Grimoire of Cultivation

Chapter 85: Perilous Bids

'Hershel—that old pervert Percy warned me about.' Darius observed the man's vivid presence, clad in bright orange robes that contrasted sharply with his long white hair, which cascaded from the sides of his bald, age-spotted head. His teeth were noticeably yellow, and his nose was crooked from what looked like multiple breaks.

"I'm here to see the new shipment that came in today," Hershel said, glancing over Marcus's shoulder with a mischievous twinkle. "You must introduce me to your mysterious friend, Marcus. You can't keep such a distinguished guest hidden to yourself."

With a strained smile, Marcus reached out to Darius. "Of course, I wouldn't dream of it. Sir Feng, meet Hershel Bumfry, a... notable figure of our city."

Bowing slightly, Hershel greeted Darius, "I've been quite curious to meet you. Since arriving, you've certainly carved a notable presence in our city."

Darius offered a restrained smile, "Much of that fame was beyond my control—just misunderstandings and rumors." He noted Hershel's crackling purple aura, mentally acknowledging his strength, 'His aura matches Marcus's in density.'

"We shouldn't dawdle here. Let's walk and talk. And Hershel, no tricks with the bidding if you're joining us." Marcus gave Hershel a narrow-eyed look as they moved toward the busy staging area.

"You're making it sound worse than it was; it happened only once, and it wasn't my fault the creature was ill," Hershel retorted, hands clasped as he ambled along.

Darius chuckled, "Let me guess—you jacked up the price, and Marcus ended up with a sick slave?"

"It sounds so scheming when you put it like that. I was merely livening things up. How was I to know it was sick?"

Marcus fired back quickly, sparking a lively debate between the two. Amidst their banter, Darius eventually shifted his focus to the bustling surroundings.

His gaze immediately caught a startling sight—multiple families, even a young girl, perhaps ten, bouncing with excitement beside her parents. 'Children at a slave market?'

His discomfort began to deepen, a nagging feeling he eventually attributed to Hershel's unsettling presence. Just then, a bright crystal flashed on the stage, drawing all eyes forward.

"The first slaves are usually the lowest quality. We'll observe for now." Marcus whispered, watching the crowd's focus shift.

Hershel's grin spread wide as he leaned in next to Darius. "If anything piques your interest, Sir Feng, just point it out. Consider it a welcome gift to our city."

'Your breath smells like shit,' suppressing his thoughts, Darius managed a polite response. "That's very generous, but today I'm just here to support Sir Kinneman."

Their exchange was interrupted by the announcer's voice booming from the stage, amplified by a curious device adorned with spiraling metal. "Thank you for your patience tonight. We're a bit behind schedule, so let's get started with the first item."

"First up, we have an elf, one hundred and thirty years old. Captured last year, training completed three months ago." The announcer's voice filled the air as an elf stepped onto the stage. His long green hair was tied back, revealing elongated ears, while his gaunt body was barely covered by linen shorts.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as the elf turned, revealing a deformed ear, shorn of its tip.

Hershel's laughter cut through the noise, "that's why he's still unsold. His resistance must have been considerable for them to mutilate him like that. The only fate worse for an elf is to bear the slave rune."

Hearing the mockery in Hershel's tone heightened Darius's discomfort, sending his thoughts to Marcus, 'does his breath always smell this bad, or am I just lucky tonight?'

Stifling a laugh, Marcus quickly averted his gaze from Hershel, 'Don’t surprise me like that! And yes, he must dine on dung to maintain that level of stench.'

After a few more moments of no bids being called, the voice on stage began, "step dow—"

"Five low-grade mana crystals!"

The crowd erupted into confusion, their attention shifting to the elderly knight at the back, his hand raised.

"Why did you bid?" Kinneman's voice carried a mix of confusion and concern.

"That isn't worth one crystal, let alone five," old man Hershel remarked disdainfully, "They should be paying someone to take it."

"I have my reasons," Darius responded firmly. Yet as he lowered his hand, his confidence wavered internally, 'Why did I do that?! Am I really that affected by this? What am I going to do with a slave?'

"Sold! All transactions will be finalized post-auction. Please wait for an attendant to take your name."

Promptly, just as the host finished speaking, a soft voice emerged behind Darius. "Congratulations on your purchase, my lord. May I have your name for registration?"

Turning, he was momentarily caught off-guard by the significant presence of the woman before him, his gaze inadvertently pausing on the two mounds of flesh that dominated her chest before looking up to her eyes. Quickly regaining his composure, he smiled brightly, "Feng is my name."

Standing before Darius was a towering werefolk woman, with an obvious bovine bloodline, about a third of a meter taller than Darius in his disguise. Her pale white skin was marked with irregular black splashes, echoing the pattern of a cow. Her long black hair was swept up into a bun atop her head, revealing her strong neck and substantial chest, which her modest tan dress struggled to contain.

Her voice was strikingly soft, contrasting with her imposing appearance. "Please remain until we've finalized the purchase. I will find you again at the end of the auction. If you have questions, my name is Beatrice." Scribbling his name swiftly, she then moved back to the side of the stage.

"Are you sure you want to keep that one? I could have the host reverse the bid; I'm well acquainted with the house," Hershel's words floated into Darius's consciousness, the odor from his breath worsening his mood.

"I appreciate your offer, but I am certain of my decision." Darius clasped his hands behind his back, facing the stage, his mind firm. 'No more bids.'

The evening unfolded with routine precision, each slave presented stirring spirited competition from the audience. The initial modest interest soon escalated, catching Darius off guard with its ferocity.

Marcus and Hershel, swept up in the auction's fervor, exchanged critiques and predictions on the outcome of each sale, their banter sharp and competitive.

As the bids flew, a disquiet gnawed at Darius's insides. His fingers tensed behind his back as he scanned the gleeful crowd. 'This is perverse... It's as if they're at a festival, reveling in it.' The laughter around him wasn't cruel or demeaning; it was genuine joy, a disturbing indication to how deeply ingrained these practices were in their culture. They didn’t merely accept the auction; they celebrated it.

As Darius watched a father lift his child for a better view, realization dawned grimly. 'It's so deeply rooted... they can't even perceive it. I never witnessed anything like this in Penglai, not to this extent.'

Suddenly, Marcus's voice cut through his thoughts, "One high-grade mana crystal!" His tone carried a distinct thrill.

Darius glanced over, noting the gleam in Marcus's eyes as he appraised the stage. "Now, that is a fine slave, a boar bloodline would be perfect!"

On the stage stood a formidable man with a short black mohawk, his dark skin stretched over robust muscles. What caught Darius's attention most were the prominent tusks jutting from his mouth.

Following a spirited bidding clash, Marcus laughed heartily, clapping as he declared, "Seems he couldn't afford to keep up!"

Hershel, shaking his head, criticized, "Four high-grade crystals is excessive; you should've bowed out sooner. You're always too stubborn with your bids."

Unperturbed, Marcus shot back, his voice firm, "The way I participate is my affair. Besides, the profits I'll earn from him will far outweigh the cost." He slapped Darius on the back cheerfully. "You see how it's done? Next one you can try your hand at bidding. Unless it's a dwarf, of course."

Inside, Darius wrestled with his irritation, maintaining a smooth, composed smile. "Should I decide who to bid on next?"

"Why not! Just steer clear of choices like that elf," Marcus teased, his expression lively as he looked to the stage.

"Next, we present a werefolk with a feline bloodline, merely eight years old. Lacking special skills but ideal as a companion for your child or spouse."

Darius felt a chill. Darkness clouded his vision as he watched the young slave step into view. A child's eager voice pierced the air, heightening the disgust he felt, "He's so cute! Mommy, can we buy him? Please, please!"

As the boy took center stage, he was garbed only in linen shorts, his slight frame covered with a soft orange fur that thickened at his arms and tapered up to a fluffy collar around his neck. His features, delicate and distinctly feminine, were accentuated by bright green eyes and feline ears atop his head.

"Two high-grade chaotic crystals!" Hershel's voice cut through, jarring Darius. The mage's fervent bid carried a foul stench, causing Darius to grimace as Hershel's hands twisted eagerly in front of him.

The bid sent the crowd erupting into conversation, which swiftly hushed as eyes turned to Hershel, recognizing him with a mix of reactions.

As the host commenced the countdown, it became evident no further bids would challenge the old man. He chuckled heartily, turning to Darius. "What a night! It must be your luck, Sir Feng. I've waited years to find a feline werefolk, years!"

Darius, restrained himself with great effort from attacking the gleeful mage, managing only a tight smile. Catching the unusual darkness in his eyes, Hershel coughed awkwardly, his expression briefly faltering before he redirected his attention to the stage.

'Are you alright?' Marcus's thoughts cut through, snapping Darius out of his glare. He faced forward again, masking his emotions with a composed expression. 'Everything's fine. This man just puts me on edge.'

'I should have warned you about him. Just hang in there; we're almost through this.'

Darius took a deep breath, steadying himself. His resolve hardened as he watched the young werefolk boy exit the stage, his face devoid of emotion.

The remainder of the selection unfolded without further disruption. Marcus, sensing Darius's discomfort, took over the bidding duties and successfully acquired two more slaves for the mining project.

Throughout, Hershel remained unusually silent, his attention fixed solely forward.

As the final bid finished, the crowd started to break up, a mix of satisfaction and disappointment etched on their faces. Winners converged near the stage to finalize their purchases, while those who lost made their exits, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

The trio patiently waited their turn to finalize their transactions. Marcus arranged for some of his men to collect both his and Darius’s purchases the following morning.

While the pair were preoccupied, Hershel swiftly completed his transaction with another attendant and departed with his new slave.

Employing his Arcane Gaze, Darius caught Hershel casting a prolonged, penetrating look his way as he hastened away from the auction site, the young slave following close behind.

"Quite the evening, these slaves should work perfectly. I'm still confused as to why—"

As Marcus turned, he realized he was suddenly alone. Whirling around, he scanned the area. "Shit!" Rushing toward the entrance, he skidded into the street, a sense of foreboding washing over him. 'I knew I felt bloodlust.'

Scouring the area frantically, his frown deepened. 'Don't do anything foolish, you idiot! Hershel is stronger than me!'

----

In the shadowy confines of an alleyway, a disheveled, skinny man leaned against the wall, his wild black hair and beard barely concealing the darkened azure of his eyes as he surveyed a grand manor. Drawing his worn coat tighter, he retreated deeper into the shadows, pausing beside some crates.

He knelt down, the faint sound of scratching echoing as he faced the wall. His movements, though cloaked in darkness, left traces of scribbling sounds—the only sign of his presence. After a brief moment, he cast a wary glance around before pressing his hand against the cold ground, murmuring, "conceal." His form then faded, blending seamlessly with the surroundings.

Hidden behind this veil, he resumed his work, etching symbols into the wall. With a final press of his left fist into the array, twisting it sharply before letting go, a portal flickered open, swirling with starry darkness. Darius then reverted to his true form and stepped through the gateway.