They made their way down the path and into the amphitheater.

It felt like a line of survivors walking toward a new, more polite kind of execution. The trial had been brutal. Bloody. Honest about what it was. This felt worse somehow. More civilized. More fake. Death wrapped in silk instead of claws.

Behind Dante, his team followed in tight, silent formation. Not scattered. Not relaxed. Still battle-ready even here. They weren't just his soldiers anymore. They were proof. A living example of his power. Evidence of what he could do. What he'd accomplished.

Their beaten bodies and haunted eyes were a walking display of the hell they'd survived to stand here. The scars visible and invisible. The trauma barely contained beneath their skin.

All eyes were on them. Hundreds of eyes. Thousands maybe.

The combined stare of the most powerful beings in this world felt like physical weight pressing down. Heavy. Oppressive. Pressure far heavier than even the Bone Dragon's mental attack had been. That had been pure terror. This was something different. Colder. More calculating.

The leaders weren't looking at them as people. As individuals with thoughts and feelings and histories. They were looking at them as things. Objects to be owned. Resources to be claimed. Weapons to be wielded. Prizes to be won in a competition.

Dante didn't actually know what would happen next. The Goddess had given him the truth about the system. The big picture. The cosmic conspiracy. But not the details of how it worked day-to-day. Not the practical mechanics of this world's politics.

But did he need to care? Did any of that really matter?

He hadn't clawed his way out of the abyss for this. Hadn't murdered his own teammates. Hadn't manipulated and stolen from a god. Hadn't built himself into an unkillable monster. All of that wasn't just to become a piece in their political games. A tool for their kingdoms. A weapon pointed at their enemies.

No.

They saw a hero. A useful tool to be wielded. A weapon to be claimed and used.

They would soon learn the truth. That they'd made a terrible mistake. That they'd let a virus into their carefully balanced system. A tyrant who would burn their entire world down and build his own kingdom from the ashes. Who would use them far more than they could ever use him.

They came to a halt on the central stage. The six of them standing together. Before them sat rows of seats. Kings, queens, and clan lords filling them. All watching. All waiting.

A man in a fancy red and gold uniform stepped onto a small podium at the stage's edge. He wore King Adrian's colors. He was the host for this auction. Their auction.

"Heroes of the Forty-Seventh Trial!" he began. His voice was magically amplified. Booming across the silent amphitheater so everyone could hear.

"We welcome you to the world of Zerawell!"

His arms spread wide. Theatrical. Practiced.

"You have survived the brutal trial. You have faced the Warden. And you have emerged victorious. Something few in history have ever accomplished."

He paused for effect. Letting the words sink in.

"The kingdoms of this world, in their endless gratitude, welcome you. Not as strangers, but as champions. As guardians. As the very hope for a new and better age!"

His words were beautiful. Empty. A golden frame around the ugly truth of their new slavery.

"As is tradition, established by the Goddess's will herself," the announcer continued, his voice taking on a more formal tone,

"You six heroes will now be given the honor to serve the six great powers of our world."

"A hero for each kingdom. A champion for each realm. We will now hold an auction for your loyalty."

He smiled. Professional. Polished.

"Our great leaders will make their offers. And you, the heroes, will be assigned to the kingdom that makes the best offer for your particular skills. It is a sacred tradition. A divine draft to ensure the strength of our world is balanced and its protectors are placed where they are most needed."

A divine draft.

They were being drafted. Distributed. Like resources to be allocated.

"And what if we want to join a single nation?"

The voice cut through the formal speech like a knife.

Lana's voice. Sharp. Clear. Completely defiant.

She took a step forward. Her amethyst eyes blazed with wild, possessive light.

"What if we don't want to be separated?" she demanded. "What if this guy," she gestured to Dante with a possessive flick of her wrist, "and I want to stay together?"

A wave of surprise rippled through the seated leaders. Murmurs broke out. Quiet but audible.

Dante saw King Adrian's eyebrows furrow. Annoyed. The corner of Lucien von Dravien's mouth twitched in amusement. Entertained by the disruption.

The announcer, for his part, didn't flinch. His professional smile remained perfectly in place. Unshakeable.

"That is... an unusual request, hero," he said. His voice was calm and smooth. Like he'd practiced this exact scenario. "But the rule is a divine one. A rule from the Goddess herself. We cannot go against it."

"Each hero must serve a different kingdom," he explained patiently. "It is the only way to maintain balance of power. To ensure no single nation becomes too strong."

"Then I won't serve," Lana declared. She crossed her arms. Defiant. Final. "Simple as that."

The announcer's smile tightened. Just slightly. The first crack in his professional mask.

"You may, of course, choose not to serve any kingdom," he said carefully. Choosing his words with precision. "It is not required. The trial does not demand service as payment for survival. There have been times, after all, when not all six heroes even survived the trial. When only three or four made it through. The system adapts."

He paused. Let that information settle. Then his voice became colder. Harder. More serious.

"But you must understand the consequences of that choice. The very real dangers."

His expression grew grave. Warning.

"The kingdom you refuse will see it as a grave insult. A personal offense. An offense against the divine order itself. Against the Goddess's plan."

"Its people will see you as a traitor. Someone going against the gods' will. Someone who considers themselves above the sacred traditions. The title of 'hero' will be stripped from you. Revoked. And in its place, the title of 'renegade' will be marked on your very soul. Permanently. Magically bound to your identity."

He let that sink in. Watching her face carefully for any sign of doubt. Any hesitation.

"You will be hunted," he continued quietly. Seriously. "Not just by the kingdom you rejected. But by others who see you as a dangerous wild card. An unpredictable threat. A hero gone rogue. Someone with divine power but no loyalty. No accountability. No control."

His smile was thin now. Sharp. Like a knife's edge.

"It is a lonely life. And usually a very short one. Most renegades don't survive more than a few months. I urge you to choose wisely, hero. Think very carefully about what you're willing to sacrifice."

Silence hung in the air. Heavy. Tense.

Lana didn't look away from Dante. Her gaze locked on him. Burning with promise. With obsession.

"My choice is already made," she said. Her voice was steady. Certain. "Where he goes, I go. So I guess I'll take that title."

The air thickened. Tension rising like heat before a storm.

This wasn't how things were supposed to go. An open challenge to the system itself. To the divine order. To the balance they'd all agreed to maintain.

The seated leaders shifted. Uncomfortable. Annoyed. Some intrigued.

The announcer simply offered his politest, emptiest smile.

"These are matters that can be discussed in the negotiations to come," he said smoothly. Diplomatically. Moving on before things could escalate. "We will address individual circumstances after the formal presentations."

"But first," he continued, his voice returning to its theatrical boom, "allow me to officially introduce the great powers who have gathered here today to honor you."

He gestured grandly to the golden-armored king sitting in the most prominent seat.

"First, the southern Kingdom of Valmere. A land of knights and noble families. Ruled by the honorable King Adrian Theron."

King Adrian gave a short, dignified nod. His expression was neutral. Calculating.

"Next," the announcer turned to another section, "the eastern lands. The great Merchant Republic of Eldoria."

He gestured to where Damien and Lucien sat. Both impeccably dressed. Both radiating wealth.

"A nation of immense wealth and innovative ideas. It has no king, but is instead ruled by a council. Led by the two most powerful clans on the continent. The Crestia and the Dravien. Represented by their esteemed leaders, Lord Damien von Crestia and Lord Lucien von Dravien."

Damien smiled warmly. Friendly. Approachable.

Lucien's smile was sharp as a blade. Predatory. Amused.

"From the harsh, rugged mountains of the north," the announcer continued, gesturing to a heavily built man in a different section, "we have the Kingdom of Thalric. A land of tough, resilient people who never surrender. Who survive where others would die. Led by their steady and powerful ruler, Lord Rowan Thalric."

The man had a thick grey-streaked beard and wore dark leather armor instead of fancy silk and gold. Practical. Functional. Built for war, not ceremony. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. Respectful but not subservient. Equal, not lesser.

"From the ancient, moonlit forests to the west," the announcer's voice became almost reverent now, taking on a different quality, "comes the Elven Kingdom of Sylthara. A realm of timeless beauty and profound magic. Where time moves differently and the old ways still hold power. Ruled by Her Majesty, Queen Elyndra."

The Elf Queen didn't react at all. Didn't acknowledge the introduction. Her gaze remained distant. Elsewhere. Fixed on something beyond this place. Like she was looking at something no one else could see. Or like she was barely aware they existed at all. Like this entire proceeding was beneath her notice.

"From the shadowed mountains across the western sea," the announcer's voice dropped slightly, taking on a darker tone, "the Vampire Kingdom of Nocthra. An ancient and formidable realm ruled by the eternal King Valtheris."

The Vampire King sat in shadow. His impossibly beautiful daughter at his side. He nodded with bored elegance. Like this entire proceeding was beneath him but he was tolerating it.

"And finally," the announcer concluded with a gesture toward a woman in elegant robes, "the great nation of Kaelthorn. A land of wisdom and magical mastery. Ruled by the Council of Sages and led by their respected Arch-Sage, Elira."

Elira offered a smile. The only one that looked genuine in the entire amphitheater. Warm. Actually welcoming.

"These are the six greatest powers of this world, heroes," the announcer declared. His voice rang out clearly. Proudly.

"And one of them will become your new home."

He clapped his hands together. The sound echoed. His professional smile settled back into place. Perfect. Practiced.

"And now, to begin!"

"So that our esteemed leaders may make their bids, assess your value, and make their offers..."

He looked at them with bright, eager eyes. Like a merchant about to appraise expensive goods.

"You will, one by one, step forward. State your name. And describe your abilities and skills."

He gestured to the stage. Inviting them to perform. To display themselves.

The auction was about to begin.

And they were the cattle being sold.

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