Dungeon Overlord: Monster Girl Harem!-Chapter 157: A Second Dungeon Core!

The theatre darkened again.

A ripple passed through the crowd—not excitement, not yet. Anticipation. The kind that makes men lean forward without realising. They could feel it too.

Something was coming.

Leonhardt sat still, one leg crossed over the other, elbow draped along the armrest. Zafira leaned into him, body brushing his side with unconscious familiarity now, her thigh pressed against his.

Erina sat straighter on his other side, hands folded neatly in her lap, every breath measured. Controlled. But her green eyes flicked to the stage with a sharpness he didn't miss.

Good.

She was learning.

The stage lights dimmed, then turned violet. A new hue. The plague-masked hostess returned, movements more restrained now, as if even she had stopped pretending this was just an auction.

"A moment of pause, Esteemed Patrons," she said, her voice silk over steel. "The next item is not a person."

Murmurs.

Curiosity. Mild confusion. Excitement.

The auctions of Briar seemed to be mostly about trading exotic races and people.

At least that's what Leonhardt believed from the current auction.

Zafira's brow twitched slightly. Her wings shifted once.

Leonhardt narrowed his eyes.

The masked woman raised a hand.

With a slow hiss, a rune-sealed box levitated onto the stage. It was old—clearly not of human design. Faint cracks ran across its metal corners. Symbols older than the auction house itself glowed faintly along its surface.

"Recovered from the ruins beneath Tharven Hold," the hostess continued. "A relic sealed and untouched since before the second Demon War."

She turned her head slowly, as if looking at Leonhardt through the mask.

"It was once believed to be a failed artefact. We no longer think that."

The runes across the box flared—once.

Then opened.

Inside, not a gem. Not a relic.

A core.

But not just any core.

Leonhardt leaned forward.

[Leon! That... we HAVE to get it!]

(Amazing, so they also trade good items... but why don't the demons seem interested? Ask that sex demon beside you!)

Its shape was familiar—an infantile dungeon core, barely matured. Cracked. But alive. And embedded deep in its base… something foreign. A crystal, swirling with dark blue light. Mana. Dense. Compressed into fractal shapes that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Zafira's breath caught beside him.

Even she didn't recognise it—and that alone made Leonhardt pay attention.

"—An auxiliary core enhancement node," the hostess announced. "Compatible with most E-tier and F-tier dungeons. Effect: doubling the base expansion rate. Monster Spawn rate and even an Autonomous evolution option!"

Erina blinked. "Is that…?"

"A dungeon brain," Zafira whispered back. "But twisted. It can grow by itself."

Leonhardt said nothing.

'How can I get that...?'

"Zafira, why do most of the crowd not seem interested in it?"

Zafira didn't answer at first.

She tilted her head, golden eyes narrowing as she studied the crowd.

Most of the guests had leaned back in their seats, expressions veiled by masks and magic, but their postures spoke enough. Passive. Bored. A few even turned to whisper toward their attendants, as if they'd already dismissed the core entirely.

"Tch." Her lip curled. "Because they're already above it."

Leonhardt frowned. freeweɓnøvel.com

Zafira's voice dropped, low and edged with contempt.

"They all came with established domains. At least B-tier—some higher. That core's useful only to those trying to climb. Which means…" She glanced at him sideways. "It's bait. Planted for someone like you."

He didn't flinch.

Of course it was.

The hostess hadn't looked at anyone else when she spoke. She hadn't needed to.

That box was always meant for his hands.

And that meant someone behind the auction had already guessed what he was. Or worse… who he was becoming.

Leonhardt's fingers twitched once against the armrest.

A challenge.

Or a trap.

"Or a bribe..." Zafira muttered. "Is it someone who wants to make you an enemy, or is it because of me..." She looked back at Leonhardt and narrowed her eyes with a soft expression. "Forgive me... I hope it's not dangerous for you."

Either way, he wanted it.

More than the girl. More than the pageantry.

This was a piece of power, growth, territory, and future.

And whoever planted it wanted to see what he'd do to get it.

"Should I kill the seller after?" Zafira murmured, her voice so soft it was almost sweet.

He didn't answer her.

Not yet.

Instead, he leaned forward, his coat brushing the edge of the seat as he lifted two fingers.

"One thousand marks," he said.

Calm.

Precise.

The first real voice to break the theatre's lull.

And just like that, the game turned again.

[Leonhardt... this core is different for you. Because of your world eater... if you swallowed that core, then it would not only benefit the dungeon but...]

(Shh! Too much and you'll be punished, idiot!)

Dravanna silenced Ifrit, and the sound of them fighting in his soul chamber echoed through Leonhardt's mind, causing him to frown from the dull ache.

No one spoke.

Not at first.

The word "marks" hung in the air like incense—too rich, too sharp. Even masked faces tilted slightly toward him, acknowledging the number if not the man. It wasn't fear yet. But it was respect.

Zafira's fingers tapped once against her thigh. "You started low."

Leonhardt didn't respond.

He wanted to see who else had teeth.

A pause.

Then another voice answered—smooth, male, somewhere from the upper balcony.

"Fifteen hundred."

You could hear the smile in it.

Leonhardt's brow twitched. A noble. Or a merchant pretending to be one. His tone dripped with cultivated indifference, the kind taught at academies built for those born richer than gods.

But the voice made no impression.

Leonhardt flicked his finger again.

"Two thousand."

His voice didn't rise. But the temperature did.

The plague-masked auctioneer tilted her head, pausing just long enough to confirm no instant reply.

Then—

"Three."

This voice was rougher. Clipped. Female.

From the left box. Someone cloaked too deeply for her outline to show.

Zafira tensed.

"That one reeks of magic," she muttered, nostrils flaring. "Old magic."

Leonhardt's hand drummed once against the armrest.

He was about to raise again—

But the auctioneer's voice interrupted.

"Dear patrons," she said, and her tone dropped lower. Not uncertain—but deferential, like someone forced to read a clause she didn't agree with. "Please forgive the late announcement…"

The stage dimmed again, violet runes spiralling beneath the floating box.

"This relic—while available for immediate purchase—must be used before exiting the auction."

A rustle of confusion surged across the seats.

Zafira's lips parted, and Leonhardt's eyes flicked to the shadows above.

Used.

Before leaving.

Not taken.

Not studied.

Not sealed.

Used.

Dravanna stirred.

(…I told you. It's bait.)

[Quiet, fool! That condition—] Ifrit hissed, her voice crackling.

Leonhardt held up a finger again.

"Four thousand."

Two seats fell silent immediately.

The noble didn't rise again.

Nor did the cloaked mage.

Only the plague-masked hostess remained still, her hands frozen above the runic seal, watching him. Waiting.

No new voice answered.

The tension didn't break.

It compressed.

The air thickened. Not from heat. But from something colder, intent, layered and masked. Not everyone in the auction was there to buy.

Some were there to watch.

And now, Leonhardt had stepped into the centre of their little trap—eyes open.

His lips curled slightly.

Let them look.

Let them wait.

He would swallow the bait.

Whole.

(Do you plan to devour it... what if that reveals who you are?)

The voice of Dravanna, a black dragon... now gentle and compassionate.

Leonhardt didn't know when she started to view him in a positive light, nor when she began to care for him in such a manner.

[I will help you mask it...]

(Ifrit... you know that won't end with a simple punishment!)

The two spirits argued, but Leon listened as the auctioneer hammered the gravel twice. He wanted to understand what the pair feared.

[Leonhardt is all that matters to me right now!]

(Tsk... no need to get all soppy, I will help you. That way, we can share the punishment.)

The plague-masked hostess lifted her hand. The crowd had long since fallen silent—there were no more counter-bids. No rivals left. No fools brave enough to challenge him now.

"This item," she said, her voice drifting like smoke through the theatre, "is claimed by the customer in Seat Seven. The one cloaked in shadows… bound in blood."

The hammer fell once.

Twice.

And the third strike was not just sound—it was surrender.

"Sold… to Lord Embervale!"

He chose the name of his dungeon territory to avoid trouble, at least for now, while his strength was still growing.

No cheers.

No claps.

Only silence, and the sound of fate reshaping itself.

Then, the chamber below opened, stone whispering open to welcome him. And he stepped forward, bare, unblinking, into the jaws of something older than this war, this world, or even himself.

The corridors beneath the Briar House were too clean. No dust. No warmth. The torches burned without smoke. Even the stone felt... deliberate. Not carved, but designed—each step leading somewhere it wanted you to go.

Leonhardt didn't follow. But allowed them to guide him. There was a clear difference.

Zafira walked beside him now, not behind. Her arm grazed his just enough to remind him she was there. Her wings folded tightly, her lips pursed—not her usual amused smirk, but something closer to calculation.

She glanced at every corner as though expecting the walls to sprout teeth. Her golden eyes narrowed at the flickering glyphs carved into the stone. The silence between them wasn't cold.

It was tense.

The way heat thickens between two bodies before skin meets skin.

Ahead, the plague-masked woman stopped.

Not at a grand altar or ornate platform. Just a door—plain, grey stone veined with silver, pulsing like it was alive. Two robed assistants stood on either side, their heads bowed so low they could've been praying.

The moment Leonhardt drew close, one of them raised a hand and spoke.

"Please disrobe."