Descendant of Sloth
Chapter 87: The Blood Bath Begins

Chapter 87: The Blood Bath Begins

The underground auditorium hummed with a different kind of energy now. The main auction was done, the tension of the bidding wars replaced by a loose, rowdy buzz. Tables were scattered across the hall, covered with half-eaten plates of food—greasy chicken wings, spilled sauces, and crumpled napkins.

People leaned back in their chairs, laughing too loud, their faces flushed from booze and victory. Glasses clinked, voices overlapped, and the air smelled like a mix of sweat, perfume, and roasted meat.

The slaves stayed close to their new owners, some standing stiffly with blank stares, others forced to pour drinks or fetch more food, their movements quiet and mechanical under the flickering neon lights.

Up on stage, the announcer was in his element, soaking up the afterparty vibe. He held a glass of red wine in one hand, swirling it lazily, while two bunny-costumed girls hung off his arms, giggling and batting their lashes. His coat was unbuttoned now, his tie loosened, but his grin was as sharp as ever.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he called out, his voice cutting through the chatter, "here are the hints for the next auction venue!" He raised his glass like a toast, and the big display screen behind him flared to life.

The crowd turned, half-interested, as blurry images and jumbled letters flashed across the screen—a cryptic mess of clues that didn’t make much sense yet. A grainy photo of a dock, some random numbers, a smeared map.

The announcer chuckled, taking a sip of his wine. "The full venue will be revealed to everyone in a few months," he said, pausing for effect, "but here’s the kicker—the first one to figure out the place gets a fifty percent discount on the next auction!" A ripple of murmurs went through the room, a few people perking up, but most just shrugged and went back to their drinks. The buzz of the party was too good to care about riddles right now.

Down near the edge of the room, a couple of knights in their polished armor leaned against the wall, their helmets off for once. One of them, a lanky guy with messy brown hair, let out a long sigh.

"Two more hours, and this thing’s finally over," he said, rolling his shoulders. "I’m beat."

"Yeah," the knight next to him agreed, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. "It was getting old, standing around watching these creeps all night." He nodded toward the crowd, where a guy in a flashy suit was laughing with his buddies, a slave girl hovering nearby with a tray of drinks.

A third figure stepped up, bigger than the others, his arms thick with muscle and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His face was hard, all sharp lines and a frown that didn’t budge. "What about the settlement money?" he asked, his voice low and gruff, cutting through their small talk.

The lanky knight straightened up quick. "Sir, they’re loading it into the truck right now," he said, pointing a thumb toward the back of the auditorium. "—all of it."

The muscled guy nodded, folding his arms across his chest.

"Good to know," he muttered. He turned, looking down at the party sprawled out below—people stuffing their faces, slaves walking around, the whole messy scene lit up in neon. His lip curled. "Tch! Disgusting fuckers," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt.

Behind the auditorium, out of sight from the party, the real work was happening. A group of organizers hustled around a beat-up truck parked in the loading bay, its back doors flung open. Piles of cash—crumpled bills and neat stacks—were shoved into crates, alongside bags of clinking gold coins and a few envelopes stuffed with checks.

The neon glow didn’t reach out here; the only light came from a couple of buzzing floodlights, casting harsh shadows over the concrete. A handful of knights stood guard, their armor glinting faintly as they watched the organizers load, their hands resting on their swords.

The auditorium was alive with noise—laughter, clinking glasses, and the low thrum of music weaving through the crowd.

Up on stage, the announcer was mid-sentence, his voice booming with that same over-the-top energy.

"So, are you guys enjoying the nigh—" he started, waving his wine glass for emphasis.

Then—*ZAP*—the lights cut out.

Every single one. The neon glow, the spotlights, the dim lamps along the walls—all gone in a blink, plunging the underground hall into pitch black.

A ripple of confusion spread through the crowd. "Huh? What happened?" someone muttered. "Looks like the lights went out," another voice answered, sharp with annoyance. The buzz of chatter grew louder, people fumbling in the dark.

Little light popped up as folks pulled out their phones, flicking on flashlights that cast beams across the room—over tables, over faces, over the slaves still hovering near their owners.

The announcer’s voice cut through the mess, loud and irritated.

"Hello! Someone there? How can the lights just go off like that?" He was yelling into his phone now, pacing the stage, the bunny girls stumbling behind him in the dark. "We won’t pay you all for this crap!" His words echoed through the speakers, sharp and demanding, but there was no reply

Up there, behind thick glass, the three people were sprawled across the floor, lifeless. Blood pooled beneath them, dark and sticky, seeping into the cracks of the tiles. The phone kept humming announcer’s voice, unanswered, a lonely sound in the silence.

Down on the first floor, near the edge of the crowd, two knights stood by a railing, their armor clanking as they shifted. They flicked on their own flashlights, the beams cutting through the blackness.

"When’s the light coming back?" one asked, his voice tired, tilting his head toward his buddy.

"Who knows?" the other replied, shrugging. "This never happens. Weird, right?"

Their lights landed on something—black boots, scuffed and still, with a dark blood pooling around them.

"What the—" the first knight muttered, his beam creeping upward. The other followed, their lights climbing past a pair of legs, a dark jacket, until they hit a face.

My face.

I stood there, holding two daggers in my hand and a black mask pulled tight over my mouth, my eyes staring back at them—blank, cold, empty. No flicker of anything, just a void.

"Aaaaaaa!" one of them screamed, his voice cracking as it bounced off the walls. His phone slipped from his hand, tumbling over the railing and crashing onto the floor below with a sharp *crack*.

The other knight didn’t even get a chance to yell. A flash of movement, a wet *thud*, and his hand—still gripping the flashlight—hit the ground, chopped off clean. It rolled once, then landed with a splat in the middle of a guest’s plate, right between a chicken bone and a smear of sauce.

The room erupted. Screams tore through the dark, high and panicked, as people pushed chairs back and stumbled over each other.

Phone lights swung wildly, catching glimpses of blood, the hand, the chaos. The announcer’s voice faltered mid-shout, drowned out by the wave of terror crashing through the auditorium.

I didn’t move, didn’t flinch—just stood there, the knights’ blood dripping from my dagger, the darkness swallowing everything else.