Arriving at the hotel where the auction would take place, Novaeus and his bodyguards were immediately met by the soft gleam of crystal chandeliers and the faint hum of polite laughter echoing from the lobby. The entire place exuded wealth—not the raw, newly earned kind, but the kind that dripped from centuries of inheritance and corruption. The carpet beneath his polished shoes was the kind that swallowed sound, and the smell of fine cigars and expensive wine lingered like a heavy perfume in the air.
As they entered, they were greeted by attendants dressed in black suits, bowing slightly with the kind of reverence reserved for people who had money—or at least looked like they did. They were quickly escorted to the reception area where the mandatory security procedure took place.
Weapons were not permitted inside. Even though the auction was filled with powerful individuals, the management enforced strict neutrality. Every participant was searched, their weapons cataloged and confiscated before entry. Novaeus did not protest; he understood power moved differently here—quietly, behind velvet curtains and champagne glasses. His men handed over their firearms without a word, their movements precise, almost mechanical.
In exchange, Novaeus was given a number card—a plain rectangle with the number 47 printed in gold ink. A tool for bidding, for signaling desire in a room full of predators dressed as patrons.
His reputation, while steadily growing within Macao's underworld, had not yet reached the level that warranted a private VIP suite. It didn't bother him. Visibility was overrated. Influence, after all, worked best when unseen.
He turned to his bodyguards and issued short, clipped orders. "Two of you stay with me. One remains at the lobby. The rest—back to the cars. Keep the engines running, stay alert. Ammunition stays loaded."
They nodded and dispersed without question, slipping into their assigned roles like parts of a well-oiled machine.
He took his seat in the front rows of the main hall—close enough to observe everything, far enough to remain detached. His two guards took positions behind him, blending into the crowd of similarly dressed men watching over their employers.
The auction began promptly at eight. A woman in a red gown took to the stage, her voice smooth and rehearsed, announcing the first item of the night. A gold necklace once owned by a forgotten European duchess. Then a silver goblet supposedly from a pirate shipwreck. Applause and murmurs rippled through the hall as paddles lifted and prices climbed.
Novaeus sat still, expression unreadable. Trinkets. Vanity pieces. Nothing of value to him beyond aesthetic.
He sipped his wine in silence, the cold gleam of the glass reflecting his eyes as one item after another paraded across the stage—ancient jewelry, ceremonial weapons, ivory figurines, even a few artifacts stolen from tombs.
His mind drifted to logistics and finances—how many ships could be built if he sold off a single one of these baubles. How many men could be trained. How many politicians could be bought.
Then something unusual caught his attention.
A dull, oval stone was wheeled onto the stage—grayish, ridged, unassuming at first glance. The hostess announced it as a preserved dinosaur egg, petrified but intact. "An ancient relic of life before man," she said, smiling with practiced enthusiasm.
Novaeus tilted his head. It was useless, but strangely beautiful. Something extinct, preserved in time—like himself in a way.
"Maybe it'll look good in my office," he murmured.
He raised his bidding card lazily. No one countered. The item was his.
Moments later, another piece was brought in—a long, slender spear, encased in glass and illuminated under soft lights. The shaft was weathered, its tip faintly gleaming under centuries of tarnish. But what truly drew his attention were the carvings etched along its length—symbols that hummed faintly with familiarity.
EIDEN's voice resonated quietly through the earpiece embedded in his glasses. "My lord, that one is of interest. It is not a mere spear. Energy readings suggest residual charge. Engravings correspond to language patterns from the Atlantis era. Likely a ceremonial weapon gifted to early human kingdoms."
Novaeus's fingers tightened slightly around his bidding card. Atlantis era. That meant it was from a time before modern civilization had even learned to dream of power. He smiled faintly.
"Interesting," he whispered. "We'll take it."
The bidding was short. Only one other contender, some collector from Europe, attempted to raise the price, but Novaeus overrode him with quiet, steady increments until the man relented. The gavel struck. The spear was his.
The auction continued. Paintings, ceramics, ancient manuscripts—all things that once might've fascinated him but now barely registered. He observed the crowd instead. Their movements, their glances, the subtle exchanges of envelopes and whispers between attendees.
Through his glasses, EIDEN silently ran facial scans and data extraction. Names, affiliations, political positions, financial histories—all streamed through Novaeus's peripheral vision in faint blue text.
"Most of them are connected to major power blocs," EIDEN reported quietly. "Six are from Southeast Asian government sectors. Three are criminal financiers. One from a weapons corporation. Two others appear to be middlemen."
"Noted," Novaeus murmured. He wasn't here to mingle, but understanding who frequented these rooms was worth more than any antique.
The final item of the night was unveiled—a Japanese sword, its blade glinting under soft lighting. The auctioneer claimed it had been forged by a legendary swordsmith centuries ago. That, of course, ignited the crowd. Bidding paddles shot up like waves in a storm.
Novaeus watched without interest. He wasn't a man swayed by legends.
The sword went to one of the VIP boxes upstairs for an absurd amount. The crowd applauded, satisfied by the spectacle of wealth.
The hostess returned to the stage, bowing gracefully. "Thank you, esteemed guests, for participating. Tonight's auction has been a tremendous success. Please remain seated as our attendants deliver your winnings and finalize transactions."
Novaeus leaned back, resting one hand on the armrest of his chair as the bustle began. The servers moved swiftly between rows, carrying polished trays with receipts and small boxes. When they reached him, he accepted his items with a faint nod.
He inspected the egg first, its surface cool and rough beneath his fingers. Then the spear—he could feel a faint vibration emanating from it, an ancient echo of something that once wielded immense power.
He paid without hesitation, the transaction routed through shell companies that would mask every trace.
As he waited, he studied the room once more. Conversations bloomed like little clusters of noise around him. Businessmen laughed too loudly. Politicians leaned close to whisper. Actors flashed smiles that didn't reach their eyes.
None of them noticed him.
No one approached. No one dared.
To them, he was another young man with money to burn. A nameless, spoiled son of wealth, perhaps. It amused him—how invisibility could be mistaken for insignificance.
The Caelum Syndicate might not yet command global recognition, but its roots were spreading faster than anyone realized. And soon, invisibility would turn into omnipresence.
When his items were finally secured, he rose quietly, his guards flanking him on both sides. They exited through the main lobby, where the sound of live music played for those still mingling over drinks. The night outside was calm, a soft mist rolling over the streets as they made their way to the waiting convoy.
The vehicles, sleek and dark, waited at the curb. The two remaining guards stepped out to open the doors. Novaeus entered, his movements unhurried. The others fell into position around the car as the engines rumbled to life.
The city lights blurred past the tinted windows as they drove toward his mansion. He leaned back in his seat, the faint hum of the engine lulling him into quiet thought.
Then—gunfire shattered the silence.
The first shots came from behind, sharp and rapid. Muzzle flashes blinked from the darkness of the highway. His escort vehicles responded instantly, returning fire in disciplined bursts.
"Ambush," one of the guards barked.
Novaeus remained still, his voice calm. "Maintain formation. Prioritize evasion."
The armored car absorbed the initial barrage, bulletproof glass holding firm under impact. The attackers, however, were determined—three vehicles tailing them, guns blazing.
"EIDEN," he said evenly, "mark trajectories."
"Confirmed. Enemy vehicles: three. Estimated twelve combatants. Ammunition type—standard issue. No heavy ordnance detected."
"Good. Eliminate them."
The guards responded like predators unleashed. The car windows lowered just enough for return fire. The convoy accelerated, engines roaring. Bullets tore through the night, shattering windshields and punching through unarmored metal. Within seconds, one enemy vehicle spun out, colliding violently with a barrier and erupting into flames.
The others followed soon after. Precision fire from his enhanced operatives tore through tires and engines. The road behind them was left littered with debris and silence.
When the gunfire ceased, only the rhythmic hum of their engines remained. No sirens followed. No flashing lights. The police were either complicit or paid to look away.
Novaeus gazed through the window at the burning wrecks fading into the distance. "Clean up," he said coldly. "I want names by morning."
"Yes, sir," one guard replied, already relaying orders through a secure channel.
Another vehicle broke formation, heading back toward the site to retrieve any survivors for interrogation.
The rest continued toward the mansion, the interior of the car filled with the faint scent of gunpowder and steel.
Novaeus closed his eyes once more, unbothered. "Pathetic attempt," he murmured.
The city outside slept soundly, unaware that a small war had just been fought on its outskirts. To them, it was just another quiet night.
When the convoy finally reached the mansion, the gates opened automatically, revealing the sprawling estate bathed in pale moonlight. The vehicles pulled in, and Novaeus stepped out without a word. His expression never changed.
He entered the grand hall, ascended the stairs, and disappeared into his private quarters.
The cleanup was not his concern. By morning, the names would be known, the bodies disposed of, and the threat erased.
And when the sun rose, the city would continue as if nothing had happened—while in the shadows, the Caelum Syndicate grew stronger still.