[Tourist District.
The woman who had been asking questions earlier at the Old Times Antique Shop now sat in a cafe, sipping coffee while reading the newspaper.
Her eyebrows rose, unable to hide her surprise.
Beside her lay a sketch that had been revised repeatedly, an image that looked about 80% similar to Moren.]
Hearing the warning from above the dome of the auction hall, the black-suited man standing beside Saint Rosward’s seat, apparently the captain of the guards, felt the blood in his veins turn to ice.
Every hair on his body stood on end.
What had he just heard?
Bombs?
Under Saint Rosward’s seat?!
A chill shot straight up his spine.
He wanted nothing more than to draw his gun or use Soru (Shave) to launch himself upward and tear that masked madman to shreds.
But reason, and the increasingly urgent beeping in his ear, locked his legs in place.
He did not dare make a single unnecessary move.
“Gulp…” The captain of the guards swallowed hard, his throat dry and aching.
Forcing himself to stay calm and push down the storm in his heart, along with the killing intent that threatened to erupt, he looked up at the blurry figure in the shadows above and spoke in the steadiest voice he could manage.
“Do you know what you’re doing?
You’re threatening the Gods—”
But he never finished.
BOOM!!!
A sudden explosion detonated from the right rear corner of the auction hall!
Flames, smoke, shattered limbs, expensive suit fragments, and a sticky mixture of blood and flesh splashed instantly across the nearby walls, carpets, and seats!
Several wealthy patrons who had been silently cursing the Celestial Dragons’ argument or scheming to themselves did not even have time to scream.
In that sudden blast, they were instantly turned into crimson pulp smeared across the walls.
“AAAAHH!!!”
“HELP!!”
“EXPLOSION!
THERE’S BEEN AN EXPLOSION!”
After a brief dead silence, even more harrowing and chaotic screams followed.
The guests lucky enough not to have been caught in the blast scrambled and crawled as far away as they could.
Yet they were too afraid to run too far, terrified of triggering unknown bombs elsewhere.
The air instantly filled with the acrid stench of gunpowder and the sharp metallic smell of blood.
From above, Moren’s utterly emotionless voice fell again, cutting through all noise and false hope with surgical precision.
“One more word of nonsense, and next time your masters will be evenly spread across the walls.”
That calm statement was more intimidating than any roar.
The captain of the guards froze.
His face turned pale as paper.
Cold sweat soaked through his back completely.
He looked at the gruesome, still-warm crimson remains smeared across the wall, then at the increasingly urgent beeping in his ear.
The last shred of hope in his heart vanished.
This madman was serious.
He really dared to kill Celestial Dragons.
He had the ability, and the preparation, to do it.
He clenched his jaw, not daring any further unnecessary movement or words.
He could only use his eyes to signal the other guards, who were also frozen in place, to stay still.
Their only option now was to not make a move.
Otherwise, if that lunatic above got irritated, the Celestial Dragons they were sworn to protect would be blown to bits in an instant.
Up on the platform, Saint Charlos let out a yelp of pure terror at the explosion.
His snot bubble flew off as he collapsed back into his seat, his legs trembling like sieves.
The excitement of fighting over a “new collectible” was gone, replaced by raw primal fear.
Princess Shalulia could no longer maintain her aloof superior mask.
Her delicate face drained of all color.
She instinctively grabbed her father Saint Rosward’s arm, her body trembling slightly.
They were not afraid because a few commoners had died horribly, they had done worse for fun before.
No, this was the first time they felt death so close, so utterly beyond their control.
From birth, they had only ever taken the lives of others.
Never had their own lives been so casually held in someone else’s grip.
This terror, the shattering of their fundamental understanding of the world, was far more devastating than the bloody scene itself.
Saint Rosward’s face darkened so much it seemed to drip water.
He struggled to maintain his composure, but his knuckles gripping the armrest were bone-white.
He could not understand it no matter how hard he tried.
How had things come to this?
On Sabaody, in the Celestial Dragons’ “backyard,” someone had dared to plant a bomb under his seat and threaten the lives of his entire family so brazenly.
And they had succeeded.
Even Fisher Tiger’s rampage at Mary Geoise had only freed the slaves.
He had never dared to harm a single Celestial Dragon.
This “Black Cat Sheriff” was absolutely insane.
Utterly lawless to the extreme.
But Rosward was more experienced.
Though rage, humiliation, and fear churned inside him, his mind raced at full speed.
The Marines and guards outside must have heard the explosion.
They would notice something was wrong soon.
If he could just stall for a few minutes, or even less, an Admiral might arrive.
Then this masked coward would not be able to escape even if he grew wings.
His only task now was to keep the madman calm and buy time.
But then, as if reading the situation directly, that damnable voice spoke again, shattering his last calculation.
“Don’t indulge in unrealistic fantasies that the Marines or an Admiral will be able to save you in time.”
Moren’s voice paused, as if giving everyone time to digest the harsh reality, then continued in a low steady tone.
“If there is any unusual movement outside the auction hall, any sign of an attempted breach, or if I simply feel too much time has passed…”
“I will detonate the bomb immediately.”
“At that moment, even if an Admiral arrives at the speed of light, the best he will be able to do is order his men to use spoons to carefully collect the three of you from the rubble, piece by piece.”
“Of course, let us hope they can still tell which pieces are the esteemed Saint Rosward, which are Saint Charlos, and which are Princess Shalulia.”
This brutally insulting description shattered the last of Rosward’s composure.
Veins bulged on his forehead.
His teeth ground together audibly.
His voice hoarse and venomous, he growled, “You damned ant.
What do you want?!”
Moren remained utterly indifferent.
His voice stayed steady as he issued his first clear command.
“That auctioneer standing on the stage, wearing the sequined suit and looking like a clown.”
Disco, called out by name, shuddered violently.
The obsequious professional smile on his face was long gone, replaced by sheer terror and bewilderment.
“Right now, go to the warehouse.
Open the chains on every slave and set them free.
Including the one on stage and all the ones who have not yet come up.
Now.
Immediately.”