123: The moment the hammer falls

"Two hundred and sixty million."

The voice of the four-armed clan craftsman Agent pierced the frenzied, boiling air of the auction hall like an icy steel needle.

Dead silence.

The fanatic in the monk's robe, the holy radiance on his face instantly froze, only to be replaced by a flush of humiliation mixed with violent fury.

"You..." He glared at the seemingly utterly insignificant craftsman as if he wanted to dismember him with his gaze.

But he did not immediately counter-bid.

After a brief shock, he abruptly lowered his head. One hand seemed to be adjusting his robe, while the other, hidden beneath the fabric, rapidly pressed buttons on a concealed communicator.

He was urgently requesting reinforcements.

Inside the private box on the second floor, Chen Feng watched this entire scene through the one-way glass.

He did not urge his Agent.

"Su Li," he said softly on the internal channel, "pull up the files on the 'Gene Purification Cult,' especially their founding history and the 'Sacred Numbers' of their core Saints."

"Already analyzing," Su Li's voice was calm, without a single ripple of emotion.

A moment later, the fanatic below the stage seemed to have received new divine revelation.

He sprang to his feet and shouted in a trembling yet increasingly loud voice, as if delivering a sermon:

"Three hundred million! This is a holy war! This is a sacred relic for purifying the inferior genes of the universe, not to be tainted by you polluted heretics!"

His voice echoed through the hall, carrying a tragic, sacrificial grandeur.

Some guests let out suppressed snickers. This act of treating the auction house as a church seemed particularly ludicrous in Tartarus. Several of Hecate's Guards frowned and were about to step forward to issue a warning.

"Let him speak," the Auctioneer elegantly raised an arm, signaling the Guards to step back.

On his peculiar face, all six eyes gleamed with the same light—greed. Nothing stimulated prices more than fanatical faith.

"Three hundred million, first call!"

The Auctioneer's voice was full of provocation.

Chen Feng still did not move.

He was waiting.

Waiting for Su Li's data, waiting for an 'incantation' that could utterly shatter the opponent's faith.

"Found it," Su Li's voice came through. "The cult was founded in the Old Era, year 3477. They have seven core Saints. The Sacred Number of the third Saint, 'Fila,' is '9527.'"

The corner of Chen Feng's mouth curled into a cold arc.

"Good."

He gave his final instruction to his Agent below the stage through the communicator.

"Three hundred million, second call!" The Auctioneer's voice grew even more shrill.

At that moment, the utterly unremarkable four-armed clan craftsman raised his bidding paddle once more, for the last time.

He did not shout a round number. Instead, in a tone so calm it was eerie, he called out a string of numbers that baffled the entire audience.

"Three hundred million, three million, four hundred and seventy-nine thousand, five hundred and twenty-seven."

The hall erupted in an uproar. Everyone thought the craftsman had gone mad, or was deliberately humiliating his opponent.

But only that fanatic, upon hearing this string of numbers, saw all expression—fanaticism, anger, tragic grandeur—vanish from his face in an instant.

Replacing it was a terror and confusion that went to the very marrow of his bones.

Three hundred million... zero... three million four hundred seventy-nine thousand... five hundred twenty-seven... 3477... 9527... The year of the cult's founding.

Saint Fila's Sacred Number.

This was one of the cult's innermost, most sacred 'Holy Word Ciphers,' knowledge only available to high-ranking Saints chosen by God!

An outsider... a heretic they viewed as a source of genetic pollution, a lowly four-armed craftsman... How could he possibly know?!

Could it be... the divine revelation was false? Could it be... there was a traitor among them? Could it be... *he* was the chosen one of God?

Countless blasphemous thoughts, like venomous snakes, instantly tore through the sturdy walls of his faith.

His spirit, at this moment, shattered.

"Silence!" The face of a companion beside him changed drastically. Seemingly having also received external orders, the companion forcibly pressed him back into his seat and growled in a low voice, "Stand down! That's an order!"

The Auctioneer was stunned for a moment, but his professionalism made him react immediately.

"Three hundred million, three million, four hundred and seventy-nine thousand, five hundred and twenty-seven! First call!"

"Second call!"

Just as the Auctioneer's gavel was about to fall!

"No——!"

The fanatic violently shoved his companion aside and, with the last breath in his lungs, roared out the maximum price he could bear—and the limit authorized by the organization behind him—like a dying beast.

"Three hundred and ten million!!"

After roaring this price, he seemed to have all his strength drained from him, collapsing limply into the chair, panting heavily. Yet his eyes remained fixed on the craftsman, filled with a final, humble plea.

This was his last struggle, his final defense of his faith.

However, the response he received was one of ultimate contempt.

Chen Feng's Agent received the final instruction. One of his four arms raised the bidding paddle again in an almost lazy gesture.

He didn't even stand up.

In a voice so calm it was cruel, he spoke the number that would nail his opponent to the pillar of shame.

"Three hundred and ten million and one."

"..."

That "and one," like an invisible, red-hot iron hammer, smashed down brutally upon the fanatic's soul.

It wasn't a crushing display of wealth, nor an overwhelming show of force.

It was a naked, undisguised... insult, trampling his dignity and faith underfoot and grinding them into the dirt.

"Pfft——"

A strange sound escaped the fanatic's throat. Unable to hold on any longer, he completely slumped in his seat, his eyes vacant, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"Thud!"

The sound of the Auctioneer's ghammer finally resounded through the hall, sealing the deal.

"Sold!"

"Congratulations to this gentleman, 【Schrödinger's Lockpick】 belongs to you!"

Instantly, all eyes in the hall—envy, jealousy, greed, curiosity—focused on the still-seated four-armed clan craftsman.

He had won the auction, becoming the most dazzling star of the night.

At the same time.

Inside the Omni-Dimensional Trade Alliance's mobile command vehicle.

Shadow Chaser-J watched the flashing dot on the screen representing the victor, the sneer at the corner of his mouth growing more pronounced.

"Close the net."

His voice was clearly transmitted via encrypted channel to the dozens of Agents distributed inside and outside the auction house.

"All teams, target the 'Receiving Area.'"

"I want the man, and I want the goods."