The underground auction house was supposed to be a cathedral of excess, a place where fortunes whispered against velvet and danger hummed beneath crystal chandeliers. Tonight, however, it felt like a tinderbox doused in oil. Every nod, every flicker of a paddle, every twitch of a bodyguard's finger near a trigger was a spark waiting to set the room ablaze.
Ethan sat near the middle rows, hood drawn low, his mask of indifference carefully in place. From where he sat, the shimmering stage reflected like a gilded wound, soaked in gold and blood. Only a few hours ago, he had walked out of the King's Gambit alive, his reputation sharpened to a bloody edge. The whispers had not stopped since:
The Wolf-Slayer.The newcomer who turned traps into trophies.The one who humiliated the syndicate's hunters.
It was a reputation built on blood, and tonight, it would be tested again.
The Gold That Burns
The auctioneer's voice sliced through the low murmur of the crowd, smooth as poisoned honey.
"Lot number thirty-seven! A prime piece from the Abyss Ruins—a relic said to contain inscriptions from a lost guild. Starting bid: five million credits."
Gasps echoed across the room. The object, a blackened shard encased in a crystal container, pulsed faintly as though it had once been alive. For most, it was just a rare collectible. For Ethan, it was bait.
He narrowed his eyes. The syndicate wants this shard. Which means whoever bids recklessly tonight is either their man—or their target.
Ethan's ally, the fox-eyed broker Lysandra, leaned close. "Don't take the bait too soon. Half the room is wolves in tailored suits."
"I know," Ethan murmured. His gaze traced the arc of the balcony above. Dozens of men and women sat in the shadows, their jewelry outshone only by the glint of concealed weapons. This wasn't just an auction. It was a battlefield draped in silk.
Bids of Blood
The numbers climbed fast.
"Seven million!""Eight million!""Ten!"
The air thickened with greed. Ethan did not move, but he watched. Every raised paddle told a story: the trembling hand of a minor merchant trying to buy protection, the steady gesture of a syndicate enforcer marking territory, the reckless push of a gambler who had no idea he was already drowning.
Finally, a voice like thunder rolled across the chamber:
"Twenty million."
All eyes turned.
From the front row, a tall man in a silver-gray suit stood. His hair was slicked back, his jaw chiseled like it had been carved from arrogance itself. More striking than his appearance was the sigil on his lapel—a golden serpent biting its tail. The mark of the Ouroboros Syndicate.
"Cassian Vey," Lysandra whispered, her voice tight. "One of their high brokers. If he's here, then this auction is just a stage. They want to send a message."
Ethan's lips curved. "Then we'll send one back."
The Shadowed Counter-Bid
"Twenty-one million," Ethan said, his voice calm, almost lazy.
The room turned toward him. Whispers rippled, recognition dawning like wildfire. The hooded figure who had painted the alleys red in the Wolf Hunt was bidding against Ouroboros.
Cassian's eyes, pale and glacial, met Ethan's across the gilded chamber. A smile ghosted across his lips. "Do you know what you're buying, stranger?"
Ethan tilted his head. "A shard of history. Or a leash. Hard to tell which looks better under the lights."
A low laugh swept the crowd, half amusement, half nervousness. Everyone knew what this was now: a duel cloaked in velvet numbers.
"Thirty million," Cassian said smoothly.
"Thirty-one," Ethan replied, without hesitation.
The auctioneer's gavel trembled slightly in his hand. He was not used to handling wars disguised as commerce.
The bids rose, each one less about money and more about dominance. At fifty million, silence pressed down like a weight. Cassian leaned back in his chair, unruffled.
"You think the market runs on gold," he said softly, voice carrying like a blade. "But it runs on blood. Tonight, we'll see whose blood it spills."
Traps in Velvet
The gavel fell.
"Sold. To the masked bidder."
A thunderclap of whispers erupted. Ethan leaned back, his expression unreadable.
He hadn't cared for the shard itself. What mattered was the trap he had just sprung.
As attendants moved to secure the relic, he noticed the shift: bodyguards repositioning, curtains stirring in the balcony, subtle hand signals exchanged in the shadows. The entire room had been waiting for this.
"Too easy," Ethan muttered.
Lysandra frowned. "What do you mean?"
He smirked. "That wasn't their shard. That was their net."
Wolves in the Market
The lights flickered.
In the momentary darkness, the velvet grandeur twisted into something feral. When the chandeliers flared back to life, half the exits were sealed. Men in black stepped forward, their guns gleaming like hungry fangs.
Cassian rose, his silver-gray suit immaculate even in the chaos. His voice rang out like a verdict:
"Ladies and gentlemen, tonight's auction is concluded. The Ouroboros Syndicate thanks you for your contributions. Now—one final transaction."
He gestured toward Ethan. "His head."
The room detonated.
The Blood Market
Tables overturned, champagne flutes shattered into crystal daggers, screams mixed with gunfire. What was once a hall of commerce became a pit fight painted in crimson.
Ethan moved before the first shot reached him. His blade flashed, severing a gun hand, his body twisting into the chaos with predator's grace. He wasn't here to win by brute force—he was here to turn the syndicate's trap inside out.
"Lysandra, move!" he barked, flinging a chair into an advancing guard. She darted behind cover, hands already pulling concealed throwing knives from her garter.
Above them, masked snipers emerged from the balcony. Ethan grabbed a fallen rifle, spun, and fired. One sniper dropped, the other's bullet shattering a gilded mirror inches from his head.
The crowd was no longer passive. Some patrons fled; others drew hidden weapons, mercenaries bought and paid for by rival powers. The blood market was no longer about gold—it was about survival.
Duel of Shadows
Cassian moved through the chaos like a conductor orchestrating a symphony of violence. Every order from his lips sent killers rushing at Ethan. But he did not lift a finger himself. Not yet.
Ethan carved a path forward, each step leaving a body in his wake. But he noticed something: every opponent fought not just to kill him, but to delay him. Cassian was buying time.
Then Ethan saw it—the real prize, hidden behind a false wall at the edge of the stage. A second relic case, larger, heavier, radiating faint light even through the reinforced glass.
"The shard was bait," Ethan realized aloud. "That's the real deal."
Cassian smiled thinly. "Clever. Too clever to be left breathing."
Finally, he drew his own weapon—a blade forged of alloy and shadow, humming with an unnatural resonance.
The duel began.
Gold Turns to Ash
Steel clashed, sparks painting arcs in the smoky air. Cassian was no mere broker; his strikes were honed, relentless, every movement trained in the syndicate's hidden schools. Ethan met him blow for blow, his own style forged from survival, unpredictable as wildfire.
The battle tore through tables, across shattered glass, into the very heart of the auction stage. Every strike was a bid, every parry a counter-bid, and the prize was survival.
Finally, with a brutal twist, Ethan disarmed Cassian, sending the alloy blade skittering across the floor. He pressed his own knife against the man's throat.
The room froze.
But before he could strike, a deep rumble shook the chamber. The floor beneath the stage split, revealing mechanical gears grinding upward. The second relic was being lowered into a vault below.
Cassian's lips curved even as blood trickled down his neck. "Too late. The shadows always claim their gold."
Ethan cursed and shoved him aside, sprinting toward the vault. Bullets roared again as syndicate guards threw themselves into the path. He cut through them, but the platform sank lower, the relic vanishing into darkness.
The last thing Ethan saw before the vault sealed was the faint glow of the artifact—and the reflection of his own blood-smeared face in the glass.
A Reputation Stained
Silence settled after the last shot. Bodies littered the once-opulent hall. Survivors fled into the night, their fine clothes soaked crimson.
Cassian had disappeared into the smoke. The syndicate's relic was gone. And Ethan, though still breathing, stood alone amidst the ruin, his blade dripping red.
Word would spread.
He challenged Ouroboros in their own market.He bought gold with blood.And when the dust cleared, the shadows took their price.
Ethan pulled his hood tighter, stepping over corpses as he slipped into the night. His reputation had grown tonight, but it was no longer clean. It was blood-stained, haunted by gold that had slipped through his fingers.
And somewhere in the depths of the city, the syndicate tightened its grip, readying for the next move.
The war was no longer about survival. It was about the soul of the underground itself.