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

The man in black tilted his head slightly. "I have my reasons."

Oswald frowned. "And those reasons would be...?"

There was a long pause before the stranger responded.

"Some are meant for study. Others... will serve different purposes."

A slow smile crept onto Marven's lips. "Heh. I like the sound of that. You a researcher? Maybe a summoner? Heard stories of folks using slaves for all kinds of crazy things—rituals, catalysts, blood magic."

The man in black gave no confirmation, only a slight chuckle. "Your curiosity is admirable, but unnecessary."

Jarvin folded his arms. "Far as I'm concerned, as long as the gold keeps flowing, I don't care why you need them."

The stranger nodded. "Then we have no further concerns. My men will take the stock."

At his signal, hooded figures emerged from the shadows. They moved with grace, dragging chained prisoners from the adjacent chamber. Some slaves whimpered, others remained silent, eyes vacant as if they had given up completely.

The dealers watched with satisfaction as the transaction concluded, their coffers heavy with gold.

And as the last of the prisoners was loaded onto carriages bound for an unknown fate, the man in black turned to them once more.

"You have done well. Continue your work." His violet eyes gleamed. "The next phase begins soon."

With that, he turned and vanished into the night.

The deal was done. Gold in hand, the slave traders stood, stretching and ready to leave behind the stench of damp stone and misery.

Jarvin Krull rolled his shoulders with a grunt. "Well, boys, another good night's work. Let's get the fuck outta here before the rats start thinking we belong here."

Oswald smirked, tossing his pouch of gold in the air and catching it. "For once, I agree. A warm bed, women, and some fine wine sound a hell of a lot better than this shithole."

Marven cracked his knuckles, glancing at Viado, who had already started walking toward the exit. "Let's move, then. No need to linger."

The slave dealers strode through the ruined corridors of the fortress, their footsteps echoing softly.

Outside, the night was thick with fog, clinging to the twisted remains of trees. The air was damp, carrying the scent of old stone and decay—but also something... off. Something coppery, metallic.

Oswald was the first to slow his pace, his sharp eyes narrowing as he sniffed the air.

"The fuck is that smell?"

Marven snorted, chewing lazily on his bloodroot bark. "What, afraid of a little rot, Greaves? We're in a godsdamned ruin."

But then Jarvin—who had survived too many ambushes to ignore a gut feeling—stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes swept over the mist-laden road ahead. The fortress gates stood open, the path beyond barely visible under the moon's pale light.

And then, he saw them.

A dozen figures emerged from the fog, cloaked in dark blue silken robes embroidered with lunar sigils. Their hoods were down, revealing a variety of women—some human, some not. At the forefront stood one unlike the others.

Scarlet hair cascaded over her shoulders, vibrant as fresh blood under the moonlight. Small white horns jutted from her head, gleaming in the dim light, and her piercing red eyes burned with something far worse than hatred—purpose.

She smiled.

"Gentlemen," she purred. "Out so late?"

Viado scoffed, brushing imaginary dust from his fine coat. "Who the fuck are you?"

The red-haired demoness tilted her head, her crimson eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Strange," she murmured, tapping a finger against her lips. "Men like you usually have a good nose for danger. And yet… here you stand. Clueless."

Jarvin's patience snapped. "Outta the way, bitch. We're done with our business for the night."

A look of amusement flashed in her crimson eyes.

"Oh, I know." She took a slow step forward. "That's why we're here."

A sharp cry rang out from behind them.

Oswald whirled around, his stomach lurching at what he saw.

The guards they had brought—their most trusted enforcers—were dead. Mangled. Their bodies were twisted at unnatural angles, their throats slit so deeply that their heads barely clung to their shoulders.

One man still twitched, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as his life drained into the dirt.

"The fuck—?!" Viado stumbled backward, his lips parting in horror.

Marven took an uneasy step, eyes darting wildly. "Where—where were the screams? We didn't hear a fucking thing—"

A shadow flickered in the corner of their vision.

Then, the women moved.

They surged forward—too fast, too coordinated.

Jarvin barely had time to reach for his dagger before cold, slender fingers locked around his wrists, twisting them back with bone-snapping force.

Oswald cried out as two women pinned him against the crumbling stone wall, their grips impossibly tight for mere women. Marven struggled, but a sharp knee to his gut sent him crumpling, his breath leaving him in a wheezing gasp.

Viado only had time to take one step before a hand gripped his chin, forcing his head up. He found himself staring directly into the red-haired demoness's eyes.

She smiled wider.

"You asked who we are," she murmured, tilting her head. "Well, since you're so curious..."

Her grip tightened, nails digging into his skin as she whispered, "My name is Selene."

She let go abruptly, letting him fall to his knees. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling.

Jarvin spat blood onto the ground, his pulse pounding in his skull. "You fucking whores have no idea who you're messing with. Do you know who we are? You're cultists, aren't you? Blood mages, right? You won't get away with this!"

Selene's expression remained calm. "Oh, we know exactly who you are."

She leaned down, her lips inches from his ear. "You're sacrifices."

A cold wave of dread washed over the men.

Viado swallowed hard. "If this is about money, we can—"

Laughter.

Dark, mischievous laughter erupted from the gathered women, a sound that sent icy tendrils of fear down the men's spines.

One of them, a pale woman with sharp features, wiped a tear from her eye. "Money? Oh, darling. There isn't a sum in existence that could compare to this."

Selene's eyes gleamed. "You're not worth gold."

A silver dagger slid from her sleeve.

"You're worth blood."

Then, they struck.

Blades plunged into flesh, piercing deep, twisting.

Screams echoed through the ruins—shrieks of agony, of disbelief. The men struggled, kicked, begged. Blood sprayed across the dirt, staining robes, painting pale hands red.

The women chanted as they carved into their bodies, their voices rising in a fevered hymn.

"Fear not the night, for it is the veil of the eternal."

Again.

"Fear not the night, for it is the veil of the eternal!"

Again.

"FEAR NOT THE NIGHT—"

By the time the last syllable left their lips, the men had stopped moving. Their bodies slumped, lifeless. The metallic scent of blood thickened the air, clinging to their skin, their hair.

Selene let out a slow breath, crouching beside the corpses.

Reaching into her robes, she withdrew a small glass bottle—a deep blue vial, swirling with an eerie glow. With practiced ease, she uncorked it and held it over the bodies.

A faint, ghostly mist rose from the dead, drawn into the vial like water down a drain. Their very souls, torn from the flesh.

Once the last wisp vanished, she sealed the bottle with a soft click.

She rose to her feet, flicking blood from her dagger.

"It's done." Her voice was quiet, reverent.

She turned to the others, her crimson eyes gleaming. "We must hurry. The High Priestess awaits."