Pain surged like wildfire through Griffith's veins, raw and endless. He couldn't scream. He couldn't move. Just burn.
A shape loomed through the haze—a man clad in gold, eyes sharp, mouth carved into a scowl. Age clung to his face, streaking his hair with silver, but power radiated from his posture, from the gleaming medals pinned to his chest.
Griffith blinked. Chandeliers swam above. Velvet. Marble. A throne? Was this a palace—or hell?
Around them, an unsettling murmur ripples through the crowd. "His blood! IT'S GOING BACK IN!" a noblewoman shrieks, Her shriek split the silence. The nobles' whispers scattered like sparks from a flame.
Glaring at Griffith, the golden-clad man snaps, "Who are you, and where did you come from?"
Griffith's throat clenched around the words before they even formed. His head lolled to the side. The world spun in gold and red, pulsing like a migraine.
"Wh...where...?" he rasped, not sure if he spoke aloud. Every sound echoed. Every voice warped.
The figure in gold loomed larger. The voice—it said something about summoning. About survival.
Griffith's hands twitched. His chest ached like it had exploded. His thoughts were a broken loop: pain, fall, pain, fall.
And then—bidding? Was this real, or some end-stage hallucination?
"You were summoned," the man said without emotion. "Somehow, you lived."
Griffith tried to speak, but only a wheeze came out. Summoned? For what?
A voice—somewhere behind him—scoffed. "He doesn't even understand what this is."
"Of course not," another said. "Let the animals guess at the rules. They die faster that way."
Griffith blinked. Candles. Velvet. Placards rising like blades.
What kind of ritual is this?
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.
"That...?" Theodore said, tilting his head in mock curiosity. "That's what our sacred ritual brought forth?"
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"I expected a rival. Not a stray."
He turned toward the crowd with a calm smile. "Let's not waste everyone's time, Cornelius. Dismiss him."
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?" Griffith is barely pieceing every fifth word, spiraling deeper into uncertainty. "Is.. This.. real?"
"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.
A snide voice from the gallery cut through the murmurs. "May we proceed, or must we wait for the broken one to stand?"
"He'll stand if someone bids," another chuckled. "They always do."
Griffith didn't understand. Bids? Sponsors?
The man in gold stepped back and raised a hand. "Begin the selection."
Griffith's gut turned. He wasn't a person here. He was inventory.
Wooden placards rose like spears. One by one, the others vanished—claimed, branded, bought.
Griffith blinked, nauseous.
I'm being sold. 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. 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, 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.
"Candidate Fifteen."
The words rang out like a sentence.
Griffith straightened. Just enough to look human. Just enough to hope.
Silence.
The nobles didn't even bother to whisper.
He had been summoned across worlds, broken open, dragged to the brink of death—
And not one soul wanted him.
The silence wasn't cold. It was hollow. A grave.
I'm worthless, he thought.
I'm not even a gamble.