Chapter 41 – The Auction of Light
The inn was quiet that evening.
A storm of sand rumbled faintly beyond the city's barrier, the golden haze catching the last traces of light filtering through the stone canopy above. Inside, the warm scent of stew and spiced bread filled the small dining hall.
Blake leaned back in his chair, boots crossed on the table, recounting—loudly—their latest hunt.
"So there I am, face-to-face with another one of those desert fiends—huge, ugly, venom dripping from every—"
Tamara interrupted without looking up from her bowl. "You tripped and fell into its nest."
Blake frowned. "You weren't supposed to tell that part."
John smirked, swirling the last of his drink. The warmth of the scene made the air feel lighter somehow. It had been days since they'd all been together. He'd missed this rhythm—the bickering, the laughter that followed right after.
Before he could reply, a polite knock came from the door behind him.
A young courier stepped inside, bowing sharply. "Letter for Mr.—uh, for John. From the Merchant Association."
John's brow rose. "You can leave it."
The boy set the sealed parchment on the table and hurried off. John broke the wax stamp—a golden sigil of the merchant guild's crest—and began to read.
Tamara glanced up. "Good news?"
He looked up from the letter, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"They're inviting me to the auction tonight. My potions are being showcased."
Blake whistled low. "Already? You work fast."
"Sometimes," John said. He folded the letter neatly. "It starts at dusk. You two should come."
Tamara tilted her head. "We're invited?"
John nodded. "Guests of the seller."
Blake grinned. "So, we're moving up in the world. Fine wine and rich people pretending to be polite—what's not to love?"
Tamara chuckled under her breath. "You're going to wear a shirt that isn't torn, right?"
"I'll consider it," he said.
They all went upstairs to change.
Blake was first back down, wearing a dark vest and clean trousers for once. The faint scars along his forearms caught the lantern light when he flexed. "Well? Handsome enough to rob a noble?"
John didn't answer. His attention was pulled upward—toward the soft creak of the stairs.
Tamara stepped down slowly, her hand resting lightly on the banister.
She wasn't wearing armor this time, or the desert-worn cloak she always favored. A silvery-grey dress brushed against her legs like mist, simple but impossibly elegant. Her pale hair, usually tied back, fell freely now, shimmering under the lamplight. The faint chill she carried by nature gave her an ethereal glow—like moonlight had decided to take human form.
For a moment, John forgot to breathe.
Her eyes met his—cool blue, unreadable—and his chest tightened in a way no potion could fix.
"You're staring," she said softly, voice even but faintly pink creeping into her cheeks.
John blinked, dragging his gaze away. "Just… didn't expect you to clean up so well."
She arched a brow. "That supposed to be a compliment?"
"Supposed to be," he said, smirking faintly.
The blush deepened, though she turned before he could see it fully. "Let's go before Blake starts talking again."
"Too late," Blake said, snatching an apple off the table. "If this keeps up, I'll need another drink before we even leave."
The Merchant Association towered above the rest of the district—its golden dome gleaming even under torchlight. The building came alive at night, crystal lanterns bathing the street in hues of amber and jade. Lines of carriages arrived in a steady stream, each carrying nobles, traders, or cultivators wrapped in silk and pride.
When John stepped inside with Tamara and Blake, a familiar attendant rushed forward, almost tripping over himself.
"Mr John! Manager Ruthen asked me to bring you directly."
The man practically bowed as he led them up the marble stairs. John didn't miss the curious stares following them—whispers trailing behind about "the alchemist with the luminous potions."
Ruthen herself awaited at the top landing, dressed in a deep violet gown trimmed with gold. Her usual calm professionalism softened when she saw him. "John. I'm glad you came."
"You invited me," he said evenly.
"Yes, but not all alchemists attend their first sale." Her eyes flicked briefly to Tamara and Blake, assessing without judgment. "Friends?"
"My team," John said.
Ruthen smiled. "Then they're welcome. Come."
She led them into a grand circular hall with tiered seating and a crystal stage at the center. The air hummed faintly with containment arrays—meant to keep high-grade items from radiating uncontrolled energy. Rows of buyers in embroidered robes whispered among themselves, holding numbered paddles etched with glowing runes.
Blake leaned in. "These people could buy kingdoms."
Tamara's voice was quiet. "Let's just not get thrown out."
They took seats near the front, beside Ruthen's reserved section. Soft music played from somewhere unseen. Onstage, an announcer raised his hand, voice smooth and powerful through the hall's amplifying enchantments.
"Welcome, honored guests, to the Forty-Third Merchant Association Grand Auction. Tonight's offerings include rare cores, artifacts, and alchemical treasures from across the desert's reaches."
The first few rounds were familiar wares—E-rank beast cores, refined metals, enchanted armors. The audience murmured and raised paddles in calm, practiced rhythm.
Then came the rarer items.
"Next," the announcer called, "a pair of venom-etched swords—crafted from the fangs of a Step 3 Basilisk. Infused with stable poison runes. Ideal for close combatants or dual specialists."
Blake straightened instantly. "Oh, those are mine."
Tamara rolled her eyes. "You don't even know the starting bid."
"Doesn't matter," he said. "Look at the balance on those hilts and I have the step 3 core from the scorpion queen."
John glanced at him. "If you want them, get them. I'll cover it. You will need the core to rank up to step 2."
Blake blinked. "You serious?"
John just nodded once.
By the end of the bidding, the swords were his—for Blake—and they gleamed faint green when the attendants brought them over for inspection.
Then came the Frost Ring—a thin silver band pulsing with cold light. The announcer's words barely finished before Tamara's gaze fixed on it.
"It's calling to you," John murmured, smiling faintly.
She hesitated. "It's rare."
"So are you," he said simply.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the armrest. "Then… thank you."
She didn't meet his eyes—but the warmth in her voice said enough.
After that came what Alaric had been waiting for.
"The Fire and Light Fruit!" the announcer declared.
"Born from twin-element storms, capable of refining spiritual cores and strengthening dual-aspect cultivators."
John's pulse stirred.
"Get it," Alaric said, his voice low, firm. "That fruit will stabilize your second step when the time comes."
John didn't hesitate. Within minutes, it was his.
He could almost feel the energy inside it—contained flame and brilliance woven together like living potential.
The next few lots passed without his interest—until a plain, tarnished piece of metal was carried out on a small silk cloth.
The announcer hesitated. "An unidentified relic, recovered from beneath the Dune Labyrinth. Its aura… faintly ancient. Opening bid, modest."
"That," Alaric whispered, "you must have."
John frowned. "It's just metal."
"No. There's something inside. A seal. I can feel it."
John didn't question further. He bid quietly and decisively—until the hammer fell in his favor.
Blake leaned close, whispering, "You just spent two hundred thousand credits on scrap."
"We'll see," John murmured.
Halfway through the auction, Ruthen rose from her seat and gave a subtle nod to the announcer.
"And now," the speaker said, voice rising with excitement, "a new addition from an up-and-coming alchemist within our city. Tier Two Meditation and Healing Potions—refined beyond standard purity, crafted under resonance flame. We present the work of… John."
A murmur rippled through the hall.
The first potion was displayed—its liquid glowing softly, radiating calm. Even from the seats, the crowd could feel the balance of spiritual energy within.
"Starting bid—ten thousand credits!"
The number doubled instantly. Then tripled. The bids climbed until they broke the hall's prior record for Tier Two concoctions. The healers and merchants alike raised paddles, desperate for stock.
By the time the auctioneer struck his gavel for the final set, the total value of John's lots exceeded six million credits.
Tamara's jaw fell slightly. "That's… incredible."
Blake leaned back, laughing. "Guess we're traveling with a sugar alchemist now."
John shook his head, though amusement flickered in his eyes. "Half that goes into materials."
"Still leaves plenty," Tamara said, smiling softly. "You did good, John."
He looked at her for a moment longer than necessary, then turned toward the stage. "It's just a start."
When the auction ended, Ruthen escorted them personally to the exit. "Congratulations, John," she said. "Your reputation in the Association will rise fast after tonight. You've done what most alchemists take years to accomplish."
He inclined his head. "Thank you."
"I'll have your credit balance sent to your account by dawn," she said, pausing before adding, "and perhaps a few buyers might request commissions soon. You've made quite the impression."
Blake grinned. "Careful, John. They'll start bowing when you walk past."
Tamara nudged him with her elbow. "Or asking him to marry their daughters."
John's sigh was quiet but amused. "Let's just get back."
Outside, the night air was cool, the sandstorm distant now. Lanterns burned low as they crossed the plaza, the glow of the city wrapping them in soft gold.
Tamara walked beside him, her new ring faintly glinting, eyes thoughtful.
"You really surprised me tonight," she said.
John glanced at her. "How so?"
"I knew you were dedicated," she said quietly. "Didn't realize you were brilliant."
He looked away before she could see the smile that crept up. "Don't tell Blake. He'll never stop talking about it."
Too late—Blake was already laughing ahead of them. "Oh, I'm definitely telling everyone."
They walked on together, three silhouettes cutting through the golden light, laughter carried by the wind.
And somewhere, within the quiet metal sealed inside John's ring, a faint pulse stirred—old, waiting, alive.