Ragunna was like a new world for the Ghost Hounds — a dazzling metropolis that exuded refinement and grandeur. The city pulsed with elegance; every street seemed to breathe sophistication.
For these young battle-worn mercenaries, it was a far cry from the grim outposts they were used to.
The citizens walked with poise, clad in layered garments of fine fabric — long coats tailored to perfection, high-collared vests, and flowing dresses adorned with lace and intricate embroidery.
Hats, gloves, and polished boots completed their ensembles, giving the entire city an air of aristocratic charm. The Ghost Hounds couldn't help but stare in awe, yet the one most taken aback was Kurian.
Ragunna's fashion — reminiscent of the opulent grace of Victorian Europe — mirrored the attire once worn by the people of the long-destroyed Europe in the Garden of Eve, the very world he had come from.
However, even amid Ragunna's throngs of opulently dressed citizens, Kurian's gaze caught a few ragged figures wandering through the streets.
His lips pressed into a slight frown, memories stirring as he observed those in tattered clothes which reminded him of his current past.
Yet, shaking his head, he tried to push the thought aside and suggested, "Since we're heading to an auction, shouldn't we at least dress a bit differently?"
"You're right," the female members said with enthusiasm, while the males exchanged uncertain glances — to them, this peacock-like fashion seemed overly flamboyant, even unmanly. Still, they grudgingly went along.
The Ghost Hounds dispersed, flowing into the stores and soon reemerging in attire befitting Ragunna's lavish streets. Yet it was Kurian who captured every gaze.
Clad in the simplest of garments — a white shirt with its sleeves rolled up and buttons undone at the chest, black trousers cinched by a belt, polished shoes, and a single silver dog tag glinting against his chest — he exuded a rebellious elegance.
In that effortless simplicity, he exuded a magnetism that drew every eye. Despite the plainness of his ensemble, all eyes followed him, and for a fleeting moment, every member of the Ghost Hounds thought the same thing: 'Aren't we trying a bit too hard?'
"Hey, Kurian," one of them called out, half teasing, half sincere. "Mind giving us some pointers on fashion?"
Kurian glanced at his crew, his expression unreadable. "Yeah," he said after a pause, "I think you guys are trying too hard."
His thumb brushed against the silver chain on his neck, tracing the cool surface of his dog tag. "We're the Ghost Hounds; the dogs, not nobles dressing up as peacocks. Besides…"
His tone sharpened just slightly. "We just need to attend the auction as ourselves — not as chameleons trying to blend in."
At his words, something flickered in the eyes of the Ghost Hounds — a realization. What their extravagant clothes had lacked wasn't flair or formality. It was rebellion.
Understanding what truly suited them, they hurried back to the stores to change again. One of them laughed, calling over his shoulder, "You've got good fashion sense, Kurian!"
Kurian scratched the back of his head awkwardly, murmuring under his breath, "I simply just dressed up like how I used to when relaxing under the sun, back then…"
A/N: Here is an art.
But his thoughts stilled as something unsettled lingered in his chest. 'I've been thinking about my past too much these days… Am I missing something?'
His gaze wandered over Ragunna's streets — sentient echoes interacting with common folks, the sharp divide between nobility and commoner clear in every stitch of fabric. He recalled his earlier suggestion: "Shouldn't we at least dress a bit differently?"
It wasn't that Kurian hadn't attended formal events before. He had, as a duke even. But now, he was a mercenary. The reason to dress up wasn't luxury or pride anymore. It was prudence, and... a quiet assertion of self-worth.
Suddenly his heart felt uneasy as he thought, 'I have a bad feeling about this...'
***
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Ragunna came alive with golden light. The streets shimmered under ornate lamps, carriages lined the plaza, and the murmurs of expectation filled the air.
It was the night of the grand auction — a social spectacle that drew nobles, merchants, and collectors alike.
Inside the auction hall, the grandeur was nothing short of breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers hung from the domed ceiling like constellations trapped in glass, scattering light across marble floors polished to a mirror sheen.
Velvet draperies cascaded down the tall arched windows, their deep crimson hue complemented by gilded railings and hand-carved wooden fixtures that spoke of old-world opulence.
Every seat in the lower hall was soon occupied. The air grew dense with perfume, polished metal, and the faint scent of old parchment — the scent of affluence.
The notable families of Ragunna murmured among themselves, their eyes sharp with both curiosity and calculation.
Those attending through paid admission filled the ground floor, while the invited VIPs — the city's elite — reclined in their private mezzanine balconies above, each offering a commanding view of the stage below.
Their silks rustled softly, their jeweled fingers idly tapping on armrests as if to mark their patience in rhythm.
The staff moved deftly, arranging placards, serving refreshments, and ensuring the night's proceedings would flow without a single misstep.
Then, with a brief flicker of dimming light, the room's murmur died down.
A spotlight illuminated the center stage as a man in an elegant navy suit stepped forward, his demeanor calm yet commanding. His posture exuded polish; his every gesture, practiced ease.
"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice carried, smooth and resonant, tinged with the confidence of a seasoned professional. "I hope you are all having a lovely evening."
He smiled faintly, letting his gaze sweep across the audience before continuing — "I am Charles, and I will be your host and auctioneer for tonight."
The auctioneer — clearly a man well-versed in his craft — wasted no time with needless flourish. With poise and efficiency, he moved through the formalities, his seasoned tone guiding the night's proceedings into motion.
The early rounds went as expected: a series of miscellaneous items, trinkets, and damaged goods — things of little consequence to those gathered.
Bids rose and fell lazily, the audience's energy simmering low as the room waited for the true treasures of the evening.
Soon, the bidding for the lesser pieces began to draw to a close.
The next item was brought forward — a fractured jade bangle, cracked clean through the center, its luster dimmed by age and wear. It was a broken piece of jewelry, its worth found not in beauty, but in the story it carried.
According to the catalogue, the bangle had been crafted by a Resonator — one capable of channeling life itself into material form.
Though the Resonator had long perished, the jade persisted, refusing to fade even after the death of its creator. To most, it was a curiosity; to a few, perhaps a relic of something greater.
Yet the nobles in attendance barely concealed their indifference. The fractured bangle was, in their eyes, nothing more than a damaged trinket. Even the VIPs, who occasionally indulged in lesser artifacts for prestige, had overlooked this one.
Then—
Creak.
The heavy doors of the auction hall swung open, drawing every gaze.
From the entrance strode a small group of teenagers, their presence almost jarring amid the refined decorum of the hall. They wore simple, yet prudent clothes — rebellion wrapped in restraint — and each bore a mask fashioned after a dog's visage.
At the head of the group walked a silver-haired boy whose wolf-shaped mask glinted under the chandelier light.
Behind him, his companions fell in step, their masks ranging from a fox to a hound, even a Pomeranian — each unique, yet all bound by a subtle insignia etched onto the Terminals they carried, silently confirming their shared origins.
A few nobles clicked their tongues in distaste, whispering about the audacity of such intruders.
But no one spoke aloud — attending an event of this stature required more than money; it demanded connections, reputation, and influence. The fact they were here meant they had all three.
In the VIP lounges above, a few young nobles took passing interest before turning their attention back to their refreshments — all but one.
A girl with sapphire eyes and flowing lavender hair streaked with pale blue leaned slightly forward, her gaze thoughtful. "Why do people arrive late to these events?" she asked softly, her tone laced with idle curiosity.
"Miss Cantarella," her aide replied, bowing his head slightly, "those who come late already know what they seek."
Cantarella Fisalia — heir to the prestigious Fisalia family — followed his gaze to the fractured jade bangle below. Her brow lifted in faint amusement. 'They're here for that piece of junk?'
Meanwhile, down on the floor—
"We will start at 8,000 credits," the auctioneer, Charles, announced, his gavel raised. The fractured jade glimmered beneath the soft golden light, its crack catching the glow like a scar frozen in crystal.
"We nearly missed it," Calcharo murmured under his breath.
Kurian, who wore a fox mask, merely shrugged. "We have nothing to miss," he said coolly, eyes sweeping across the room with quiet calculation. "If anything, this might work in our favor."
In the VIP box, Cantarella's gaze lingered on the jade, then on the newcomers. Her expression softened — the faintest trace of intrigue glinting in her eyes.
"Bid for this one," she ordered.
Her aide hesitated. "Miss, it's a damaged piece… are you certain it's worth—"
"It's beautiful," Cantarella interrupted gently, her voice decisive.
A moment later, her aide raised the paddle. "10,000 credits."
A murmur ran through the crowd as the auctioneer's voice rang out. "The House Fisalia has bid 10,000 credits! Does anyone wish to go higher?"
The mention of her house silenced most of the room. Yet from the masked group below, one hand rose calmly.
"10,500," Kurian said, his tone measured.
A pause. Then, from above — "20,000."
"20,500," Kurian added.
"30,000," the Fisalia's countered swiftly.
"30,500."
"40,000."
The price swiftly surpassed its estimated value of ten thousand and skyrocketed toward fifty thousand. No matter how intriguing its history, the fractured jewelry was not worth such a sum.
One of the Ghost Hounds clicked their tongue. "You might have to stop bidding, Kurian."
"You don't have the credits," Calcharo added bluntly. Kurian knew that well enough, but before he could respond, Calcharo offered, "Do you want us to lend you some?"
Kurian paused for a moment before shaking his head. "No," he said quietly, "but I want you all to do something."
The members leaned in closer as Kurian whispered his plan, "I'll push the Fisalias to raise the price to seventy thousand, and when that happens, we leave this place."
"What?!" someone nearly shouted, but Kurian quickly covered their mouth with a hand. "Also… when we leave, Boss drop a card of our mercenary group. Everyone, wear a subtle grin when you walk out."
"What are you trying to achieve?" another whispered.
"Just… do as I say," Kurian replied.
The bidding resumed.
"50,500."
"60,000."
"60,500…"
A tense pause followed as the Fisalia's finally raised the bid again: "70,000."
At that instant, the Ghost Hounds rose and, following Kurian's instruction, quietly exited the hall. Calcharo casually dropped a business card of their mercenary group as they left, each member suppressing a satisfied grin.
From her elevated vantage point, Cantarella's eyes narrowed. She clicked her tongue in disbelief. "We have been sheared like a fat lamb."
***
Skid — Roll —
Outside the auction hall, a barrel rolled across the cobblestones, kicked in frustration. "Those damn nobles and their wealth," muttered one of the Ghost Hounds, shaking their head.
"Whew," Kurian let out a relieved sigh, brushing off his coat. "Luckily, we managed not to embarrass ourselves in there."
Calcharo patted him on the back, a knowing smirk on his face. "Nice recovery there."
Kurian simply nodded, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his lips. The plan had worked perfectly. They couldn't win the bangle — not against the Fisalia's' deep pockets — but they didn't need to.
To the outside world, it appeared that the Ghost Hounds had simply been outbid by a wealthy household, leaving the jade in the hands of the highest bidder.
Yet the sharper nobles noticed something unusual: it seemed as though the Fisalia had bid against themselves, driving the price to an absurd level.
In truth, however, Kurian and the Ghost Hounds had wanted the jade, but seeing victory as impossible, Kurian shifted their strategy.
They played it cool, allowing the Fisalia to take ownership while the Hounds' actions left an impression of audacious, untouchable mystery.
Kurian's gamble was subtle genius: they lost — but lost with style, creating a situation where the Fisalia had purchased an outrageously expensive, damaged jewel.
And the most agonizing part for the Fisalia was that they couldn't sell it, as any attempt to resell the jade would only compound their embarrassment.
"But aren't you sad about not acquiring the jade?" one of the members asked.
Kurian shook his head lightly. "At least now I know which family holds it," he replied, glancing toward the auction house before adding quietly, "…and I think I finally understand what's been troubling me."
"If something was bothering you, you could've told us," another chimed in, and a few others nodded in agreement.
Kurian raised both hands in a gesture for silence. Normally, only the leader of the pack had the authority to quiet the crew with a single raised hand, and Kurian knew that well.
That was precisely why he lifted both, a subtle but deliberate act of respect — a quiet way of acknowledging that Calcharo was, and remained, the one in command.
"Alright," he said, his tone steady. "First, listen to me."
Kurian explained his troubles in steady, measured tones, laying out the plan to open an information guild — a network that would turn scraps of rumor into currency and leverage.
A murmur ran through the gathered Ghost Hounds. One of them cocked a brow and asked bluntly, "You going to leave us?"
Kurian only touched the silver dog tag hanging on the silver chain, letting the little clink speak for him. "This leash is pretty strong," he said softly. "You all know my past. I have tried to break free, to move past it…"
"Haah..." He drew a tired breath. "But my conscience will not let me abandon the lessons of what I was. I cannot simply forget."
He looked around the circle, eyes steady on each of them. "That is why I have decided: I won't fight against it anymore. I'll use it for my family's benefit."
Calcharo stepped forward, voice cautious. "And how do we know you're telling the truth? How can we be sure you won't become what you were — and remain as Kurian of the Ghost Hounds?"
Kurian did not answer with words. He reached for his Terminal, summoned a blade, and turned it over in his palm. With a single, calm motion he cut his palm and let the blood bead and drip, letting the scent of iron hang in the air.
"I, Kurian, the Iron Hound," he said, voice low and unwavering as he raised his bleeding hand for all to see, "vow from this day onward: anyone who brings harm to my family, the Ghost Hounds, shall receive no mercy — myself included."
The circle fell silent. In the hush that followed, the oath was more than words — it was a seal, wet and red on his skin, binding him to the pack in a way no promise on idle breath ever could.
Calcharo shrugged, arms folded, a faint smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Let's say the Hounds all share the same sentiment," he muttered.
No more words were needed. One by one the crew stepped forward, wrists bared. Each drew a shallow cut and let their blood mingle with the oath — a raw, crimson seal on their promise.
In rough, unified voices they intoned the vow — a solemn pledge to protect and remain absolutely loyal to their family: the Ghost Hounds.
With their hands still bleeding, Calcharo turned toward the direction of their base and gave out his orders. "Let's return to our den. We have still got many works to do."
In a single, thunderous voice, the hounds responded, "Aye sir!"
End of Volume 1: The Howling ones
To be continued...