The searing pain continues to torment Griffith, igniting every nerve in his body. "It hurts so much!!" he thinks, a desperate plea echoing within his mind. He struggles to focus as he fixes his gaze on the imposing figure before him—a man draped in shimmering gold, whose middle-aged face is etched with lines of anger and authority. His greying hair contrasts sharply against the luxurious fabrics of his attire, which gleam under the lavish chandeliers hanging above.
Around them, an unsettling murmur ripples through the crowd. "His blood! IT'S GOING BACK IN!" a noblewoman shrieks, her voice slicing through the thick tension of the room, causing whispers and gasps to scatter like leaves caught in a tempest.
Glaring at Griffith, the golden-clad man snaps, "Who are you, and where did you come from?"
Griffith, his voice a mere whisper, struggles to speak, attempting to crawl on all fours in a futile effort to sit upright. The relentless pain and immobility weigh him down, testing his resolve.
"What is this place? And who are you?" he groans, and the air thickens with gasps of shock, as if his questions are offensive in their audacity.
"Where are you from, boy?" the man demands again, his tone sharper and more impatient. Confusion washes over Griffith—it's a struggle to comprehend his surroundings or the purpose of the inquiry.
"I'm from Queens in New York City," he finally manages to croak out. Encouraged slightly, he senses the pain ebbing away, affording him the strength to move bit by bit.
Gradually, his vision clears, revealing the opulence of his surroundings. The grand ballroom resonates with elegance—a vast expanse draped in a rich crimson carpet, adorned with magnificent paintings that seem to dance upon the walls. Guests in the room are illuminated by dazzling jewels and swathed in the most exquisite finery, their gowns and suits indicative of affluence and status. Enormous statues of regal figures loom amid the crowd, frozen in time yet seemingly vital in presence.
Eyes traveling to the golden man, Griffith observes the details of his attire—a regal general's ensemble draped over a sturdy frame, embellished with an array of medals and a striking golden trim along the edges. At the far end of the ballroom sits an empty throne, a symbol of power that is now devoid of its occupant, raising questions in Griffith's mind. "Is this a throne room?" he muses in disbelief.
"You've been summoned as a candidate," the golden man proclaims, his voice resonating with authority that seems to emanate beyond the limits of mortal strength. "I highly doubt you will be a True competitor, seeing as you could barely survive the summoning spell." With a dismissive sigh, he strides toward the center of the circle, joining fourteen other figures, each cloaked in a similar magical aura as Griffith.
As Griffith's gaze sweeps over the other candidates, he registers their diversity—a melange of ages, races, and attire. Some wear tattered garments, while others don luxurious robes that sway with an air of confidence. Among them, a young boy catches his eye: red-haired, pale-skinned, clad in dirty clothing, radiating fear as if yearning to escape this bizarre fate. He appears to be number 5. The rest stand resolute, determined expressions etched on their faces, as if they have been preparing their entire lives for this moment.
"Every candidate has arrived at last," the golden man announces, his voice booming, commanding silence and reverence among the crowd. "Now, if all who are willing to sponsor, please see—" His proclamation is abruptly interrupted.
"WHAT IS THIS MOCKERY!" bellowed a well-dressed figure, stepping forward to reveal himself. The man's striking blond hair frames a furious visage, and his fiery red eyes blaze with indignation.
Clad in what Griffith notices as a modern black tuxedo accented by a vivid red tie and immaculate white gloves, he exudes an air of disdain. Long earrings with brilliant red gems dangle from his ears, catching the light mockingly.
"I SHOULD'VE BEEN A CANDIDATE OVER THIS PATHETIC PIECE OF COMMONER SH*T!" he shouts, finger jabbing toward Griffith, who struggles to rise from the floor, only to be met with a sea of silent agreement among the crowd.
"You speak to me with some respect, boy!" the man in gold demands, his patience wearing thin.
"THE MAN COULDN'T EVEN SURVIVE A SIMPLE SUMMONING SPELL; HOW CAN HE BE MORE WORTHY OF BEING THE KING OVER ME!" the blond man spits, outrage saturating his words. He takes a deep breath as if to rein in his fury. "I, Theodore Regultz, am the single greatest sword sorcerer Kiligrim has ever seen! The spell MUST be faulty if it chooses literal sh*t over the embodiment of strength!"
Gasps ripple through the room like an electric current, igniting murmurs of disbelief. Griffith's mind races, bombarded with confusion and a gut-wrenching fear.
"King? Worthiness? Sorcery? What the hell is this?" he wonders, spiraling deeper into uncertainty. "Is this just a story my mind conjured moments before death?"
"Strongest sword sorcerer? You couldn't even slay an owl bear on your own. Don't make me laugh!" the man in gold retorts, anger flickering in his eyes. "How DARE you insult the spell? My family paid the ultimate sacrifice for it, and you think it's faulty?" His voice rises with fury, echoing against the grandeur of the ballroom's walls.
"Get back and let the ritual continue!" he commands, his authority overwhelming. Theodore, too stunned to muster a retort, storms out of the throne room, slamming the massive doors behind him, casting one last venomous glare in Griffith's direction.
"Now, if we can continue, all those who would like to sponsor Candidate 1, please raise your placard and name your price," the golden man resumes, a flicker of irritation still lingering in his eyes. Suddenly, the room erupts with fervent voices, as placards fly up and guests clamor to present their offers, their intentions, and hopes intertwining in the charged atmosphere of anticipation.
"Is this an auction?" Griffith thinks, his heart racing as he finally finds the strength to sit up. "AM I SERIOUSLY BEING AUCTIONED OFF?" The panic reverberates through his mind, leaving him breathless. Griffith casts a wary glance toward the first candidate on the platform.
The man standing there is strikingly tall and powerfully built, his olive skin gleaming under the dim lights of the venue. He boasts a full, dark mane of hair and a thick, well-groomed beard that frames a chiseled jawline. His outfit is elaborate and refined, consisting of richly colored fabrics that seem out of place amidst the crowd surrounding them.
"50,000,000 zuries!" a voice screeches from the back of the audience, the words cutting through the air like a knife. An electric hush envelops the crowd, as if time itself has stopped. The sheer magnitude of the bid seems to render everyone else speechless, as no one dares to counter such an extravagant offer.
"Come on up here," the man adorned in gold-trimmed attire proclaims, a glint of satisfaction in his voice. "It seems no one dares to match your bid." With a hesitant shuffle, a short, rotund woman emerges from the sea of spectators, her appearance marked by garish makeup that is more distracting than flattering. She approaches the first candidate, her eyes gleaming with a mix of greed and excitement.
"Do you accept her as your sponsor?" the man in gold inquires, directing his attention toward the candidate. "Yes, I do," he replies, his expression obscured by an unsettling lack of enthusiasm. "Then I guess we've got a match!" the man in gold exclaims loudly, his voice echoing through the room, eliciting a mix of cheers and murmurs from the crowd.
"So, I get to pick my sponsor?" Griffith contemplates, trying to make sense of this bizarre scenario.
Deep down, however, he can't shake the feeling that this might all be an elaborate illusion conjured by his racing mind. As the man in gold moves down the list, each candidate takes their turn, one by one, securing their sponsors with varying degrees of excitement and apprehension. The value of the sponsors seems to diminish with each passing number; Candidate 14 finishes with an offer of 3.5 million zuries, a stark contrast to the staggering initial bid.
Finally, the moment arrives for Griffith. By this time, he has managed to gather his wits and stands upright alongside the other candidates, his heart pounding with uncertainty. He casts a hopeful gaze around the room, yearning for a sponsor who might provide not just financial backing, but guidance to decipher the enigma of this twisted auction.
"Moving onto candidate 15," the man in gold announces, his voice booming with authority. "Raise your placard if any would like to sponsor him!"
An oppressive silence falls over the room. The seconds painfully as Griffith stands there, waiting.
But not a single placard is raised.
Not one.