Chapter 360: The Price of Arrogance

The entrance of the venue flooded with harsh sunlight as several shadows emerged from the brightness beyond.

"Hmm? Hasn't it started yet?" The first voice carried the lazy arrogance of someone accustomed to having the world bend to their whims.

"Let's finish this quickly and leave. I refuse to breathe the same air as these filthy commoners any longer than necessary," another complained with theatrical disgust.

"Should we simply have them all removed?" A third voice suggested with casual cruelty, as if discussing the weather rather than mass eviction.

"I heard there are some particularly exquisite slaves available today... None of you had better compete with me for them," the final speaker warned with petulant authority.

Before the speakers had even taken their seats, their voices had already poisoned the atmosphere within the auction house. The air pressure seemed to drop dramatically, creating an oppressive weight that settled over every soul present like a suffocating blanket.

There was more than one Celestial Dragon.

Saint Charlos waddled at the front of their procession, his bubble helmet catching the stage lights as his tiny, pig-like eyes surveyed the venue with obvious disappointment. Behind him followed his equally repulsive family members, each radiating the same casual malevolence that marked all World Nobles.

Of course, the crushing psychological weight only affected the "lesser beings" in attendance. The Celestial Dragons themselves remained blissfully unaware of the terror they inspired, moving through the audience seating with the same casual entitlement they brought to every aspect of their existence. They climbed the stairs to the most luxurious box seats with deliberate slowness, savoring the way every person in the venue instinctively cowered before their presence.

Fortunately for the other attendees, the hall's dim lighting concealed their expressions of disgust, fear, and barely contained rage. When the World Nobles finally settled into their elevated thrones, Disco immediately launched into an obsequious display of flattery that would have been embarrassing under normal circumstances.

After several minutes of groveling praise, the auctioneer finally continued the evening's entertainment.

As the stage lights blazed to life, a line of slaves shuffled out from behind the curtain like condemned prisoners walking to their execution. The collection was impressive even by Sabaody Archipelago's standards, some were notorious criminals from Impel Down's deeper levels, others were pirates who had recently gained fame throughout the Grand Line's most dangerous waters.

But what caught Oboro's attention were two races he recognized from his extensive knowledge of this world's diverse populations. A member of the Mink Tribe stood shackled among the human captives, their distinctive fur matted and dulled by captivity. Beside them, a female Fish-Man tried to maintain her dignity despite the humiliating circumstances.

The presence of Fish-Men slaves was tragically common. As long as they possessed attractive features by human standards, there would always be a market for their exotic beauty among the World Government's elite clientele.

The Mink Tribe member, however, represented something more unusual. Their natural combat abilities and rarity made them valuable prizes for collectors who desired both beauty and potential functionality in their acquisitions.

But Oboro's attention wasn't focused on the slaves being displayed like livestock on the auction block. His enhanced senses were systematically cataloguing the "scents" of power emanating from outside the venue, building a comprehensive map of the security forces arrayed against him.

His ears twitched slightly as he processed dozens of overlapping conversations and mechanical sounds. His nostrils flared subtly, analyzing the chemical signatures that marked different types of weapons and the distinctive metallic smell of military equipment. Most importantly, his spiritual awareness swept outward like invisible radar, marking the location and strength of every soul within his considerable range.

No Admirals, Oboro realized with grim satisfaction, his lips curving into a predatory smile.

The discovery confirmed his growing understanding of how this world's governing will operated. Unlike his previous experiences in the Demon Slayer reality, direct character manipulation seemed far more difficult here. The cosmic forces that sought his destruction had to work within established patterns and believable circumstances.

For the Celestial Dragons and the Marine hierarchy, the recent chaos on Sabaody Archipelago represented nothing more than a minor embarrassment. An escaped slave had caused some property damage and killed a few criminals, regrettable, certainly, but hardly worth deploying their most powerful assets. The auction house robbery had created ripples throughout the criminal underworld, but such petty conflicts rarely reached the attention of those who shaped global policy.

The Marine's concerns remained focused on the broader picture: maintaining order across the Grand Line, suppressing the growing influence of the Four Emperors, and preventing any genuine threats to World Government authority. A single fugitive, no matter how troublesome, simply didn't qualify for Admiral-level intervention.

At least, not until he demonstrated why such caution might have been warranted.

"Fifty million berries," Saint Charlos announced with the bored tone of someone purchasing groceries rather than human lives.

His lazy bid interrupted Oboro's tactical analysis. On the auction stage, Disco had been building excitement for a particularly attractive slave when the Celestial Dragon's voice cut through the proceedings like a sword stroke. Every other potential bidder immediately fell silent, their mouths snapping shut as if they'd been physically struck.

Even though the slave's market value clearly exceeded the offered price by a significant margin, none of the other buyers dared to voice competing bids. The World Knovle's interest had transformed what should have been a heated auction into a foregone conclusion.

The pattern repeated itself with nauseating predictability. Wave after wave of slaves were paraded across the stage, each representing years of accumulated suffering and broken dreams. The moment any Celestial Dragon expressed the slightest interest, all competition ceased immediately. Priceless individuals were "purchased" at bargain-basement prices through a process that resembled robbery more than legitimate commerce.

What had been advertised as the evening's most exciting entertainment became a mind-numbing display of systematic theft disguised as business. These precious human beings, each with their own stories and capabilities, were being transferred to their new owners at prices that wouldn't have purchased quality livestock in most kingdoms.

Doflamingo's genius lay in making this transparent exploitation appear natural and mutually beneficial. The Heavenly Demon used these obviously rigged transactions to strengthen his political connections with the World Government's true power brokers, while the Celestial Dragons satisfied their appetite for exotic acquisitions without depleting their treasuries.

After several rounds of this theatrical farce, the non-Knovle attendees had acquired virtually nothing of value. Disco continued his nauseating praise of the World Nobles' "excellent taste" and "generous spending," promising that their new property would be delivered to Marijoa with all possible speed and care.

The slaves who had been claimed by Celestial Dragon buyers all wore identical expressions of absolute terror. They understood exactly what awaited them in the Holy Land, a fate that made their current circumstances seem pleasant by comparison.

Oboro remained motionless throughout the proceedings, his patient stillness masking the predatory focus building within his consciousness. He was waiting for the optimal moment, confirming that no Admiral-level threats lurked in the shadows before committing to irreversible action.

The opportunity finally presented itself when Saint Charlos picked his nose with disgusting casualness and shouted a price for the Mink Tribe member who had caught his attention.

"One hundred million berries!" Oboro's voice cut through the auction house's oppressive atmosphere like a blade.

Disco's ornate hammer had been descending toward the podium when the unexpected bid shattered the evening's established pattern. The auctioneer's star-shaped sunglasses reflected the stage lights as excitement flooded his features.

"One hundred million berries!" he screamed into his microphone with renewed enthusiasm. "This distinguished gentleman bids one hundred million berries! Do I hear any competing offers?!"

Even the most pampered Celestial Dragons had to observe certain formalities when conducting business in public venues. The surface procedures of legitimate commerce provided necessary legal cover for transactions that would otherwise appear as blatant slave trading.

"Two hundred million berries!" Saint Charlos's response carried clear irritation as he glanced toward Oboro's seating area. His bloated features twisted with displeasure, though he hadn't yet escalated to outright rage.

"One billion berries," Oboro replied with a theatrical yawn, as if the astronomical sum meant nothing to him.

"One... one billion berries?!" Disco's voice cracked with shock as the microphone faithfully transmitted his stunned disbelief. His jaw literally dropped open as he struggled to process what he'd just heard.

"That's correct. One billion berries," Oboro confirmed with casual indifference.

The bid was completely meaningless, of course, he possessed no such funds and had no intention of actually purchasing anyone. But the psychological impact on both the auctioneer and the attending Celestial Dragons was immediately apparent.

Saint Charlos had been planning to acquire the Mink Tribe member as a gift for his sister, Shalria. After the evening's smooth procession of unchallenged purchases, the sudden competition from a "lowly commoner" who dared challenge his authority struck him like a physical blow.

The sound of footsteps behind Oboro announced the Celestial Dragon's response. Saint Charlos rose from his luxurious seat with obvious fury, his face darkening as he reached for the familiar weight of his pistol. The other World Nobles watched with anticipatory glee, clearly expecting to witness an entertaining execution.

History seemed to repeat itself as Saint Charlos approached Oboro's position, the black muzzle of his weapon gleaming under the venue's lighting. His finger found the trigger with practiced ease as he positioned himself to deliver what he clearly expected to be a fatal lesson in respect.

"You ignorant trash," Saint Charlos snarled, his voice carrying the petulant rage of a spoiled child whose toys had been touched by unauthorized hands. "One billion berries? Even if you could somehow afford such a sum, you're already dead!"

His bloated features split into an expression of sadistic satisfaction as he raised his foot with theatrical arrogance.

"I'll give you one chance to preserve your worthless life," he continued in the same stupidly superior tone. "Kneel down immediately... and lick my shoes clean."

The surrounding audience held their collective breath as the confrontation reached its climax. Few had expected such dramatic entertainment when they'd arrived for what should have been a routine slave auction. The very air seemed to vibrate with tension as every person in the venue focused on the deadly tableau unfolding before them.

Some observers assumed Oboro was finished, that regardless of whether the Celestial Dragon pulled the trigger, he would certainly be claimed as property or subjected to torture that would make death seem merciful. Others found themselves genuinely curious about how this mysterious bidder might resolve such an impossible situation.

"Tsk," Oboro clicked his tongue with obvious disgust, leaning back against his chair with casual confidence that seemed to mock the weapon pointed at his head. "A brainless idiot like you has managed to survive this long... This world truly is tolerant of the worthless."

"Huh?" Saint Charlos blinked in confusion, his limited intellect struggling to process the unexpected response. Something about the voice seemed familiar, though his fog-addled mind couldn't quite make the connection.

"You..." he began uncertainly.

"It's only been a few days since we last met," Oboro observed with dark amusement, raising his eyebrows as recognition began dawning in the Celestial Dragon's eyes. "Have you forgotten me so quickly?"

From beneath the makeup and false tattoos that concealed his distinctive scars, Saint Charlos finally recognized the face that had haunted his dreams since their first encounter.

"Ah!" he screamed with the high-pitched terror of a child confronted by their worst nightmare.

"What are you waiting for? Kill him!" Shalria's voice carried from the elevated seating area, her impatience clearly audible. The other Celestial Dragons were growing bored with the delay and wanted to see blood spilled on the auction house floor.

A genuinely comical scene unfolded as Saint Charlos, his mind clouded by the shock of recognition, turned his head to inform his family about Oboro's true identity. The bloated World Knovle had never, not once in his pampered existence, considered the possibility that any lesser being might actually attack him.

His worldview simply couldn't accommodate such a concept. In every situation he'd ever encountered, he had been the one who decided who lived and who died. There had never been exceptions to that fundamental law of his universe.

The moment Saint Charlos turned away, Oboro exploded into motion like a predator finally released from restraint.

Killing Charlos would require no more effort than crushing an ant beneath his heel. The Celestial Dragon's soft, pampered flesh would offer no resistance to someone with Oboro's enhanced capabilities and combat experience.

But something occurred that caught even his enhanced perception off-guard.

Just as his hand reached for Saint Charlos's throat, two figures burst from concealment among the audience with explosive speed. Their coordination was perfect, one attacking from the left, the other from the right, both moving with the fluid precision of experienced killers.

The first assailant swung a gleaming blade toward Oboro's extended arm, seeking to sever the hand that threatened their target. The weapon's edge caught the stage lights as it carved through the air with lethal intent.

The second attacker closed the distance with inhuman speed, raising an ornate silver pistol that seemed almost too beautiful for its deadly purpose. The barrel aligned with Oboro's temple as the gunman's finger found the trigger.

"Hey... what do you think you're doing?" The swordsman's voice carried cold professionalism as his blade continued its deadly arc.

"If something happens to the Celestial Dragons, none of us will leave this place alive," the gunman added with icy calm, his weapon remaining perfectly steady despite the chaos surrounding them.

"Are you completely insane? Don't drag us down with you!" the swordsman continued, his words carrying genuine fear beneath their surface hostility.

"Oh yes," Oboro's face registered surprise as the tactical situation crystallized in his mind with perfect clarity. "I forgot about that particular complication."

He had spent so much time calculating the responses of the Marine and the Donquixote Family that he'd completely overlooked the most immediate threat, the influence the Celestial Dragons themselves wielded over every criminal organization on Sabaody Archipelago.

These weren't government agents or Family operatives trying to stop him. These were independent pirates or underground figures who understood that harming a World Knovle would bring down the full wrath of the World Government on everyone present. Their intervention wasn't about protecting Saint Charlos personally, it was about preserving their own chances of survival.

Whether this represented manipulation by the world's governing will or simply the natural consequences of the system's design no longer mattered. The immediate reality remained unchanged.

"He... must die," Oboro stated with emotionless finality that made both attackers' blood run cold.

The words carried such absolute conviction that the two powerful fighters immediately abandoned any thought of negotiation or compromise. They had encountered enough genuinely dangerous individuals to recognize the voice of someone who had already committed to a course of action that would reshape the world around them.

Almost simultaneously, both men decided that executing this madman before he could harm the Celestial Dragon represented their only hope of surviving the night.

The real battle was about to begin, and the auction house would never be the same.