Izuku hadn't only prepared tuxedos. For Sinclair, he had chosen a black-and-white dress—simple, yet striking. Against her pale hair and crimson eyes, it looked almost too perfect, as if tailored for her. The contrast made her presence sharper, more defined. Even Bruce, who rarely flustered, found himself blinking when his gaze caught on her white eyelashes. His cheeks burned before he could stop himself.
Sinclair, however, seemed less enchanted. She had wanted to wear the ribbon she'd bought at the mall days ago, fumbling with it in front of the mirror. But after several failed attempts at tying it, she had abandoned the idea with quiet frustration, leaving it folded neatly on the dresser.
The three stepped out of the inn room together, each carrying a different air. Izuku's hair was neatly styled, erasing the wilderness of his usual rogue-like appearance. The change was jarring, as though the man who once blended into dungeons now belonged in high society. Experience had taught him this trick—missions that demanded masks and disguises, raids that demanded more than raw survival.
Then there was Bruce. If Izuku was the rogue, Bruce was the delinquent. For once, though, he didn't look like a boy dragged along for the ride. The tuxedo gave him an edge of dignity, but it was his natural build that sealed the impression: tall, broad-shouldered, carrying himself with an unspoken defiance. Though he'd ditched his signature bandana, he still wore the gloves Minato had given him back at the Sky Summit—white ogre leather, B-rank emitters, sturdy enough to help him channel and restrain the Judgment Chains.
The chains… The Monarch had only allowed him access to a single function so far—one finger, one law of judgment. To think he could master a Mythic-grade weapon overnight would've been foolish. But still, Bruce carried the gloves like a promise. Or maybe a threat.
After a straight walk down the lantern-lit streets and a few quiet turns, the auction house finally loomed before them.
It was nothing like the shabby inn. The building's facade glowed with chandeliers through its arched windows, the laughter of nobles and merchants spilling faintly into the night. Guards in polished breastplates stood on either side of the tall, ironbound doors. Beyond, faint music drifted—strings and piano, elegant and cold.
Izuku stopped just short of the steps, eyes narrowing as he scanned the perimeter. "Here we are," he said quietly. "The auction house."
Bruce adjusted his cuffs with a grunt. Sinclair's fingers curled against her dress.
Something about the night air felt heavy—like they were walking into a place where masks weighed more than weapons.
---
"The mission isn't just to sit through an auction," Izuku explained as they walked. "It's to hunt a person of interest. Which brings us to another guild under the Dark Guilds: the Bounty Hunters' Guild. These guys will hunt anything—so long as there's a bounty on it."
Sinclair frowned. "How is that different from assassins?"
Izuku's lips tugged in a thin smile. "Good question. Assassins are hired by contractors. A rich client pays half up front, half after the job. Assassins work in shadows—silence, precision. If the contractor is rich enough, he might put the same target on three or four assassins' plates. But only the one who finishes the job gets the full price."
He lowered his voice as they neared the entrance. "Nobles use assassins. Governments use bounty hunters. All it takes is a wanted poster and a set price. Then the whole guild swarms. And by the rules of the Dark Guilds, once a bounty is posted, the Assassins' Guild steps away. Sometimes, random knights or hunters beat them to the prize, but bounty hunters always claim the right."
Bruce tilted his head. "So what kind of job is this?"
Izuku's eyes sharpened. "Since we were hired by a contractor, not the government, this is an assassination job."
Bruce let out a short laugh. "Surprising, though. Even the Dark Guilds have rules."
"There are rules for everything in this world," Izuku answered evenly. "Without rules, there's no order. And that's exactly why no one can ever gain absolute liberty."
---
Inside, attendants ushered them into the grand hall. Every guest wore a mask — domino masks, slim and elegant, covering only the eyes and the bridge of the nose. Some were held on sticks like ornaments, others tied with ribbon. It was anonymity with style, the kind nobles preferred.
Identity was precious here. A compromise could mean ruin. That's why the auction house used numbers instead of names. Bruce's card read 412, Sinclair's 314.
They found seats among the rows while Izuku drifted backstage like a shadow.
---
The announcer soon strode out, booming voice carrying. Two graceful auction hostesses glided behind him, their hands poised to unveil the treasures. Chains rattled as two beastkin porters hauled in the first crate, shackled but strong.
"Now then," the announcer called, "the first item up for auction: a framed platinum cassette of the song Lemism, signed by the musician himself — B.I.G.Metro!"
The hall erupted.
"And remember," the announcer added sharply, "we don't take cons here. Payments are accepted only in paper denar!"
A hush rippled — paper notes carried the official ᴰ mark, unlike coins. They were the symbol of true wealth, the kind that peasants would never touch.
"Opening bid: 100,000 ᴰ!"
Voices surged.
"Two hundred thousand!"
"Half a million!"
The hammer fell at 1.3 million ᴰ.
Bruce gaped. "Outrageous. How can anyone own that much? A laborer earns one copper coin a day! Twenty copper makes a silver, twenty silver makes a gold, and a hundred gold makes a denar. That means…" He did the math, face paling.
Izuku's voice crackled over the comms. "To you, that's insane. To them, it's priceless. B.I.G.Metro wasn't just a musician — he was a genius. Songs, novels, poetry… he rose from nothing, coined the word Lemism when he was only seventeen, and even defined it in his lyrics. Then one day, he disappeared. His works became relics. They call him the Ghost Pen. Anything tied to his name is sacred."
Bruce scowled. "Still doesn't justify wasting that much money on a cassette."
Izuku chuckled. "I see someone's as petty as Minato."
"Shut up," Bruce muttered.
The auction rolled on. Prices soared — five million, ten million. And then came the item that silenced the room: a simple white handkerchief, embroidered at the corner.
"The final lot of this half," the announcer declared. "A handkerchief once used by Princess Horikita Silver, third princess of Arden."
The crowd gasped. The bidding war ignited, numbers flung like blades.
"Ten million!"
"Fifty!"
"Eighty!"
"Hundred!"
Finally, one voice cut the frenzy clean. "One hundred and twenty million ᴰ!"
The hall froze. No one dared counter. The hammer fell.
Bruce's jaw dropped. Two shocks hit him at once.
First—the revelation. Horikita… my childhood friend. The girl who saved me when Grandpa was taken… She's a princess?
Second—the price. One hundred and twenty million denar… who in this world spends that much on a handkerchief?!
Sinclair hissed, "Who's the sick pervert who'd buy that?"
Izuku's voice was grim. "No ordinary noble. Not even most high-rankers. That kind of money can only come from a royal."
Bruce's head spun. "A… royal? I never thought Horikita was—" He cut himself off. "Izuku, I know her. She was with me that night. But that was twelve years ago. She probably wouldn't even remember me now."
Izuku's tone sharpened. "Interesting."
Bruce clenched his fists. I can't let her honor be defiled like this… but I can't outbid a royal either. His eyes hardened. Then I'll steal it.
"Izuku-san," he muttered over the comm, "I'm going to take it back."
"Fine," Izuku replied simply. "Once the mission's over."
Bruce blinked. "…That was too easy."
---
"And with that," the announcer boomed, "the first half of tonight's auction concludes! Please enjoy a short recess before we begin the second!"
Chairs scraped. The grand hall emptied in a tide of silk and jewels.
That was when it happened.
A masked man stepped behind them, his voice a whisper of mockery.
"Oh my, what do we have here? Isn't this product 526?"
Sinclair froze, trembling before the words even registered. She gripped Bruce's arm tight, nails digging in.
The man sighed. "Not here to return her, are you? Pity. That would make this the twelfth time. Damaged goods never last."
Bruce shot to his feet, glaring. "Back off, creep. I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
The man only smiled beneath his mask. "Very well. I'll get out of your hair. Good to see you again, 526." He walked away, vanishing into the thinning crowd.
Over the comm, Izuku's voice was sharp. "Bruce. Who was that?"
"No one important," Bruce muttered, shaking Sinclair's hand off at last. "Anyway, hurry up and get here. They're about to start again."
The audience trickled back, masks gleaming in the lamplight.
Izuku's voice came lower, more deliberate. "We can't see their faces with the masks. We wait until the auction ends. Once the target is identified, we create a distraction, kill him in the confusion, and leave." He paused. "But how does Sinclair know that man? It sounded… personal."
Sinclair's lips trembled. She forced the words out. "I… I was sold here. A few times."
The silence between them thickened.
Bruce's eyes widened. "Then this second auction…"
Sinclair turned to him, eyes glassy, voice breaking. "The second auction … it's the slave trade."