The Merchant King's Fury
The guards poised to strike Charles hesitated for only a heartbeat—but it was enough.
A chill swept through the air. Heavier than frost. Heavier than death. Every cultivator in the room felt it. No wind blew; yet the flame orbs overhead flickered. The temperature hadn't dropped, but the weight had. Even the mana threads woven through the restaurant's enchanted tapestries strained—like webs about to snap.
Then he entered.
A man cloaked in obsidian-black and deep crimson stepped across the threshold of Tre Sorelle.
He didn't stomp, didn't shout. He didn't need to.
The restaurant seemed to draw in, the space subtly shifting to accommodate his arrival. Tables leaned away, servers stilled mid-step, and a hush, not quite silence, fell over the room. The man claimed the space without a word, his presence reshaping the flow of the evening.
Every noise choked to silence. Chairs stopped creaking. Forks stopped clinking. Even thoughts seemed to hold their breath. His presence rolled through the room. It felt like the arrival of a primal king—one whose kingdom wasn't granted by lineage, but built by blood, steel, and fear.
Five guards followed him in precise formation. Black lacquered armor, halberds polished to a mirror's gleam. Their boots struck the marble tiles in unison—no louder than a drumbeat, but it echoed like a death march. Each one radiated Core Realm power, but beside the man at their center, they may as well have been shadows.
He didn't scan the room. He read it—like a general surveying a battlefield already lost.
Micah's gasp cut the silence.
"Father!"
The word detonated like a thunderclap.
Charles blinked, his mind briefly stunned into stillness.
Father?
Gasps rippled like tremors through the entire establishment.
"Micah is… Victor Sorelle's daughter?!"
The diners' masks slipped. Eyes widened and mouths gaped. A nearby merchant hid his family crest. Two minor nobles tried to flee, but froze mid-step.
Victor Sorelle.
Victor Sorelle. The Northern Merchant King. Founder of the Black Iron Guild. Rich, powerful, and the secret ruler of Davona's underworld. A Unity Realm earth cultivator whose techniques razed camps in the Northern Border Uprising.
People didn't talk about Victor Sorelle.
They negotiated in silence.
Malfor, once smug and flushed, now looked sick and empty. The pink in his cheeks faded to chalk. He opened his mouth. No words came.
Victor's eyes, sharp as a master-forged blade, locked on him.
"You laid your hand on a Sorelle," he said—quietly.
So quiet, it scraped the bones like a whisper from the grave.
"And you disturbed the peace of my establishment."
Malfor stammered, sweat beading on his brow. "I-I didn't know—"
Victor's reply came colder than steel left in winter.
"You shouldn't have had to know."
He raised a single finger.
The guards moved like vipers.
Malfor's companions tried to run, but the guards blocked them. One spun his halberd and slammed the butt into a noble's gut. Another jabbed a knee, dropping his target. Paralyzed, Malfor didn't resist as a guard shackled him with rune-locked manacles glowing faintly with suppression glyphs.
Micah flinched as Malfor was dragged across the floor, her shoulders tightening and breath catching, despite her attempt to remain composed.
He whimpered, still trying to save face. "My father is Count Hayde—!"
Victor turned his gaze back to Malfor like one might regard a cockroach that dared speak.
"Then let him send a letter," he said flatly. "If he can find a courier brave enough to enter my domain."
The guards hauled the three nobles and their groaning attendants out into the night.
And just the room didn't relax; it collapsed. Tension bled out. Chairs scraped softly. Someone coughed. The wine disappeared too fast. I coughed. Wine was gulped too fast.
Victor turned slowly to face Charles.
The shift in attention sent another ripple through the crowd. Even without recognition, they knew instinctively: this masked figure had intervened—and survived it.
"You," Victor said.
Charles straightened but did not bow. Not out of arrogance—but out of principle.
"You have my gratitude," Victor said, his tone unreadable. "And… my interest."
Charles nodded once, calm as a still lake. "I couldn't ignore what I saw."
Victor studied him—not with suspicion, but curiosity sharpened into assessment.
"Few would step in. Fewer still against a noble."
Charles replied, "Fewer still just sit and watch."
A beat passed. Then, Victor smiled.
It was not warm.
It was not cold.
It was approved.
"My name is Victor," he said. "I'd like to speak with you. Privately. This evening, over dinner. My daughter will arrange it."
Charles inclined his head. "Very well. Just call me Charles."
Victor turned to Micah, who stood by with her wrist now wrapped in a shimmer of healing silk.
"Are you hurt?"
Micah shook her head. "No, Father. Thanks to him."
Victor placed a firm hand on her shoulder. His grip said everything: reassurance, pride, and apology delivered through presence alone. Then he stepped forward once more, his voice rising just enough to command the entire floor.
"Clear the damage. Drinks and meals were provided at the house."
He turned and strode out without waiting for acknowledgment.
His guards followed, swift and sharp as shadows in formation.
The doors closed behind them.
And the tension in Tre Sorelle shattered like fine porcelain.
Section II: Whispers Behind the Mask
Murmurs flared like sparks in dry brush, catching fire with every breath.
"Who was that masked man?"
"He disarmed a Level 5 noble like swatting a fly."
"Wasn't that the Heaven-Crushing Fist?"
"Not a chance. That's a style that has been lost. Who has that kind of training?
"Maybe he's from one of the monasteries in the north?"
"Or the capital?"
"No. Too calm. "Too... cold."
People were talking about possible events. Rumors drifted like smoke from incense, everywhere in Tre Sorelle. Behind polished wine carafes, waiters whispered. Nobles leaned over their veiled friends and traded rumors like money. A mage with crystal glasses tapped furiously into a glyph-notebook. His eyes shone with joy from the gossip.
And yet Charles moved. He returned calmly to his booth, cool as midnight rain on obsidian glass. He drained the last sip of Eclipsethorn Reserve, its cosmic vintage thrumming with qi as if applauding the spectacle. The spectacle it had just Micah walked back, slower but sure. Her wrist glowed, healed by silk threaded with mana. She slid into the booth across from him, unreadable—her eyes spoke volumes. able—though her eyes said volumes.
"You were reckless," she murmured. Her tone was hushed, but layered with quiet steel and something more complex—concern, gratitude, maybe a touch of curiosity that edged into something intimate.
Charles moved his head just a little bit. "I've been worse."
Micah raised an eyebrow. "That's not very comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be."
A charged silence fell between them, not an awkward one. In the background, glasses clinked nervously and chairs creaked as people argued about whether or not it was safe to breathe too loudly after Victor Sorelle's rage.
Micah leaned in. "Father wants to speak. Seven o'clock. Upstairs lounge. Don't be late."
Charles smiled faintly beneath the silver-gray mask. "I wouldn't dream of it."
After a moment's pause, Micah's fingers grazed the rim of her empty water goblet in a small, nervous motion, her gaze flickering toward Charles before settling back on the table.
Then she asked, "Is there anything else I can assist you with?"
Charles considered for a moment, gaze drifting across the glittering restaurant like a man playing chess in five dimensions.
"Yes," he said at last. "I need a merchant. Someone discreet. Trusted. I have something… rare to sell. Potentially dangerous in the wrong hands."
Micah's eyes gleamed faintly with interest. "Then you want the Duranth Auction House. Three blocks north of here. And as fate would have it—" her lips curved, half-smile, half-dare, "—tonight's elite auction begins in just under two hours."
Charles blinked. "That soon?"
"Good timing—or bad, depending on what secrets you carry."
Then, with a flick of her wrist, she reached into her robe and withdrew a circular token of green jade. It shimmered faintly under the restaurant's dim light, etched with a sigil of a wolf curled protectively around a blooming poppy.
The Sorelle crest.
Micah held it between two fingers and placed it reverently on the table.
"Give this to Gideon, the auction master. He'll know what it means."
Charles picked it up gently. The token was heavier than expected. Cold. Weighted with influence.
And silent promises.
"Thank you," he said, the words sincere.
Micah's expression softened. "Consider it a favor returned. Besides…" She leaned back and allowed a glimmer of a smirk. "It's not every day someone publicly slaps down a noble heir and walks away without a single scratch."
Charles stood, smoothing his cloak.
"As long as I walk away with my wine intact, I consider it a good day."
Micah gave a small laugh under her breath. "Then tonight may still surprise you."
And as Charles moved toward the exit, the weight of every gaze in Tre Sorelle pressed on his back—some in awe, some in fear, most in hungry curiosity.
"Who was the masked stranger?"
The Auction of Masks and Gold
The auction house owned by Duranth looked like a cathedral made of ambition and pure arrogance. Four tall stories of obsidian marble rose up, with veins of spell-etched crystal running through them like arteries that pulsed.
The crowd outside was a tapestry of power and hunger—cloaked nobles with eyes like sharpened steel, high-tier merchants draped in enchanted silks, rogue mages cloaked in flickering illusion spells, and adventurers smelling faintly of blood, brimstone, or both.
Charles strode past them all, cloak fluttering behind him like a shadow with purpose.
He approached the marble steps—ignoring the winding queues and velvet ropes—and produced the jade token Micah had given him. The Sorelle crest gleamed under the spelllight: a wolf curled protectively around a blooming poppy.
The nearest attendant, a prim elf woman with silver hair coiled in glass pins, glanced at the token—and went pale.
"A bearer of the Sorelle Crest," she said, almost reverently. Then louder, "This guest is to be escorted immediately. Clear a path!"
The crowd parted as if Moses himself had commanded it.
Gasps followed. Whispers chased his boots like gossip-hungry ghosts.
"No entrance fee?"
"He must be from one of the hidden Houses."
"That mask… is he one of the Nine Shadow Sons?"
Charles said nothing. Mystery did all the talking he needed to do.
He was led through three magical archways, each protected by detection glyphs and scanning arrays, and into the auction house's inner halls.
The reception room on the second floor looked like a palace parlor. The polished mahogany floors reflected the warm light of the mana sconces. The walls of the moon-pearl mosaic sparkled with changing patterns, like gilded beasts, mountain dragons, and silver warships that never stopped moving. Floating serving trays silently passed by, carrying fruit carved into roses and wine that sparkled with elemental swirls.