Chapter 5: The Black Auction

The annual Black Auction held at the Aihara Estate was not just an event—it was a spectacle. Whispers of it echoed through the underworld months in advance. Only the most powerful were invited: mafia leaders from across continents, corrupt politicians cloaked in civility, media darlings with blood on their hands, business tycoons who bought silence with billions, and even high-end models who doubled as couriers, spies, or weapons in disguise.

Though the Black Auction happened every year, this one was unlike any before. It was being held on the death anniversary of the Lady of Aihara Estate—the late matriarch whose mysterious collection had become the stuff of legend. For the first time, select items from her private vault were being auctioned, and the world’s most dangerous elites were desperate to claim a piece.

Inside the quiet, dimly lit room, Dorian sat shirtless, his upper body covered in wounds, bruises turning shades of deep violet and angry red. The katana scars still stung, and his ribs throbbed with each breath. But his eyes—sharp, determined—burned with something far stronger than pain.

His butler, an older man with silver hair and a grave expression, stood beside him, gently dabbing antiseptic on one of the deeper cuts.

“Sir, are you sure about this?” the butler asked carefully, eyes scanning the bruises. “Your body is covered in wounds… Are you still going to attend the auction?”

Dorian didn’t even hesitate.

“I’ll attend,” he said, voice cold, resolute. “I bet my life just to get this invitation. If I don’t show up, what was the point?”

He looked at the black card now resting on the table beside him—the key to a world of power, secrets, and possibly, freedom.

“This is more than an auction,” he added, pushing the butler’s hand away and rising to his feet despite the pain. “This is my chance to get out of this fucking estate. This family sucks the soul out of everyone it touches.”

The butler’s face tightened with concern. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper.

“Sir… you might forget that everyone here is your enemy. Someone might be listening.”

Dorian smirked, walking toward the full-length mirror as he reached for his black dress shirt.

“Good,” he said flatly. “Let them listen.”

“This enemy is not just someone, sir,” the butler said quietly, his voice tightening with urgency. “It’s your own blood. Full blood. Your father is here—lurking in the shadows of this estate—and yet he’s done nothing. Nothing to stop your mother. He let her throw you and your brother into that arena like animals. And now, he’s letting both of you walk into the lion’s den at the auction.”

Dorian stood in front of the tall mirror, shirt still open, gaze fixed on his bruised and battered reflection. His face was a canvas of exhaustion, resolve, and quiet fury. He exhaled slowly, the breath sharp from cracked ribs.

“That woman,” he said coldly, “she wants to see us kill each other. That’s the only thing that excites her anymore. She craves chaos—blood, suffering, death… Call it whatever you want. It’s what feeds her.”

He ran his fingers gently over the bruises near his collarbone, wincing slightly, then smirked without mirth.

“I’m used to it.”

“You can stop her,” the butler whispered, almost pleading. “You’re not like them.”

“No one can stop her,” Dorian replied, voice low and resigned. “Not even you. She built this empire out of fear. Out of control. She made us into monsters just to amuse herself.”

He slowly buttoned his shirt, each motion measured, deliberate, as if dressing for war.

“But like I said… I’m used to it. These wounds? They’ll fade in time. The bruises will vanish. But her need for violence—she’ll always find something new. Someone new.”

Dorian looked up again, this time locking eyes with himself in the mirror. A bitter smile curled at the edge of his lips.

“And when she does… maybe I’ll finally be gone by then.”

The gates of the Aihara Estate loomed tall and imposing under the veil of night, their black ironwork twisted like serpents. Rows of sleek luxury cars lined the private road, glinting beneath the golden floodlights that illuminated the long drive toward the grand hall.

Dorian stepped out of the matte black limousine, his posture straight despite the pain searing through his body with every breath. The bruises were expertly concealed beneath a tailored charcoal suit—one of his finest. The invitation in his inner pocket was all the armor he needed tonight.

Flashes of diamonds, whispers in foreign tongues, and laughter stained with secrets filled the air as the world’s deadliest elites walked the polished marble paths of the Aihara Estate. Models draped in silk, cartel heirs wearing charm like cologne, CEOs with blood on their balance sheets—all converged under one roof, pretending this was just another glamorous event.

But Dorian knew better.

This wasn’t about wealth.

This was about power.

And survival.

“Name,” a masked attendant asked at the entry gate, his tone clipped and professional.

“Dorian Gates,” he replied, slipping the black card from his coat.

The man scanned it, nodded once, and gestured forward. “Welcome to the Black Auction, Mr. Gates. The bidding will begin after the ceremonial tribute.”

Dorian stepped inside, and the world transformed.

The grand hall was a cathedral of shadows and decadence. Velvet drapes the color of spilled wine lined the walls, chandeliers of obsidian crystal hung like predatory eyes overhead, and the air itself seemed heavy with perfume, smoke, and danger.

Every corner whispered with secrets. Eyes tracked him as he passed—recognition, curiosity, some even thinly veiled hatred.

But he walked like he belonged.

Because tonight… he did.

The sound of a single violin played from the center of the stage, delicate and haunting. At the far end of the hall, beneath a black-and-gold portrait of the late Lady Aihara, stood the auctioneer in ceremonial robes, waiting for the tribute to begin.

Dorian moved past a table where a familiar face turned toward him—someone from the Chu family, their eyes narrowing in surprise.

“You made it out alive,” they muttered.

“Alive enough to bid,” Dorian replied, offering the ghost of a smirk before walking on.

He didn’t need allies tonight.

He needed answers.

And maybe—just maybe—a way out.

As Dorian moved through the crowd, glass of untouched champagne in hand, he remained alert beneath his calm exterior. Every conversation, every glance, every step was calculated in this place. The auction hadn’t even begun, yet the real games were already in motion.

Then, his eyes caught something—or rather, someone.

A man was entering through the eastern corridor of the grand hall, tall and composed, moving with the effortless confidence of someone used to power. He wore a three-piece suit, all black with gold cufflinks shaped like wolves’ heads, and carried no visible weapon, yet his presence alone was enough to shift the air around him.

People instinctively stepped aside.

His aura was dominant, silent, yet unmistakably dangerous.

Dorian’s body tensed as he watched the man cross the floor with purpose, not looking at anyone yet commanding the attention of everyone.

He leaned slightly toward his butler, who had quietly followed a few paces behind.

“Who is he?” Dorian asked under his breath, not taking his eyes off the man.

The butler’s gaze followed, and his face paled.

“That’s Laxiel Monteserat,” he whispered. “They call him The Phantom Wolf in the American underworld. He disappeared for years… many thought he was dead.”

Dorian frowned, the name sparking something faint—rumors he'd heard in his youth, stories too shadowed and obscure to verify.

“But why is he here?” Dorian murmured.

The butler didn’t answer immediately. Then quietly, “Maybe the same reason as you… or maybe something far worse.”

And in that moment, as Laxiel stopped at the center of the hall and lifted his eyes—

He looked directly at Dorian.

Not by accident.

Not by chance.

As if he already knew who he was.

As if he had been waiting.