Chapter 7. The Gilded Stage

Rayden stepped out of the car, his leather shoes making almost no sound on the asphalt. He straightened the collar of his tailored suit and adjusted the half-mask covering his face from the bridge of his nose to his chin. A mandatory accessory, the invitation had said, to preserve the ‘anonymity of the guests.’

The lights of the Delvanca Auction House gleamed, reflecting off polished marble and glass. The other guests glided past, a river of formal attire and masks of varying shapes and colors, each one a shield for an identity. Rayden slipped seamlessly among them.

He presented his VIP pin. A scanner beeped softly. "This way, sir," a uniformed attendant murmured.

Behind the mask, his eyes were sharp, analytical. To most, this was a lavish party. But Rayden knew better. Beneath the polished veneer, this was a silent battlefield. He moved toward his assigned seat, marked with his chosen alias. Warm spotlights danced on the high ceilings as soft music drifted from a corner of the room. Laughter tinkled, but none of it sounded genuine.

He studied the guests, analyzing their postures, their conversations, their laughter. Many were too relaxed, others too stiff. All of them maintained a careful distance, hiding something behind their facades.

"First time at an auction like this?" a man's voice from his left made Rayden turn.

A man in a silver mask sat two seats away. His tone was friendly, but his eyes were not.

"No," Rayden answered curtly.

"Usually," the man continued, raising his glass, "The quiet ones like you have the clearest purpose."

Rayden offered only a slight nod in response.

A few minutes later, the stage lights brightened. A man in a maroon jacket walked to the podium, opening the evening by introducing the first items.

The first lot: a mid-grade energy stone. The bidding began. Paddles were raised. Numbers were called out in rapid succession. Rayden was uninterested. His focus was not on the opening acts.

More items were presented. Time passed. The rhythm of bidding and selling filled the room. Rayden remained perfectly still, occasionally lifting the small glass in his hand to maintain his cover.

After several lots had passed, three men in black pushed a large glass case onto the stage.

Rayden sat up straighter. His eyes narrowed.

There it is.

The case was identical to the one he had seen three nights ago. Inside, the three items radiated their distinct auras, a palpable energy that seemed to spread throughout the room.

The guests stirred. The low hum of chatter began to die down. Whispers were exchanged. Some even raised their paddles prematurely.

But then, a clear voice cut through the anticipation from the right side of the room.

"That item… should not be auctioned tonight."

A man rose slowly to his feet. He wore a simple black suit and a plain gray mask. He stood calmly, yet his presence seemed to exert a strange pressure on the room. No one recognized him.

Rayden glanced at him, his mind flashing back to the warehouse. This man wasn't one of the guards. But his timing was too perfect to be a coincidence.

The auctioneer looked flustered. A staff member hurried to his side, whispering urgently while handing him a note. The auctioneer read it quickly, his professional composure returning.

"Lot number nine has been withdrawn from bidding," he announced. "It will be reassessed by the organizers. We apologize for the inconvenience."

A few murmurs of disappointment rippled through the crowd. Others seemed relieved. But Rayden knew this wasn't a last-minute decision. It was planned.

His eyes followed the two guards who were now efficiently wheeling the glass case off the stage. Their movements were too clean, too practiced. They showed no confusion. It was as if they had known all along the item would be pulled.

The corridor they entered was the narrow one leading to the underground storage vault. The same one Rayden had navigated. But this time, he knew the security would be different.

Rayden didn't move a muscle, but his gaze shifted. He began to pay closer attention to the other guests. Several pairs of eyes lingered on him for a fraction too long. It wasn't a curiosity. It was surveillance.

He leaned back in his chair, feigning relaxation. One hand moved slowly, entering his jacket to brush against the cool metal of a small sensor hidden within. His movements were fluid, but his mind was racing, reconfiguring his plan. He replayed the exit routes in his head. Camera locations. Guard count. The blind spots he could exploit. The time it would take to get to the vault without attracting attention.

Then, he heard a low voice from the row behind him.

"If he moves tonight, activate Protocol Two."

Rayden didn't turn. But his ears caught every word. Protocol Two. That wasn't just extra security. That was a capture system.

They were waiting for someone. And it was almost certainly him.

On stage, the auctioneer moved on to the next item, but the atmosphere in the room had irrevocably changed. The temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees. Many guests now looked uneasy. They might not have known exactly what was happening, but they could feel it.

Rayden swept his gaze across the room. Faces behind masks. They all looked ordinary, but now he could see the cracks. The darting eyes. The fingers tapping restlessly on an armrest. The subtle shift in the rhythm of their breathing.

He took a deep breath. Tonight was no longer about an auction item. It was a test of reactions. And he had just walked into the center of a game that had been set long before he arrived.

If they had prepared a trap, he would have to be faster.

Rayden ducked his head slightly, as if adjusting his shoe. His fingers brushed against a small sensor embedded in the sole. It is activated with a soft, internal click. A preliminary signal. Not to attack. But to open an emergency exit path if needed.

From the row on his right, a young woman leaned back languidly in her seat. She wore a black gown, her mask studded with glittering silver. Her voice was light, almost a playful whisper in the middle of a party.

"Funny, isn't it?" she said, not looking directly at him. "How sometimes the one who comes to hunt becomes the bait."

Rayden didn't respond. But his eyes caught the slightest glint from the ring on her finger—a small, engraved signet. It was the same symbol he’d seen on internal Bramasta documents.

She wasn't just another guest.