Chapter 217: Lord of the flesh
The subterranean auditorium— jurisdiction of the Lord of Flesh.
It was vast and circular, lit by grand crystal chandeliers. It was packed with hundreds of wealthy patrons—corrupt imperial magistrates, Valdorian barons, high-ranking cartel financiers, and guild masters.
In any civilized capital, these men would have cloaked their faces in shame or fear of the imperial inquisition.
Here? Cruelty didn’t need anonymity when the law didn’t exist.
Down on the stage, a charismatic auctioneer in an embroidered coat tapped a staff against the floor, flashing a broad, showman’s smile.
"Next up, lot thirty-seven!" the auctioneer boomed, sweeping a hand toward the center of the platform. "Directly from the frontier raids along the eastern coast: prime household stock, unbroken and pristine!"
Two brutes in heavy leather dragged out a slender woman clad in rags, her wrists and ankles bound in chains. Clinging desperately to her hip was a small child, shivering violently under the blinding glare of the lanterns, eyes wide in pure terror.
"A package deal for the discerning gentleman," the auctioneer praised, pacing around the trembling pair like a livestock trader inspecting horses. "Shall we begin the bidding at eighty silver pieces?"
Paddles lifted. Numbers flew across the smoke-choked auditorium. Slave trading had been strictly banned across the entire civilized continent nearly a century ago. Yet here, it was free.
High above the floor at the private VIP balcony, sat a man who could easily rival Baron Kiliyan in physical volume, though he possessed none of the Baron’s sniveling weakness.
"Report. How many casualties across our sector?"
A sleek subordinate dressed in a high-collared black tunic stepped out from the curtained alcove behind him, bowing his head respectfully.
"Fifty confirmed dead over the span of three days, My Lord. Small bounty packs, independent cutthroats, and four separate ambush squads." The aide paused, swallowing dryly before adding, "Eighteen of the corpses bore our brand. Two of your personal collection patrols were wiped out near the southern salt kilns."
Branagh, the Lord of the Flesh—the man who controlled every illicit slave pen, black-market monster dissection den, and illegal body-modification clinic in the Rujgard—gritted his teeth.
"That idiot Vane had those three rats trapped in a cold locker, let them slip clean through his fingers like wet soap, and then turned the entire city into his personal playground. Now my patrolmen are getting their throats cut in alleyways just because that hyperactive lunatic wanted to play a scavenger hunt!"
Down on the stage, the auction gavel slammed down with an echoing crack, sealing the mother and child’s fate.
The floorboards opened, the iron elevator descending only to rise again with the next showcase in an anti-magic iron cage.
Inside snarled a small creature, Shadow Cat, feral with fury. It was a beast with pure black fur, its twin tails thrashing against the bars while violet eyes flared. It was barely a cub, yet it radiated an unnatural, predatory malice.
The auctioneer stepped back cautiously, raising a small silver talisman that hummed with a suppression matrix, forcing the cub to hiss and flatten its ears as invisible weight pressed down on its spine.
"A truly extraordinary find from the abyssal rifts of the northern mountains!" the auctioneer announced, voice climbing with excitement. "A juvenile Shadow Cat! Regrettably, our hunting squad had to slaughter the mother during the retrieval, but this little devil will fetch an incomparable guard beast once broken! Starting bid: three hundred gold!"
Up on the balcony, Branagh watched the bidding with a bored expression.
The curtain behind his chair rustled softly.
Another subordinate stepped into the booth. He dropped to one knee, keeping his head lowered, and waited for Branagh to flick two fat fingers in acknowledgment.
"Speak," Branagh grunted.
"My Lord, our security just contained some people. Three individuals attempted to slip through the staff corridor without an authentic guild token or an invitation seal. When questioned, they offered resistance."
Branagh’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing. "And? Why are you bothering me with common gate-crashers?"
"My Lord... the description matches the targets."
Branagh froze mid-puff.
A slow grin began to split across his massive face.
The Lord of Death had spent forty-eight hours boasting to the entire underworld that his targets were running like terrified rats. And now, the most valuable prize in Rujgard had walked straight into the lion’s mouth.
"...prepare a proper dinner for our special guests."
***
In the dining room, three figures sat around an expansive banquet table, bound tightly to high-backed chairs. The chains wrapped around them were not standard; they were anti-magic. Black burlap hoods covered their heads.
Baron Kiliyan was vibrating against his restraints.
"We’re dead... we’re roasted on a spit and served with glazed apples..." Kiliyan whimpered into the rough fabric of his sack, his voice cracking in tearful agony. "I told you! I told you walking into a slave auction was suicide! He brought us straight into the belly of the butcher! You lunatic—"
"Quiet, piggy," Gold muttered from the adjacent chair. "Every second I spend tethered to this idiot costs me three months off my lifespan. If I survive this evening, I am strangling him with my bare hands."
Right between them, Eren was leaning back as far as the chains permitted, his boots tapping out an upbeat.
Eren hummed cheerfully, bobbing his hooded head to an imaginary melody like he was lounging in a luxurious hotel.
Then the black sack ripped off from Eren’s head and flooding light spilled into his eyes. Eren squinted, blinking twice until his blue gaze adjusted to the towering silhouette standing directly across the banquet table.
Standing there was a mountain of a man clad in a pristine charcoal three-piece suit, his bald skull gleaming under the alchemical gaslamps like a polished bowling ball.
"Evening, boss," Eren greeted smoothly.
The heavy man pulled out the ornate master chair at the head of the table, settling into it with a soft, leathery groan.
"I am Branagh," the fat lord rumbled, resting his massive, diamond-encrusted hands flat. "The Lord of the Flesh. Master of the Menagerie, architect of Rujgard’s biological commerce, and your gracious host for the evening."
Two masked guards immediately yanked the cloth off Gold and Kiliyan.
Eren slowly turned his head toward Gold in genuine, theatrical bewilderment.
"Goldy," Eren said, tilting his head with deep concern. "How on earth do you even breathe with two masks?"
"Shut your wretched mouth."
Branagh ignored the squabbling, his gaze locked onto the trembling, fat nobleman.
"Baron Kiliyan," Branagh rumbled, rolling his cigar between thick lips. "The imperial nation’s supply clerk. So... the package my associates contracted to extract actually survived this long. You look remarkably soft for someone who just caused fifty casualties across our lower districts."
Kiliyan squeezed his eyes shut.
Branagh’s gaze shifted away from the sniveling lord, landing back squarely on Eren.
"No one with the brain capacity of a walnut surrenders themselves so peacefully. Especially not two monsters who killed fifty of our men. So tell me, boy... what is your actual play here?"
Eren’s grin widened, his blue eyes flashing with confidence.
"I like you, Branagh," Eren chuckled, leaning against his iron bonds with an easy shrug. "Refreshingly straightforward."