Ethan wasn't expecting it, not here, not now.
The auction hall dimmed slightly, and the pedestal rose slowly from a translucent floor panel. Suspended in a protective light field was what at first glance looked like a fractured blade, no longer than a forearm. The metal was dark, almost matte in texture, but it shimmered faintly when the containment field pulsed.
He sat forward, narrowing his eyes.
The weapon was broken. Sheared off halfway down the shaft, its edge cracked and blackened by heat. The hilt was scorched, fused into a form that no longer resembled a grip. No markings, no serials, no guild stamps.
And yet…
The air around it vibrated.
Subtly. Quietly. But undeniably.
"Iris," he murmured under his breath, "tell me I'm wrong."
"You are not. That is a molecular weapon," Iris replied evenly. "Damaged. Inactive. But real."
A long breath escaped his lips.
Until now, Ethan had never laid eyes on another molecular weapon besides the Astral Slayer. His own blade had been buried in a ruin deep within the Kynaran desert, concealed beneath centuries of sand and silence,hidden from the galaxy for reasons he still didn't fully grasp.
Its obsidian surface, though subtly mesmerizing, gave little away at a glance. To most, it looked like an old, ceremonial dagger. Exotic, perhaps, but forgettable. That anonymity was its greatest shield.
The one now rotating in a grav-field spotlight had no such disguise.
"Bidding begins at forty million," the auctioneer declared.
The number slammed into the room like a pressure wave.
"Seventy-five."
"Ninety."
"Two hundred."
It rose like a firestorm, rapid and merciless. No hesitation. No pause. The bidders weren't curious, they were desperate. Ethan scanned the room: the same corporate lords, syndicate emissaries, military big shots. Each knew what the weapon was. Each wanted it for reasons that probably had nothing to do with sentiment or preservation.
At four hundred million, a masked pair of corporate representatives from one of the inner rings bowed out.
At seven hundred, the Ghoryan naval strategist gestured his displeasure and silently left his box.
Ethan felt a chill trace down his spine.
"One billion," a soft voice said from below.
He didn't need to look to know who it was.
The Zelsari. The one with four luminous eyes and skin like liquid pearl. Her posture was unreadable. Her tone contained no arrogance. Just finality.
Behind her, her massive Vennari bodyguard didn't move, but the pressure of his presence washed through the air like the shadow of a starship falling.
The auctioneer's voice cracked slightly. "One billion going once…"
Silence.
"Sold."
As the pedestal retracted, Ethan shifted in his seat.
"Iris…" Ethan murmured. "What's the market value of the Slayer?"
"Unknown," she replied without pause. "There is no verified market for molecular weapons. Their existence remains officially disputed. But to the right buyer, or the wrong one, it would be considered... priceless."
He gave a quiet snort. "Which is another way of saying it could start a war."
"Accurate," she confirmed.
Ethan's hand drifted toward his coat, fingers pressing lightly over the hidden shape of the Astral Slayer, sheathed magnetically beneath the lining. It didn't hum or shift. No resonance. No flicker of awareness. Just cold weight, silent, as always.
Rumors always swirled about Imperial nobles and leaders of other galactic powers who wielded blades sharp enough to carve through starship hulls. About S-Rank or higher mercenaries, the kind who reshaped battlefields alone, and syndicate kings or legendary space pirates who carried weapons that never dulled, never missed, and never needed to draw blood more than once.
Most called them myths. War stories. Reputation padding.
But myths didn't show up broken and floating inside a billion-credit grav-vault.
He swallowed hard.
Luckily, his own blade didn't look like much. From the outside, it passed for an obsidian ritual dagger. If he kept it sheathed, no one would ever suspect.
He hoped.
Time passed. More items followed. A psionic crystal that changed colors based on proximity to thoughts. A live telepathic symbiote in a gel tank that made two attendees quietly leave the hall, unsettled.
Then, the lights dimmed once more, and the room shifted.
The grav-chamber opened again, and a series of pylons rose from the floor, humming with low, focused energy. Suspended between them in a field of null gravity was a jagged object, roughly the size of a human heart, hovering in mid-air.
The Gryllex shard.
Ethan inhaled slowly.
The object was crystalline but layered with a mineral matrix that shimmered at certain angles. Energy flowed through it like the rhythm of a heartbeat, pulsing once every few seconds. The field around it crackled softly, and Ethan could tell immediately: it wasn't stable, but it was alive. Active.
"Iris?" he asked.
"Confirmed. Genuine. Untouched. Energy resonance consistent with fringe weaponized tech. Potential applications include military armor modulation, psionic uplink enhancements, and advanced cloaking matrices."
"Security?"
"Neural-reactive sensors. Retinal-linked biometric vault. Six internal countermeasure routines."
He exhaled, quiet and sharp. "Of course it's locked like a vault on a black sun."
The bidding started slow.
"Three hundred thousand."
"Five."
"Eight-fifty."
Most of the room remained quiet. The earlier spectacle of the molecular blade had drained the air of its electricity, and many buyers were now content sipping alien wine and watching.
Then the veiled group entered.
The ones Ethan had noticed earlier, silent, deliberate, moving with precision that suggested far more than mercantile interest.
Their representative said nothing. He didn't need to. An attendant at his side raised a hand, and the price jumped.
"1.1 million."
"1.8."
"2.5."
Iris murmured in his ear. "Tracking their bid patterns. All funds funneled through a series of redacted channels. Syndicate-aligned. Likely a sovereign shell outside Federation control."
Ethan frowned.
He could bid. But this wasn't worth burning six million credits. Not in the long game. Not when every credit counted in the shadows of survival.
"Iris," he whispered. "Options?"
"Interrupting bid channel is possible. Detour via proxy network. Risk: minimal if executed quickly."
Ethan didn't hesitate. "Do it."
"Five million," the representative said.
A pause.
Then: red light.
The auctioneer blinked. "Bid authorization failed."
A low, sharp intake of breath swept the room. The masked man turned toward his handler. Gestured.
The handler shook his head. Something had gone wrong.
"Next bid?" the auctioneer asked.
Ethan raised one gloved hand, voice neutral.
"Six million. Seventy-two thousand."
The silence that followed was electric.
The auctioneer waited. The veiled group didn't speak.
"Sold."
He accepted the containment case as it floated into his possession.
The shard was heavier than expected. Not physically. Psychically. Holding it felt like holding a part of a storm, dormant, waiting.
He didn't smile. Didn't gloat. He just nodded.
As the auction resumed and another item was brought forth, Ethan stood and began to edge toward the side corridor, keeping his grip firm on the case and his aura measured.
The air felt wrong now. Heavy. Pressurized.
And then the lights flickered.
Not a show effect. Not ambiance.
Wrong.
Then the sound, subtle, sharp.
An alarm. But not from the auction floor. It came from deep inside the ship.
Iris said it first: "Deck tremor detected. Source: lower engine maintenance corridors. Explosion pattern consistent with sabotage."
Then came the blast.
It sounded distant but deep, like a punch to the spine.
Seconds later, a second explosion, closer, rattled the floor. The chandeliers shook. Several attendees rose from their seats. One woman screamed. Security drones dropped from hidden alcoves above the archways.
Emergency lights pulsed crimson.
"Explosion origin: auxiliary launch deck," Iris said. "Evacuation protocols deploying. Probability of targeted attack: 87%."
Ethan didn't wait.
He turned, cloak flaring as he moved, the Gryllex shard held tight in its case beneath his arm. His steps were silent but fast. He pushed through the crowd as confusion began to ripple into chaos.
He didn't need a motive. Didn't need clarity.
He just knew one thing:
The auction was over.
And something far worse had just begun.