Disco stood frozen for several seconds before the murderous glares of everyone around him, including the Celestial Dragons, made him realize he was being addressed.
Humiliating as it felt, caught between a bomb and the lives of the Celestial Dragons, how could he afford even a moment’s hesitation?
“Yes!
Yes, sir!
Right away!
Please don’t do anything rash!” Disco’s voice cracked with tears as he fumbled inside his coat and pulled out several large keyrings.
He abandoned all dignity.
He scrambled off the auction stage and shouted at the stunned staff, “What are you standing around for?!
Go unlock the cages!”
“Free all the slaves!
Move!
Do you want to get Saint Rosward killed?!”
The staff snapped out of their daze, grabbed the keys, and staggered toward the back warehouse.
The Longarm woman on stage was unchained by Disco himself and pushed off the platform, dazed and confused.
Saint Charlos, seeing his newly “purchased” princess about to be set free, instinctively opened his mouth to protest.
The moment he turned his head, he met his father Saint Rosward’s gaze, dark as a thundercloud.
Charlos flinched and swallowed his words, watching his “toy” slip away with nothing but fear and resentment.
They were just lowly slaves.
What did their lives matter compared to his own noble existence?
Inside, Rosward screamed with rage, but on the surface, he forcibly suppressed it.
Never had he felt such humiliation and shame.
As a descendant of the gods, the most exalted beings in the world, he had been cornered by a masked criminal in the crudest possible way and could not even talk back.
Beneath Rosward’s lowered eyelids seethed endless malice and murderous intent.
Whoever you are, wherever you flee, the World Government will drag you out and torture you to death in the cruelest way imaginable.
Your family, your friends, everyone connected to you will pay for today’s insolence.
Rosward swore silently to himself.
But that was for later.
For now, all he could do was endure and wait.
This towering hatred would have to be buried temporarily.
Inside the auction hall, only the rapid beeping, stifled sobs, and the distant sounds of unlocking and slaves stumbling from the warehouse remained.
Time dragged on in fear and shame.
Meanwhile, in the warehouse passage beneath the auction house.
Rayleigh leaned against the stone wall, an empty flask dangling from his hand, watching the slaves pour out like a floodgate had opened and flee toward every possible exit.
According to his earlier agreement with Moren, his job was to stay on standby in case something went wrong.
If everything went smoothly, he would not need to act at all.
“Things are going even better than expected…” Rayleigh clicked his tongue as he watched the chaos.
Moren’s plan was audacious to the point of madness, but its execution was simple, efficient, precise, and ruthless.
Rayleigh had barely lifted a finger.
“Ah well, even if this old man is not needed, I will stick around a bit longer…” Rayleigh straightened up, dusted off his pants, and moved closer to watch the show.
But as he passed through the passage connecting the warehouse to the outside and looked up at the masked figure on the dome of the auction hall, his expression suddenly changed.
Something was wrong.
Though the distance was great and the light dim, his vision and Observation Haki-like perception could clearly sense that something was off about the figure sitting behind the spotlight rig.
It was too still.
It lacked the subtle fluctuations of a living person’s life force signature, the heartbeat and breathing rhythms of someone tense or excited.
It was like a carefully posed doll.
That realization, combined with the bombs placed earlier under the seats and an explosive sticker trap, formed a bold but plausible conclusion in Rayleigh’s mind.
“Whew…
that kid really is crazy enough,” Rayleigh muttered under his breath.
There was no reproach in his voice, only the complex appreciation of an old master seeing a new generation rise.
Having figured out Moren’s plan, he changed his mind.
Without hesitation, he blurred away and shot off from Shabondy Grove No.
1.
As he passed a few young slaves frozen at a fork in the road, lost and terrified, he casually pointed them in the right direction.
Back in the auction hall.
Disco scrambled down from the stage and screamed at the dome with every ounce of strength in his body.
“They’re free!
All of them!
Every slave in the warehouse is released!
Not one left!
Please, don’t do anything rash!”
Saint Rosward, swallowing unbearable humiliation and killing intent, tried to reclaim a shred of authority with what he believed was a god’s merciful tone toward an ant.
“Those lowly ants have been freed as you demanded.
Now I will give you two minutes to leave.”
“During those two minutes, no one will stop you.
This is my mercy.”
He forced the words out as if each syllable cut his throat.
The black-clad captain of the guards quickly chimed in, voice almost pleading.
“Yes, yes!
Go!
We promise we won’t pursue!
Just go!”
Even as he spoke, he was cursing the Marines in his mind.
How long had it been?
Why hadn’t an Admiral arrived yet?
If they did not come soon, what would happen to the three Celestial Dragons?
Hearing Rosward, clearly terrified of death but still trying to posture with a charitable tone, Moren did not bother hiding his mockery.
“If you’re scared of dying, just admit it.
Why are you putting on an act?”
“Speaking of which, don’t you always call yourselves ‘descendants of the gods,’ high and mighty?
What’s the matter?
Are descendants of the gods afraid of a mere bomb?
Begging for mercy from a commoner?”
The insult landed like a slap on Rosward’s face, already twisted with fear and rage.
Beneath his bubble helmet, his face turned an ugly purple and his body trembled uncontrollably.
But Moren’s venomous tongue did not stop.
It grew sharper, stripping away their hypocrisy layer by layer.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk.
Stupid and ugly, greedy and afraid to die, arrogant to the bone yet lacking any of the bearing or strength to match it.”
“You’re nothing but beasts wearing human skin, utterly inhuman, yet you have the nerve to call yourselves gods?”
“I think you should change your name to ‘Heavenly Pig People’ instead.
No, that is an insult to pigs.
At least pigs can provide meat.
What do you provide besides suffering and waste?”