: Chaos as Currency

The hall exploded into chaos.

Velvet-clad nobles screamed, bolting from their cushioned seats as if the air itself had caught fire.

Silken gowns tore on banisters, fine boots skidded on polished marble now slick with arterial spray. The elf auctioneer’s twitching body slumped against the podium, his head rolling to a stop near a toppled wine goblet.

At the center of it all stood the tigerkin woman—chains shattered, golden mana crackling wildly around her like a corona of divine fury. Her fur was streaked with blood, her golden eyes glowing with raw, primal hatred.

Above, two Syndicate enforcers leapt from the upper balcony, sabers gleaming under chandeliers.

"Neutralize her! Do it now!" one barked, mid-fall.

But Rahna was already moving.

The world slowed as golden afterimages trailed behind her. Her bare feet left cracks in the marble as she vanished, then appeared in front of the first enforcer mid-sentence.

A pulse of mana blasted outward as her palm struck his chest.

CRACK.

His ribs caved in like paper. The force launched him backwards, spine-first into a noblewoman’s ribcage with a sickening crunch—both of them cartwheeling over the auction platform’s edge.

The second didn’t even get a scream off.

Rahna snatched his sword arm in midair, her grip like a vice of molten steel. Bone snapped like dry kindling. She drove her claws into his belly, twisting as a wave of gore erupted in all directions. Her golden aura flared brighter, distorting the air with heat and kinetic pressure.

"You brand us. Chain us. Sell us like livestock," she growled. "Perverse bastards who find plesure from the pain of others."

On the balcony, a masked Syndicate lieutenant paled. "Who the hell is that? Where’d she come from?!"

His subordinate was already scanning with a crystal device, trembling. "No ID in the registry... wait—pulling from the bounty list... shit. No..."

"Well?!"

"She’s not a slave. She’s a HERO. Rahna of the Ravaged Vale with a bounty of 8 million gold!"

The lieutenant stiffened. "The Rahna? Crimson Hollow’s Bane? The one who nailed Lord Merceliux’s skull to the gates of Thornspire?"

The scanner beeped confirmation.

"Oh f—"

Rahna’s roar erupted below, echoing like thunder through the vaulted hall.

She seized a fallen enforcer by the skull and hurled his corpse into a fleeing Syndicate mage, snapping the man’s neck like a twig.

"You feed on the backs of children... gorge on fear... build thrones out of bones," she snarled, pacing slowly across the bloodstained floor, golden mana igniting around her like wildfire. "No more, no more, no more! You shall treat my people like livestock no more!"

Four more enforcers charged, this time wielding fire rods and suppression chains.

"Keep her mouth shut—cut her down before she casts anything!"

"Idiot—she’s not casting!" one screamed. "That’s pure mana!"

They moved in all together.

She outpaced them in half a heartbeat.

The first one swung. Too slow.

She was behind him before the strike completed, a crack of displaced air in her wake. Her elbow shattered his jaw, sending teeth and blood spiraling through the air like confetti. He collapsed, convulsing then she stopped in his skull, crushing it.

The second fired a stream of flame—Rahna blurred under it, the golden trail of her motion slashing the air like burning silk. She reappeared, crouched low, then launched herself upward in a blinding arc.

Her claws sliced his throat mid-jump. He dropped without a sound.

"Two down," she whispered—not to taunt, but as a grim count.

The third stumbled. Too late.

Her hand punched through his gut, fingers breaking out his back in a spray of blood. She dragged him with her like a ragdoll as she twisted and flung his twitching body into the last attacker.

He ran.

Coward.

He didn’t get far.

A saber whistled through the air, hurled with impossible marksmanship. It struck the base of his spine, embedding deep. He fell like a puppet with cut strings, screaming.

Silence followed.

The Auction house was an abattoir.

Bodies twitched. Blood pooled. The ornate tiles were shattered in places from the raw force of Rahna’s movements. The Syndicate’s prized auction house was crumbling into a scene of savage justice.

"She’s going to tear the whole operation apart!" the lieutenant snarled, now pale behind his mask.

"This was planned!" another officer whispered. "She didn’t sneak in—someone placed her here."

"I don’t care if the gods themselves dropped her in—get every battle mage, suppression collar, and blood-curse handler on her!"

Rahna’s head tilted up toward the balcony, eyes gleaming.

"Send them all," she said, her voice quieter now—deadly quiet. "Every last masked coward you’ve got hiding behind gold and glyphs. Bring them, and I’ll rep em to shreds!"

Golden mana flared behind her like a pair of burning wings.

"I’ll rip this Syndicate apart. Floor by floor. Body by body. Until the only thing left of you—"

She stepped forward. The marble shattered under her bare heel.

"—is a bundle of blood, flesh, bones and shit."

....

....

The sky over the Syndicate district blazed with firelight. Plumes of smoke curled into the night, flickering with orange hues as screams echoed from the auction house. Explosions rocked the marble structure. Below, the streets had descended into panicked confusion—guards shouting, civilians scattering like rats.

High above it all, perched on the edge of a slanted rooftop, Zynara whistled low.

"Damn... that’s one hell of a light show," she said, her silver eyes catching the glint of burning chandeliers below. "But remind me again, boss—how does turning the place into a warzone help us get slaves?"

She leaned back on her elbows, feet dangling lazily off the ledge.

Dazamer didn’t look away from the flames. Cloaked in dark silks, his eyes gleamed with calculation behind his crescent mask.

"You really are as shortsighted as a wyrmling," he murmured.

Zynara rolled her eyes. "And that’s why I practically beg you to explain things to me, boss. You’re cute when you monologue."

He chuckled—low and slow.

"We’re not here to just liberate anyone tonight," he said. "We’re here to manipulate the market."

Zynara arched an eyebrow. "So we burn down an auction and let a golden murder-kitty off her leash for... economics?"

"Exactly."

He finally turned toward her, smirking.

"Right now, nearly every noble and merchant has at least one beastkin slave tucked away somewhere—status symbols, house guards, pleasure pets, labor. They treat them like stock. Normally such stock won’t be sold, but under the right conditions, arrangements and pushes, even demons can be brought before gods. And so like all stock, panic moves the market."

Zynara folded her arms, intrigued now.

"So you want our dear Rahna to start targeting slave owners."

"She will," Dazamer corrected, "because we gave her the scent. Auction houses, mansions, private caravans—the more visible, the better. Let the stories spread: a blood-soaked tiger who slaughters anyone who owns beastkin and can’t be stopped."

He gestured to the chaos below as the building’s front collapsed in a fiery detonation.

"Rumors will spiral. Fear will root. And soon, slave owners will panic—try to sell off their beastkin before they’re marked next. But with everyone selling..."

"The prices will drop," Zynara finished, eyes lighting up.

"Drastically," Dazamer nodded. "And the braver slave traders will try to smuggle their stock out of the city, even the country. Others, even bolder, will try to sell them in bulk—quietly."

"And let me guess..." Zynara smirked. "That’s when you show up, the mysterious buyer with fat gold purses and a fake slaver smile."

"Correct again." His eyes glittered.

"After tonight’s spectacle, people will start suspecting I plan to open a beastkin ring of my own. Which is good. Let them come to me. Let them offer me everything."

"Instead of hunting," Zynara said with a grin, "you’ll be flooded with desperate sellers."

"And I have more than enough gold to drown them."

A fresh explosion rippled through the air as another section of the auction house collapsed, and Rahna’s roar echoed across the rooftops.

Zynara let out a low whistle. "You’re really playing the long game here. Letting a legend write herself while you rake in the spoils."

Dazamer smiled, hands clasped behind his back.

"Let chaos be the bait," he said. "And fear... the leash."

Zynara’s smirk lingered, but her brow furrowed slightly as she glanced down at the chaos unfolding below.

"The plan’s gold, boss—seriously." She flicked a throwing knife between her fingers absentmindedly. "But what if people catch on? We’re not dealing with street scum. These Syndicate nobles aren’t fools."

Dazamer didn’t flinch.

He slowly turned to face her, moonlight tracing the edges of his mask.

"You forget who I am, Zynara."

His voice dipped into that dangerous softness that always sent a chill down her spine.

"A few bribes in the right ears... and the merchants will start spreading rumors faster than a plague in a sewer."

He stepped forward, the flames reflected in his eyes like twin stars.

"They’ll say Rahna’s vengeance is divine punishment. That the beastkin have started awakening. That keeping one now is a curse waiting to happen. Give them a little coin, a little fear, and they’ll play the part of terrified prophets—like bards preaching at a city square."

Zynara gave a low whistle, then chuckled.

"Damn. You don’t just manipulate people—you are downright just playing them."

Dazamer’s lips curled into a smile.

"Exactly. And soon, every piece on the board will move how I want it to. Gold, after all, is what keeps the world spinning."