After the conversation and mild shock to his heart, Ryn was escorted to a smaller room.

A door swung open before he even reached it.

Inside was unmistakably a dressing room—wide mirrors, glowing lanterns, tables stacked with folded fabrics, and a line of servants standing in perfect formation like a well-oiled machine waiting for activation.

He didn't even get the chance to raise a hand in protest.

The moment he stepped through the threshold, they descended.

One servant immediately tugged off his travel-worn coat. Another swept in with a comb, dragging it through his hair with alarming efficiency. A third appeared from nowhere with measuring tape, circling him with the precision of a predator sizing up its prey.

"Arms up, young master."

"Turn."

"No, turn the other way."

Ryn complied, though every passing second made his soul quietly leave his body. By the time someone kneeled to measure his inseam, his face was burning.

He'd fought mythical monsters and survived countless deaths. But none of that prepared him for getting his "three sizes" measured.

After a period of around ten minutes, he was magnificently dolled up.

The servants stepped aside, revealing him to the mirror.

Ryn froze.

He was dressed in a deep midnight-blue ceremonial coat, trimmed with gold embroidery so intricate it looked carved rather than stitched. The lapels swept cleanly along his chest, framing a crisp white cravat that fell in soft folds.

A fitted black waistcoat hugged his torso, its edges lined with the same royal gold patterns that curled like vines.

The cape draped across his shoulders completed the look—fastened by a polished clasp and decorated with thick braided cords that rested against his arm.

The fabric was nice and smooth, easily maneuverable as well. Madam Maria really does think of worst-case scenarios.

His hair, normally a messy battlefield from travel and stress, had been almost engineered into a smooth, swept-back style. A few strands framed his face deliberately, giving him the composed, almost aristocratic look.

Ryn stared at his reflection, unsure whether to be impressed or deeply alarmed.

Ryn blinked.

"…This has to be illegal," he whispered to no one.

One of the servants coughed into her sleeve, poorly hiding a laugh.

The door opened with a soft click.

Maria Blackwood stepped inside as if she owned the room—which, technically, she did. Her gaze swept over Ryn once, leisurely, like she was evaluating a painting she had commissioned personally.

Then her lips curved.

"Well," she said, folding her hands behind her back, "it seems Amelia chose well."

Ryn stiffened. "Chose… what, exactly?"

"The robe suits you," she continued.

"Come, Ryn. The ceremony begins soon. The early bird gets the worm after all."

She turned, cape swaying with practiced elegance.

Ryn followed, still feeling like someone had replaced his reflection with a better-behaved version of himself.

The corridor opened into a vast antechamber buzzing with controlled activity. Servants moved like synchronized cogs, guiding nobles to their designated places while quietly announcing arrivals.

Maria didn't need announcing.

The moment she stepped forward, nobles straightened their posture as though a cold breeze had swept through.

Ryn walked half a step behind her, which only made him more noticeable.

And today, unfortunately, he did look noticeable.

The ceremonial hall beyond was enormous—a stadium-like amphitheater carved in marble, filled with thousands of seats. Tiered seating rose layer by layer, packed with VIPs, dignitaries, foreign envoys, military commanders, and minor royalty.

The air shimmered with the hum of magic barriers and the soft glow of enchanted lanterns.

Ryn hadn't realized how elite the event really was, which brought into question his own naivety for not attending sooner.

Servants spotted Maria instantly.

One broke away from the line with practiced precision, bowing low.

"Lady Blackwood. Your suite is ready."

Maria nodded once, accepting this as natural law.

Ryn was impressed despite himself.

They followed the servants along a private staircase winding upward, bypassing the crowd entirely.

The higher they climbed, the clearer the view became—down onto the ceremonial stage at the center of the stadium, where knights were already assembling with rigid formality.

The servant opened the door to a private skybox.

Ryn stopped.

It wasn't a "seat." It was a suite.

Two velvet chairs arranged like a council seat sat on a polished floor of blackwood. Personal refreshment spread of tea and various cakes were already prepared.

Maria stepped inside like it was her living room.

"This will do," she murmured.

The servant bowed again and retreated.

Ryn slowly walked to the viewing area and put his place on the railings, examining the place below.

"Impressive, isn't it?" she said, voice smooth. "

"All this spectacle… for an event that was undeniably illegal. The irony was almost impressive," she continued, her pitch high to imitate empathy.

The theatre was pretty much full now.

Nobles settled in, their attendants whispering last-minute reminders about budgets, rival bidders, and what items were worth fighting for.

The Auction Master stepped onto the central stage, cane tapping once for silence.

"Welcome to the House of Radiance Annual Auction," he announced, voice amplified by subtle enchantment.

"Let us begin."

The first item appeared: a gleaming dagger forged in the Northern Realms.

Bidding rose instantly.

Ryn watched from Maria's suite, gaze sweeping the theatre. Dozens of hands lifted bidding plates. Dozens of faces remained calm, unreadable.

He saw nothing unusual.

Well, other than a few gestures he'd rather not have witnessed.

Some nobles thought it appropriate to flaunt their "affections" for their servants in public, touching and pawing as if the people beside them were property.

Ryn shook the thought away…this was the black market after all, and there were some sick bastards in the world.

A second item arrived, an enchanted quill said to store spells.

A third—a vial that had faint crimson liquid glowing through the glass.

Each one sold without incident.

Maria sipped her tea, utterly relaxed. "If they're here," she said lightly,

"These aren't the items they'd risk themselves for."

Ryn leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

He tried to sense a flicker of intent, a slip in composure, anything.

But the crowd moved like a well-oiled machine.

Bid, Settle, Bid, Settle.

Nothing stood out.

Several more items passed: scrolls, minor relics, potions.

Still nothing.

The Auction Master lifted his cane again.

A servant stepped forward with a small wooden tray. It looked unassuming, so much so that even the Auction Master looked like he wanted to sell it for quick coin.

"Next item, an Emberleaf Brooch."

A small tray was lifted, displaying a simple leaf-shaped brooch of amber and gold.

The hall barely reacted.

A few nobles glanced down out of courtesy. Most didn't bother.

"Support-class accessory," the Auction Master continued.

"Increases the duration of standard Blessings and buffs by roughly twenty percent."

"A reliable but modest relic."

Maria didn't even look up from her tea.

Ryn thought long and hard. The only reason the Cult would be here is to get something which would disrupt the Hero's Ceremony.

It had always been the Ceremony. The Cult's next move. The timeline's anchor.

That wasn't speculation, Ryn knew it.

The thought rose by itself, quiet but heavy, like a tide swelling beneath the surface. Of all the events marked on the calendar of this life… the Ceremony was the one that mattered most.

The churches had been preparing for it. Sera had been sent because of it. Amelia would soon be attending on behalf of Grandal.

Everything in Raias was beginning to orbit that single point in time.

And with that thought came another, the reason why they succeeded the first time.

Cardinal Leon.

But, he'd stopped their plans? How were they going to…?

The question echoed only for a moment.

Because the memory answered itself.

On the warehouse floor, Ryn remembered something spoken by the handler:

"To replace someone perfectly, you do not copy their movements or forged documents. You remove what makes them themselves, and leave behind the shell."

"The soul…in which another can take its place."

At the time, Ryn hadn't understood why the handler said it so confidently.

But now, in the quiet glow of the auction hall, the meaning unfurled.

Extracting a soul was one thing. Placing another inside was another.

Yet the true challenge was neither—it was keeping the replacement stable.

Because in the end, an imitation can only mimic what it sees—it cannot be the person.

Cardinal Leon's absence in the original timeline. Everything he'd pieced together began aligning with a quiet, dreadful precision.

If they had failed to acquire Cardinal Leon…who's to say they won't try for another person of equal importance to the Hero?

Ryn drew in a slow breath, his gaze drifting toward the stage—

And then, from the corner of his eye…he saw it.

A single board had been raised.

To the crowd, it looked like a bid. To Ryn, it was a dead giveaway.

Found you.

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