They were inside the hotel lobby—the heart of a grand and ancient establishment, once a palace, now repurposed for politics and power plays. Ornate chandeliers glittered overhead, their crystal droplets catching the soft golden light like hanging stars. Expensive oil paintings, each steeped in forgotten history and heavy with gold frames, adorned the marbled walls. Plush royal sofas and high-backed chairs were arranged with aristocratic symmetry. At the center of the space sat a delicate tea table—small, round, and eerily empty, as though waiting for a ceremony that would never begin.
The three Overlords of the city faced Ryan across the silent table.
Boris, seated with an air of practiced superiority, wore garments laced with polished clockwork accents that clicked faintly with his every move. His fur-lined coat shimmered like the pelt of a mythical beast, and a gleaming silver sword hung casually at his belt, its edge humming with enchantments barely concealed beneath its sheath.
Across from him sat Manik, more beast than man in appearance. His massive frame was wrapped in rugged, barbarian-style armor—scarred, worn, and reeking of countless battles. Dust and soot stained his blackened arms, the stench of iron and blood clinging to him like a curse. Blades and axes hung from his belt like trophies. A thick beard tangled across his jaw, and the thinning hair atop his skull made him look like a war-torn Viking, freshly returned from the edge of the world.
And then there was Bellic.
The third Lord sat with a quiet tension, dressed in simple, functional attire. A small knife danced between his fingers—not for threat, but thought. He stared at Ryan with a stillness that bordered on predatory. There was no grandiosity in him, no shine or swagger. But Ryan knew better than to be deceived. Of everyone in the room, Bellic was the one he couldn't read. The one that made his instincts twitch.
Then, without warning, Manik slammed his voice into the room like a hammer. "Why should we follow you?"
Ryan didn't blink.
"Because you don't have a choice anymore," he said, calm and even. "The people of this city don't trust you. The Black Auction is collapsing. You don't have the money. You don't have the artifacts. What exactly are you going to give them? Words?"
He leaned slightly forward. "Your last option is standing right in front of you."
His tone didn't waver. It was a blade, quiet but sharp.
The three Overlords exchanged glances, still far from convinced.
Boris was next to speak, his voice quieter but more calculating. "How much can you pay?"
"My people will take control of the Black Auction," Ryan replied. "Everything will be handled. I know what needs to be done. I don't need instructions, and I don't owe you explanations. Just trust me."
His answer cut through the smoky air, but it brought no satisfaction.
The three men shifted in their seats. Suspicion still clung to their faces like cobwebs.
So Ryan pressed harder.
"If you don't take the offer today, you won't survive tomorrow. The people of this city already despise you. The autocrats are waiting just outside the gates. They've come for your heads, not your signatures."
His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "If you think you can run, you'll be running forever. These aren't local mobs. They've come from across nations."
At that, silence rippled through the room.
The three Overlords looked at one another again—this time, not in resistance, but in reluctant realization. Boris gave a short, silent nod.
Bellic, still fiddling with his knife, finally spoke.
"What do you want in return?"
Ryan smiled. There was no warmth in it—only certainty.
"You three will work under me. Help me govern the city. Help me manage the Black Auction."
A sudden shift in the air followed—tense and electric.
All three Overlords released their auras at once. Power exploded into the room like a storm. The temperature dropped, the walls groaned. Chairs trembled beneath unseen pressure. Their killing intent pulsed like war drums.
Still, Ryan remained completely still. Unmoved. Unimpressed.
Then, it came.
A surge of energy unlike anything else—a force so absolute it silenced the room in an instant. It swept over them like an avalanche of thunder, drowning their hostility in sheer, unshakable power.
Maya had arrived.
She stood at the entrance, her presence already eclipsing every other. Her aura—cold, ancient, and impossibly vast—rippled across the chamber like a sacred tide. Every inch of the Overlords' power was crushed beneath it, rendered insignificant. Even the chandeliers above flickered under her pressure.
The three men realized immediately: they weren't just outclassed—they were irrelevant.
Phantom had been a nightmare for them. But Maya... Maya was something else entirely.
Quietly, one after another, they withdrew their auras.
The storm passed. The room, though calm again, was forever changed.
Bellic's voice broke the silence, low and uncertain. "Do you know who really owns the Black Auction?"
Ryan didn't answer immediately. He knew—of course he knew—that these three weren't the true masters. An enterprise of this scale, this wealth, couldn't be run by mere warlords. Not when it generated 2.5 million dinars a week. Even emperors dreamed of that kind of income.
But Ryan wasn't interested in guessing games.
"I don't care who it is," he said, voice hardening. "I'll take care of him. Whoever he is."
Two lines. That was all.
Then he stood.
His eyes met each of theirs, one by one—firm, commanding.
"Leave the matter of the Black Auction to me," he said.
It wasn't a plea.
It was an order.
Then Ryan turned, and without another word, walked out of the grand hotel lobby—leaving silence, doubt, and the weight of his promise in his wake.
As they stepped outside, Maya's voice dropped to a low, urgent whisper, the shadows clinging close around them. "Phantom has run away again." Ryan had already guessed it, the truth settling in his mind long before her words broke the stillness.
"We will deal with him later," Ryan said, steady and unshaken, his voice a calm anchor in the swirling storm of thoughts.
But inside, his mind thrummed with the weight of tasks left undone. First, he moved through the city's labyrinthine alleys—narrow, winding veins dusted with grit and shadow, where the distant murmur of restless voices floated like ghosts on the breeze. The revolt's sparks still smoldered in hidden corners. He sought out those who had kindled the flame, pressing them to keep it alive, even if it meant a handful of coins lost—a small price for defiance. Yet a chill clung to the air, heavier than the dust underfoot. Resistance flickered in wary eyes; no one was ready to bring down the uprising. The fire he had stoked now burned with a flicker of rebellion against him. Ryan's jaw tightened. Dismantling a revolt was far more treacherous than setting it ablaze.
He sank into strategy, weaving through whispered talks and sharp glances, threading fragile peace back into the city's fraying tapestry.
Within the protective stone embrace of the city walls, the auctioned artefacts lay scattered—mystical relics pulsing faintly beneath layers of dust and sabotage. Artisan laboured beneath the warm, flickering glow of oil lamps, their steady hands coaxing life back into each piece. The faint hum of latent power thrummed through the air, a soft song only those attuned could hear. Ryan watched closely as days slipped by—marked by the rhythmic clink of tools, the subtle scent of heated metal mingled with fresh lacquer, and the quiet reverence of careful restoration. One by one, the artefacts awakened, their energies brightening like stars rekindled after a long eclipse.
With deliberate care, Ryan journeyed to the homes of the bidders. Streets lined with weathered stones and faded banners stretched before him, whispers of history etched into every crack. Yet hope flickered in the eyes that met him as he returned their treasures. Maya moved beside him, sharp and vigilant, ensuring that what was owed was made whole.
In mere days, debts dissolved in the satisfying rustle of exchanged coins. Ryan's share—2.5 million—felt heavy with responsibility. Without hesitation, he funnelled it back into the city's pulse, funding repairs and weaving threads of trust where they had frayed. Gradually, belief bloomed anew in the hearts of the people, and the revolt within the Black City faded like morning mist retreating before the rising sun.
It was a victory carved from struggle—everything seemed finally aligned.
Then the summons arrived: a letter, heavy with distant authority, summoning the city's three bosses—including Ryan—to gather.
Rumours whispered that the Sun Kingdom had caught wind of the auction. Doubt flickered briefly in Ryan's mind. This is no time to stake claims on what we have just reclaimed, he thought, a cold knot tightening around his resolve.
The letter lay sealed, suspended in silence for a heartbeat before they broke it open.
The parchment bore the golden emblem of Sun City—the sprawling capital bathed in eternal light. The message was clear and ominous: war was brewing between the Sun Kingdom and the Jira Kingdom. To shield Ashton City—precariously perched at the border—the Sun Kingdom was dispatching gods—mighty warriors, cloaked in legend and power—to stand as guardians against the coming storm.
Even Ryan, hardened and sharp, felt the weight of the moment settle like a shadow.
With commands clear and the city's governance entrusted to the three Lords, he set out toward the Jira capital. His disdain for Jira's rulers was thinly veiled; to challenge a nation so vast and cunning was folly. The notion that Jira could topple the Sun Kingdom was simply impossible.
As Ryan disappeared beyond the gates, dust swirling in his wake like restless spirits, the city's warriors hurried to compose a letter addressed to the true power behind Ashton City. This message sped through couriers, racing two days until it reached the heart of Sun City.
There, within a palace shimmering beneath the merciless sun, a man sat in a room both grand and intimate. The hall was a shrine to worldly splendor—paintings from distant lands hung on walls textured with layers of history, their colors rich like captured dreams. Flowing poems, penned in graceful script, adorned nearby frames. The polished stone floor, veined with gold and jade, was cool and gleaming, catching the soft light like liquid glass.
Every artifact whispered silent tales of wealth and dominion.
As the man sifted through the records, a servant entered, bowing low as he presented a letter.
"Prime Minister, Ashton City has sent a letter to you."
The Prime Minister's presence was a paradox: ageless and formidable. His royal beard framed a youthful face, his oily hair slicked back as if defying the decades he'd lived. Potions brewed by alchemists and relentless martial discipline had shaped him into something almost unnatural—a man out of time.
He broke the seal, scanning the contents with a slow, knowing smile curling his lips.
"Looks like I have to send my military to war," he murmured, the promise of battle gleaming like a flame in his eyes.