Strongest Incubus System-Chapter 173: The auction has begun.

The silence that followed the host’s words was not complete.

It was a heavy silence—made of restrained expectations, measured breaths, and dangerous intentions. A silence that didn’t ask for attention... it demanded it.

The hooded figure remained motionless in the center of the stage for a few seconds longer than necessary. A deliberate trick. To make the audience uncomfortable. To remind everyone that there, even time obeyed other rules.

"As is tradition," he continued, his voice echoing with an almost too pleasant timbre, "this evening will be conducted under three principles: absolute anonymity, irrevocable transactions, and... total responsibility for what you choose to acquire."

A few low murmurs spread.

Damon remained motionless. The mask concealed any reaction, but his eyes were too attentive. He noticed the detail: no guard moved. No blade gleamed. Everything seemed calm because it needed to seem so.

"Any violation," the host continued, "will be dealt with... definitively."

Aria leaned slightly toward Damon, without taking her eyes off the stage.

"He speaks like someone who’s had to demonstrate this in practice."

"Or like someone who likes to remember," Esther murmured from the other side.

The host raised a hand.

The stage floor responded.

Symbols of restraint lit up in deep red, forming concentric circles. The air grew thicker, as if something were being pulled from very far away—or from very deep within.

"We’ll start with smaller lots," he announced. "Artifacts, contracts, curiosities... We’ll build interest before the main event."

A side compartment opened.

Two masked assistants pushed a pedestal to the center. On it, a small black glass safe pulsed with internal light.

"Lot one," said the host. "Sealed memory fragment. Origin: unknown. Authenticity confirmed. Starting bids?"

Damon observed the audience.

Hands went up. Symbols gleamed. Values ​​were projected into the air by discreet magic.

He wasn’t interested.

Not yet.

The batches followed one another with cold efficiency. A living grimoire. A blood contract with an incomplete signature. A necklace capable of concealing someone’s presence even from minor deities.

Aria watched everything with restrained fascination, but without being distracted.

"They’re delaying," she murmured. "They’re building tension."

"They’re gauging the audience," Ester corrected. "Who reacts. Who gets excited. Who waits."

Damon agreed.

He felt it.

With each new batch, something inside him grew more restless. Like a thread being slowly pulled toward the stage.

Then, in a brief interval between announcements, he realized.

In the upper ring of the arena—almost hidden by the dim light—a door.

Small.

Guarded.

Denser runes.

"Ester," he murmured, almost without moving his lips. "That door upstairs. See?"

She followed his gaze with extreme subtlety.

"I see. Enhanced security. It’s not for objects. It’s for... something kept safe."

Aria swallowed hard.

"So that’s where she would come from."

The host spoke again, interrupting any continuity of thought.

"Before we proceed..." he said, with a slight theatrical inflection, "a reminder to the new guests."

Some bodies tensed.

"Certain lots are not announced in advance. They are not listed publicly. They do not accept pre-bids."

He paused.

"They appear when... the moment demands it."

The air seemed to vibrate.

Damon felt a shiver run down his spine, as if something—someone—had just opened their eyes somewhere far away.

"Lot D-13" murmured Aria, almost silently.

Ester closed her fingers slowly, her gloves creaking slightly.

"It’s close."

The host raised his hand again.

"We proceed."

The auction’s rhythm remained constant, almost hypnotic.

The host barely needed to raise his voice. A gesture, a well-placed silence, was enough, and the audience responded as a single organism — hands rising, bid symbols shimmering in the air, absurd figures being accepted without hesitation.

"They know exactly who’s sitting here" murmured Damon, without taking his eyes off the stage.

"And they know how much each one is willing to lose" added Ester.

The next lot was announced with a slight change in the host’s tone. A little more... satisfied.

"Lot eight. Conscious weapon. Origin: inferior infernal. State: awakened."

The assistants returned, pushing a reinforced metal support. A long sword rested upon it, set in an obsidian pedestal. The blade was black, but not opaque—it seemed to absorb the surrounding light. Red runes pulsed slowly along the edge, like veins.

Even from a distance, Damon sensed it.

A presence.

Not aggressive.

Evaluating.

"Oh..." murmured Aria, leaning forward. "She’s looking back, isn’t she?"

"She is," Ester confirmed without hesitation. "Swords with egos possess rudimentary consciousness. Some learn. Others... choose."

The blade vibrated slightly, emitting an almost imperceptible sound, like an impatient sigh.

"She hates this place," Ester added. "And she hates being shown off even more."

"Real value?" Damon asked.

"If it were in a regulated market..." Ester made a quick mental calculation. "Between forty and fifty thousand crowns, depending on the stability of the ego and the absence of secondary curses."

The host smiled behind his mask.

"Starting bid: one hundred and twenty thousand."

An excited murmur swept through the audience.

"Inflated," Aria commented, almost indignantly. "Very inflated."

"Here, the price guarantees two things," Ester said. "Exclusivity... and silence."

The bids rose quickly. A man with a flame mask was the winner, paying almost triple the real value.

The sword vibrated one last time before being taken away.

"Terrible choice," Damon murmured. "She’ll kill him in his sleep."

"Probably," Ester agreed, emotionlessly.

The auction continued.

"Lot twelve. Tome of advanced necromancy. Ancient school. Signature confirmed."

A book was brought in, wrapped in thin chains and seals of restraint. The cover seemed to be made of human leather—ancient, dried, but preserved by magic. Whitish symbols moved slowly across the surface, rearranging themselves.

Aria grimaced.

"This gives me the creeps."

"Why should it?" Ester replied. "This book teaches true necromancy. Not tricks. Not incomplete rituals."

"Resurrection?" Damon asked.

"No," Ester was precise. "Conscious post-death binding. Identity maintenance. Partial preservation of the soul."

Damon frowned slightly behind his mask.

"That’s forbidden in practically every kingdom."

"Yes," Ester tilted her head. "Because it works."

The host announced the starting bid.

"The real value?" Aria insisted.

"Under normal conditions?" Ester paused. "Sixty thousand. Maybe less, considering the risk of user corruption."

The starting price was double.

The bids rose even faster than in the case of the sword.

"They’re not buying power," Damon murmured. "They’re buying the illusion of control." "—Or the chance to defy death," Ester finished.

The book was snapped up by someone Damon preferred not to look directly at. The aura of that mask... wasn’t human. Nor entirely anything else.

"Next," the host announced, without giving the audience time to breathe.

"Lot fifteen. Miraculous elixir. Alchemical origin confirmed. One dose."

A small vial was brought in, supported by a floating stand. The liquid inside changed color slowly—gold, green, pale blue—as if reflecting possibilities.

The murmur was immediate.

"Ah..." Aria smiled beneath her mask. "This one’s famous."

"Very," Ester confirmed. "It cures incurable diseases, regenerates tissues, restores lost functions."

"Resurrects the dead?" Aria teased.

"No." Ester shook her head. "But it can save someone on the verge of death...if used in time."

"Real value?" Twenty thousand. Maybe thirty, if the alchemist is really who they say he is.

Starting bid: one hundred thousand.

Aria snorted.

"This is blatant robbery."

"No" corrected Ester. "This is priced desperation.

Damon watched the bids attentively. He saw hands tremble. He saw symbols appear almost in panic.

"This isn’t for power" he murmured. "It’s for someone who’s already dying."

"Or for someone who fears death" Ester added.

The elixir sold for an obscene amount.

The host paused briefly after that lot.

Silence spread again.

Damon felt it.

Not like before.

It was different.

As if the space itself were... holding its breath.

"Attention" said the host, his voice deeper. "The next item requires additional discretion."

Guards moved.

Not overtly.

But Damon noticed.

Four figures positioned themselves near the exits. Two more appeared near the stage. Runes on the floor changed their glow.

"We’re getting close," Esther murmured.

"Lot eighteen?" Aria ventured.

"No." Esther was tense now. "They make the count easier before the main event. It’s psychological."

The host raised his hand.

"Lot twenty-two will be... postponed."

A murmur swept through the arena.

"Instead," he continued, "we’ll present a special item. Out of catalog."

Damon felt a chill run down his spine.

The stage began to move.

Not literally—but the floor opened in segments, revealing an ancient stone elevator. Thick chains slowly rose, pulling something heavy from below.

The sound was the first warning.

Scraping metal.

Something large.

"This..." Aria swallowed hard. "This isn’t an object."

"No," Ester confirmed, her voice low and controlled. "This is a containment transport."

The platform emerged completely.

Above it, a cage.

Large.

Made of an unknown dark metal, reinforced with multiple containment runes. Thick chains encircled the entire structure, each link engraved with symbols Damon partially recognized—seals of suppression, dimensional anchoring, emotional containment.

A thick black cloth covered the entire cage. The silence was now absolute.

No one murmured.

No one moved.

"Damon..." Aria whispered. "Do you feel it?"

He did.

Not as a threat.

As sadness.

As something broken trying not to fall apart.

"Yes," he replied, almost voicelessly.

The host spoke again.

"Ladies and gentlemen... this item will not be described in detail."

Some bodies leaned forward.

"Its origin is... sensitive. Its value... incalculable. Its risk..." he paused, "unclassifiable."

Ester closed her eyes for a second.

"Lot D-13," she murmured.

Damon didn’t take his eyes off the cage.

Something inside him tightened.

Not out of curiosity.

But out of recognition.

The cloth over the cage trembled slightly.

As if something inside had taken a deep breath.