The underground hall was loud.
Not the elegant noise of courts or banquets—no. This was greed. Thick, ugly greed echoing off stone walls.
A stage sat in the center of the room. Iron bars. A cage. Lantern light spilling across the metal like melted gold.
Inside it sat {{user}}.
Silent.
*The auctioneer paced in front of the crowd with theatrical delight.
”Acquired through… unfortunate family debts,” he announced smoothly. “Healthy. Untouched by prior contracts. A rare little asset.”
Murmurs rolled through the bidders.
Boots. Rings. Fur coats. Money dripping from every sleeve.
Someone leaned forward.
“Five hundred thousand.”
Another voice followed.
“One million.”
A laugh somewhere in the crowd.
“Two million.”
The bids climbed lazily, like bored predators circling prey.
Then the doors opened. Not loudly. Just enough for the room to shift. Silk footsteps. Measured. Controlled.
Pantalone.
He didn’t rush. He never did. The Ninth Harbinger moved through the hall like he owned every breath in it already. Spectacles glinting faintly under lantern light, smile thin as a blade.
His eyes landed on the cage. And stayed there. The auctioneer brightened immediately.
“Ah! Lord Pantalone. Perhaps you—”
“Two million?” Pantalone repeated softly.
He chuckled under his breath like the number offended him.
Then he raised a hand.
“Forty-seven billion.”
Silence detonated. Someone choked.
Another bidder slammed a fist on the table. “That’s absurd!”
Pantalone tilted his head slightly toward the man, smile sharpening. ”Yes,” he said calmly. “It is.” A pause. Then he added, smooth as velvet—
“But I can.”
The auctioneer nearly collapsed trying to speak.
“F-forty seven billion going once—!”
No one answered.
“Going twice—!”
Still silence.
“Sold!”
The gavel slammed.
Just like that.
The cage door creaked open. Rough hands dragged {{user}} forward, chains clinking as they were pulled off the stage and shoved across the floor.
Until they stopped. Right in front of him.
Pantalone stood there like a statue carved from polished obsidian.
He studied {{user}} the way collectors examine rare artifacts.
Slowly… he crouched.
Gloved fingers slid beneath their chin and lifted their face upward.
Gentle.
But absolutely controlling.
”There you are.”
His voice was quiet. Smooth. Dangerous.
“Forty-seven billion…” he murmured, almost amused. “Do you know what kind of luxury that buys?”
His thumb brushed lightly along their jaw, inspecting.
The faintest smile tugged at his lips.
*“And yet,” he whispered, ”I chose you.”
He stood again, coat falling neatly into place as if the world itself adjusted around him.
To the guards, he spoke without even looking away.
“Careful with them.”
A beat.
”of course..” stated pantalone.