---The hall fell into a frozen hush.
"One million."
The masked man's voice was calm—too calm—as if dropping such an obscene number was nothing. But for everyone else, it was like lightning had struck the center of the room.
Even the auctioneer gasped. "O-One… one million?"
He looked around, expecting someone to object. None did.
Not a single hand rose to challenge the bid.
"Sold!" the auctioneer stammered. "Sold to the masked gentleman at the back!"
Elena stood still, trembling, her eyes pinned to the floor. Her torn slave dress clung to her bruised skin, and shame covered her like a second layer of cloth. She didn't even dare wonder what kind of monster had bought her for that amount.
"Wrap her up!" the auctioneer barked to his handlers. "Now!"
Two guards approached her, yanking her forward with rough, careless hands. Her knees buckled at the force, and she cried out softly. Their fingers pressed too hard on her bruises, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming.
Then the air shifted.
Cold.
Heavy.
Suffocating.
The masked man moved. But it wasn't just a step—it was as if the shadows parted to let him through, as if space itself bent to his will.
He stood before her now. Tall, composed. Red eyes glowing beneath the silver half-mask.
His gaze drifted to her side—where angry, dark bruises stained her pale skin.
His voice sliced through the silence like a blade.
"Who touched her?"
The head official stepped forward, sweat already pooling at his collar. "My Lord, I swear—I had no idea—"
Darius didn't look at him.
He was staring at Elena's arm, where a fingerprint-shaped bruise had begun to purple.
His voice lowered.
"A servant's hand may strike… but it is the master who permits the blow."
He turned slowly, his glowing eyes now locked on the head official.
"You allowed my possession to be touched. Damaged. Shamed."
The official fell to his knees instantly. "My Lord, please—spare me! I had no knowledge—"
"You had authority." Darius's voice was deathly calm. "So now, I will leave my mark—on you."
A strange light began to glow in his palm—deep red, pulsing like blood from an open wound.
He raised his hand and placed it gently against the official's chest.
The man screamed.
A sigil flared across his chest, burning through his clothes, branding itself into his flesh like molten metal. The symbol was complex, ancient, and alive, pulsing with cruel power. It seared bone and soul alike.
"Please—PLEASE!" the official shrieked, collapsing as the mark sealed itself with one final flash.
He twitched on the ground, sobbing, unable to move.
"Now you never will," Darius said coldly. "Let it be known your house touches what is not yours."
No one moved. No one spoke.
He turned to the auctioneer, who stood trembling behind his podium.
"I'll be taking her."
"Y-Yes, of course, my Lord," he stuttered, already scribbling down numbers. "That will be—one million coins—"
"Eight hundred."
The auctioneer froze.
"B-Beg pardon?"
"She is bruised. Mishandled. Her price drops," Darius said simply, as if it were a fact of nature.
"But—"
"Be thankful I don't burn this house to ash for daring to touch what belongs to me."
The auctioneer's lips quivered. "E-Eight hundred… of course, yes, my Lord. Eight hundred thousand…"
Darius gave no reply. He simply glanced at his men.
"Take her. Carefully."
As they approached Elena this time, their movements were gentle. One of them took off his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. Her eyes remained low, body limp with shock.
But as she was lifted, she looked up—just once.
Her gaze met crimson.
She didn't know his name.
But she knew now—she would never be the same.