The auction house in Sabaody Archipelago's Area 1 was like a bustling grand theater. The vast, football-field-sized space was filled with tiered circular seating, where shouts of bidding and raucous laughter mingled into a cacophony.
Bahr paused the moment he stepped inside, pointing to an ornate pillar by the wall. "Stay here and lean against this. We leave as soon as we're done."
"Boss~ I'm so tired from walking," Miss. Valentine cooed, sidling up to Bahr with an exaggerated sweetness in her voice.
Bahr's fingers twitched imperceptibly, weaving an invisible Spatial ability that formed four transparent chairs on the ground. He sat directly in the center one. "I made chairs with my ability. Sit wherever you like."
Miss. Valentine's eyes lit up as she pressed her hand against the air, finding it as solid as oak. She immediately smoothed her skirt and settled gracefully beside Bahr, casting a smug glance at Porche and Perona as if to flaunt her position.
Porche, barely seated, asked curiously, "Boss, what kind of people are you here to buy?"
"Just browsing," Bahr replied offhandedly, his gaze skimming over the sign on the stage that read "Longarm Tribe Martial Artist."
"Just browsing?" Perona swung her dangling legs, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I bet the boss is here to pick out women, just like those bloated nobles!"
Bahr lifted his eyes to meet Perona's, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he deliberately drawled, "Since you're so knowledgeable… maybe I should put you up for auction. The title of 'Ghost Princess' might fetch a higher price than a mermaid."
"Y-You wouldn't dare!" Perona's translucent cheeks flushed crimson, her small fists clenching until her knuckles turned white. "I refuse to be bought by those stinky creeps!"
Despite her defiant words, she lowered her head in a huff, kicking at the stone floor with her toes, muttering under her breath like a mosquito's hum, "Stupid, mean Bahr…"
Bahr ignored her, shifting his attention back to the stage—only to freeze when his gaze swept over the VIP seats in the front row.
Two figures sat there, clad in Bubble Headgear—a rotund man with a protruding belly and a woman in a frilly lace dress. Roswald Saint and Shalria.
Ever since he ran into Nami, he had vaguely suspected he might cross paths with this family. And now, here they were.
Roswald Saint was nothing more than a fool, but… Bahr's gaze lingered on Shalria's back, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes.
In terms of looks and figure, most of the women he'd encountered were no worse than Shalria—some even far surpassed her.
Yet, she was the one he had molded into the most fitting "collectible"—someone who could endure his unrestrained indulgence while perfectly catering to his whims. And that Celestial Dragon identity of hers…
The sheer thrill of conquest, of watching those who usually held themselves above the world grovel at his feet, never failed to excite him in ways he couldn't explain.
Losing Shalria back then had genuinely been a shame.
Shalria, who had been idly watching the stage, suddenly shuddered. A scent so familiar it seeped into her bones assaulted her senses, making her instinctively press her legs together and whip her head around, her golden hair swaying inside the Bubble Headgear—
It was her master's scent…
Her gaze swept across the dimly lit audience seats, but the distant figures blurred into indistinct shadows.
Was she missing her master so much that she was starting to see illusions?
"Shalria, what are you spacing out for?" Roswald Saint's voice carried impatience as his fingers tapped the armrest.
Shalria snapped back to attention, her voice tinged with a barely detectable melancholy. "Father, I'm fine."
Roswald Saint narrowed his eyes at his daughter, his plump chin lifting slightly. "Stop dwelling on those unpleasant matters. I brought you here today to pick some slaves to your liking. Just point out whichever catches your fancy."
"Thank you, Father." Shalria forced a stiff smile, her eyes returning to the display platform while inwardly sneering.
What use were these lowly slaves? The only thing she wanted was her master's affection.
Observing his daughter's forced composure, Roswald Saint sighed inwardly. Ever since being rescued from that kidnapping, the girl had been like one possessed, constantly babbling about some "master."
They were Celestial Dragons, descendants of the creators! How could they possibly have a "master"?
Though her manic episodes had subsided somewhat during her recovery, the root of her madness clearly remained.
At this thought, his grip tightened on his scepter, knuckles whitening—that Blasphemer called Bahr. If he ever fell into his hands, he'd make sure the man experienced the most excruciating tortures the world could offer to quell this burning hatred.
The auction house buzzed with excitement when the carved wooden door creaked open. Nami entered with Sanji, Franky, Chopper, and the starfish Papagu in tow.
"Nami-chan, you're here too!"
Nami, who'd been scanning the venue with a serious expression, started at the voice. Turning toward the doorframe, she spotted Bahr and exclaimed in surprise, "You again? What are you doing here?"
Bahr grinned and tilted his chin up. "Just here for the show."
"Oi oi, who's that guy?" Franky scratched his signature blue pompadour, metallic knuckles clinking against his chin, his booming voice cutting clearly through the noisy atmosphere.
Sanji's cigarette bobbed as he glanced at Bahr and snorted. "Just some annoying bastard."
Then his peripheral vision caught Miss. Valentine, Porche, and Perona standing beside Bahr. Instantly brightening, his tone turned ingratiating.
"Ara? And who might these three lovely ladies be—" But halfway through, realizing these beauties were with Bahr, an inexplicable jealousy surged. His brows knitted, his smile froze, and he turned away with a displeased huff.
Nami had no patience for this now. Her eyes remained fixed on the display platform as waves of bidding calls and raucous laughter assaulted her ears, her expression growing increasingly grim.
She simply couldn't accept that living people were being peddled like merchandise on that stage.
Bahr observed Nami's expression and wisely refrained from further conversation.
He knew that beneath Nami's usual shrewd, bargain-hunting, slightly self-serving exterior lay a rare kindness. It was precisely this contradictory yet genuine quality that he admired about her.
"Next up is item number 15—an absolutely stunning female slave!" On the auction stage, the host raised his gavel dramatically, his voice amplified by the Amplifying Shell to reach every corner of the venue.
Bahr's eyes lit up, his gaze instantly locking onto the center of the display platform.
There stood a woman with smooth, rich blue-violet hair, her neatly trimmed bangs framing her forehead and accentuating the delicate silver headpiece that adorned it—a touch of exotic mystery.
The edges of her off-shoulder white gauze dress curled naturally like waves, rising and falling gently with each breath, outlining the contours of her chest with breathtaking clarity. The full curves resembled surging tides, their undulating rhythm nothing short of mesmerizing—the most astonishing proportions he had ever seen in all his voyages across the seas.
But what truly stole his breath was the figure that seemed sculpted by the Creator's favor.
Her waist was so slender it looked as though it might snap with a single touch, yet it flared dramatically at her hips like sails billowing in the sea breeze, extending down into two long, straight legs that formed a suffocatingly perfect golden ratio.
Even standing still, her spine was taut as a bowstring, every muscle hinting at the explosive power honed through years of spins and leaps—yet her overall bearing retained the slender grace unique to dancers, striking an exquisite balance between strength and delicacy.
"Tsk…" Bahr stroked his chin, musing to himself, "Truly worthy of the title 'peerless.' With a figure like this paired with masterful dance skills, she could deliver heavenly pleasures. This trip was definitely worth it."
Indeed, his purpose in coming to this auction was none other than this twenty-year-old dancer, Pascia. As the "Sea Clam King" who roamed the seas, how could he possibly overlook such an unparalleled beauty?
Saving a damsel in distress—there was no time to waste.
—Though the No. 14 maid wasn't bad either.
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