A tall man in a deep blue doublet entered. He carried the weight of management like a well-fitted sword belt. Silver-streaked hair and hawk-sharp eyes gave him the look of a general masquerading as a merchant.
"Good evening." Gideon stepped forward. "I'm Gideon, master of ceremonies and auction manager. And you are?"
"Charles," he replied, adjusting the half-mask slightly. "I'm here to sell."
Gideon inclined his head, voice even. "May I inquire how you came into possession of the Sorelle token?"
"Lady Micah Sorelle entrusted it to me. Her father was present."
That earned him a full pause.
Gideon bowed slightly. "Then I see. Your item will be handled with the utmost confidentiality and respect. Come, let's begin the appraisal."
Charles set a black dragonskin case onto the carved obsidian table and flipped open its locks.
Inside was a bound tome, reinforced with null-ink thread. It formed a barrier against tampering or magical detection. Gideon hesitated only a breath before breaking the seal and flipping it open—slowly, as though afraid it might roar to life.
"Heaven-Crushing Fist Technique," he murmured. "Heaven-tier. Optimized for Core to Unity Realm -rank cultivators. This… this is no martial trinket. It's a relic."
Before Gideon could recover, Charles set down a second item: a tightly wound scroll protected by a lacquer of blood-ink and wrapped with elemental thread designed to suppress residual energies.
Gideon's brows lifted. "Another?"
Charles nodded. "An original combat array—epic-tier, constructed for lethal effect. I designed and activated it myself during field trials."
He opened it a hand's width. Arcane lines and crimson runes shimmered with restrained malice.
Gideon's hand trembled slightly as he reached for it. "Infernal Thorn Crucible… My gods. A multi-stage, soul-reactive execution array?"
"Precisely. It adapts based on qi fluctuations and terrain." Charles's eyes glinted. "It was field-tested."
Gideon let out a breath like a man realizing he had been handed a bomb wrapped in gold leaf.
"Both items will be verified and listed for tonight," he said quickly. "Please allow our appraisers a moment."
Charles nodded. "Thirty minutes."
They returned ahead of schedule.
"The Heaven-Crushing Fist has been authenticated and rated among the top-tier martial manuals. Starting bid recommended at 10,000 gold coins. Due to your token status, the auction house will take only a ten percent commission."
"For the array?"
"Starting bid… sixteen thousand," Gideon whispered, nearly breathless. "There's a possibility it might break thirty if certain factions attend."
"Accepted."
Gideon waved, and two attendants took Charles to the third level. Only the best people went there.
The suite he walked into was fit for a king. Ward-etched glass walls bore glyphs that kept people from hearing what was going on. Tapestries made with moonlight thread told stories of fallen empires.
Charles sat down. A golden scroll with the night's auction items was already next to a goblet of frozen wine.
He looked over the list with sharp eyes.
Enchanted spellbooks covered the table. Broken pieces of weapons sparkled like legends. Jewelry with rune script sparkled, complicated and hard to decipher. Spirit beast eggs were tucked in velvet, adding mystery to the room.
And then—
Lot #11: Heaven-Crushing Fist
Lot #20: Infernal Thorn Crucible Killing Array
He allowed himself the faintest smile behind his mask. "Perfect placement."
"As you wish," said an attendant as he poured wine into Charles's glass. "The auction will begin in fifteen minutes."
Charles raised the glass in salute—whether to himself, fate, or the absurd spectacle of it all.
Tonight, the masked man would not just witness history; he would make it.
He would sell it.
From his skybox perch, Charles reclined with elegance that felt borrowed, but worn like a second skin. He nursed a goblet of starpetal wine, its iridescent surface catching the enchanted chandeliers' glow. The Duranth Auction House unfurled below like a stage—ornate, excessive, and alive.
Beneath domed crystal ceilings, a grand amphitheater glittered with nobility, guild masters, veiled merchants, rogue cultivators, and masked heirs. They all gathered in one sacred ritual: spending gold like gods.
Even the air was expensive.
The air smelled of moon lotus petals. There was burnt cinnamon wood, and… was that stardust perfume?
"Over thirty VIPs in this room, and not one of them knows the masked bastard sipping wine above them just body-checked nobility with a punch named Sky Breaker," Charles mused aloud.
SIGMA pulsed in amusement.
[STATISTICAL NOTE: 86% of current attendees are wearing enchanted fragrance wards. A staggering waste of qi and money.]
Charles smirked. "Good. That means I'm in the right place."
He flipped open the auction catalogue—no, tome—that lay before him on the velvet lining. Its binding alone was worth more than some border towns. Gilded corners. Arcane filigree. Categories marked in shimmering elemental inks.
Twelfth Arcana Fest Auction: Masterworks & Mysteries.
It was the most exclusive event in the kingdom since the royal gala. Charles was masked and anonymous. The scroll is a top-tier martial arts manual containing forbidden techniques, intended for those seeking to reach the Core to Unity Realm. Minimum Bid: 10,000 gold coins.
There it was, forever written in shimmering violet ink, between old sword manuals and stolen divine arts. He had given Gideon the scroll less than an hour ago. It was now here: polished, appraised, auction-stamped, and scary because it looked so real.
Gideon waved, and two attendants took Charles to the third level, which was only for the best people.
The suite he walked into felt nothing short of royal. Ward-etched glass walls sparkled with glyphs, keeping unwanted ears at bay. Tapestries made with moonlight thread draped the space, telling stories of empires long fallen.
Charles barked a laugh. Even SIGMA made a soft warning blip.
In Davona, most awakened their affinities at five: Fire, Wind, maybe two if your family fed you spirit chicken instead of porridge.
Three affinities? You got a celebration. Four? You got guards.
But there were whispers—of pills, relics, and fateful accidents sparking secondary awakenings. Most were snake oil. This was alchemical gold.
Made only by master alchemists at the end of their careers. The ingredients seem like they want to die:
Four main cores,
Dreamshadow mushrooms (which grow in the nests of soul beasts),
And a drop of evolved beast blood that is in tune with the soul element.
Charles let out a long breath. "That pill could change a life." Or get rid of it completely.
And then there was the big event.
Lot 20: The Infernal Thorn Crucible Killing Array.
The Epic-Grade Combat Array detailed on this blueprint is designed to form a dynamic, lethal formation. It responds to its environment and targets to maximize lethality, adjusting its tactics accordingly.
The starting bid is 15,000 gold coins.
A battlefield array made of three forbidden elements: dark fire, abyssal shadow, and thorned qi. It calls forth blackened thorns wrapped in hellfire, stealing enemies' life, qi, and happiness. Victims may die suddenly—and be very, very dead.
The description read like a horror poem.
Each thorn burned; every flame screamed. The more enemies struggled, the faster they perished, consumed by agony.
"Now that's a corporate restructure." Charles's eyes gleamed.
If the Soulroot Pill were reborn, this was pure destruction. A one-man siege machine, perfect for eliminating enemy squads or ex-fiancés plotting assassination.
He made a mental note: Hide this one from Garrick.
And then it got personal.
Lot 21: The Silent Tempest's Windblade Daggers. Legendary twin blades attuned to wind magic, each evolving as the wielder grows in power. Starting bid: 3,000 gold coins.
Heavenly jade crafted the blades—sleek, razor-sharp, and breathtakingly refined. These twin daggers are made for swift, silent kills or devastating, lightning-quick strikes, their power growing as their wielder advances.
Their talents?
Tempest Dance: A whirling attack technique that surrounds the user in razor winds.
Cyclone Throw: An attack that hurls a wind-forged blade to inflict severe internal damage.
Abyssal Eclipse: A finishing move that channels all elemental energy into a single devastating slash, overwhelming any target struck.
Charles tapped on the page.
"These are perfect for Wendy." Charles traced the page. She would've loved these—graceful, silent, and guaranteed to make someone dramatically explode.
[Sentimental Note: Recommending allocation to future ally class: Shadowblade.]
He smiled. "Duly noted."
But one final relic stole the breath from his lungs.
Lot 23 – Raijin's Emberfang. Legendary-Class Katana, built for control over fire and lightning. Empowers the wielder with increased speed and an ultimate skill—Emberstorm Wrath, which unleashes a tempest of flames and lightning on command.
Starting Bid: 5,000 gold coins
"A blade born in celestial storms. It grants a constant boost to movement speed, adapts in power as its owner grows, and its ultimate skill unleashes the apocalyptic Emberstorm Wrath—devastating foes with both fire and lightning. Beware: its overwhelming presence may draw attention, and provoke fear—or envy—in rivals."
Charles stared, unable to tear his gaze away.
Something stirred when he read those elements. Fire. Lightning. Legacy.
Raijin's Emberfang was more than a sword.
It was a possibility.
The original Charlemagne Ziglar had awakened no affinities. A walking failure in a warrior house. But Charles… he knew better.
The katana could be his sword of conquest. He would use it until the Infernal Eclipse Blade woke up.
And if luck—or smart spending—was on his side...
He would say all three.
Charles leaned back and drank wine that tasted a little like rebellion and stardust.
Nobles were gossiping around him. Bidders got ready. As the first lots started, the auctioneer's voice echoed.
But what about Charles?
He just smiled behind the mask.
Davona's world was cruel.
But he was too.
And what about tonight? He wasn't just here to get power.
He was here to put destiny on credit.
The Lions Ascend the Gallery
A hush fell—not merely silence, but a reverent stillness, the kind only summoned when legends enter the room.
From the right side of the third-floor gallery, a pair of mahogany double doors opened with a solemn grace, as if the air itself was bowing in anticipation. Each door was covered in silver filigree and glowing arcane glyphs.
Everyone looked.
Victor Sorelle walked through with a man who didn't walk but came. Four bodyguards marched behind him in perfect lockstep, their armor made of midnight steel and covered in shiny golden runes. Their steps on the marble sounded like a war drum—loud but purposeful, as if they were announcing something that was going to happen.
Marquis Lucien Damaris, the head of the Duranth Merchant Guild, walked to Victor's right. People said he had more power than half of the court ministers put together. His robes whispered that they were made of silk spun from phoenix threads.
Behind them came Gideon Raventhorn, general manager of the auction house, scroll under one arm, expression unreadable. A shrewd man, polished as obsidian and just as sharp.
Victor paused near the center of the viewing deck. His hawk-like gaze swept the chamber, not merely looking, but measuring. With a single, imperious nod to the auctioneer, the room realigned itself—like chess pieces sensing the king had entered play.
He spoke not a word.
He didn't need to.
Beneath the ripple of restrained gasps and murmurs, even the most veteran bidders adjusted their postures—subtle, instinctive. When men like Victor Sorelle and Marquis Damaris entered, even gold remembered to behave.
Their wealth rivaled that of small kingdoms.
Their networks spanned nations.
And their will? Capable of erasing noble houses with a flick of a signature.
From Suite Four, high above, Charles sipped calmly, but his eyes sharpened. He wasn't intimidated—he'd faced boardrooms hungrier than warzones. But even he had to admit: Victor made power look effortless.
And then—
She appeared.
Micah.
She stepped through the doors like a secret no longer hidden, no longer merely a waitress. Her dark sapphire gown—elegant and tailored to subtle perfection—shimmered like dusk upon enchanted waters. At her waist hung a thin silver belt inlaid with mana-thread, and her matching mask, minimalist and sharp, mirrored Charles's own: the kind worn by those who carried power and had nothing to prove.
She glided forward like moonlight through the fog. Graceful. Poised. And undeniably Sorelle.
A whisper passed through the gallery like wildfire through dry parchment.
"Micah Sorelle—she's his daughter?!"
From hidden balconies to reserved boxes, merchants and nobles alike re-evaluated everything they thought they knew. The girl who served wine two hours ago had just walked beside royalty.
And she owned the silence that followed.
Gideon, with all the deference of a man who understood rank and danger, bowed low and guided them personally into Suite One—the auction's most sacred vault of opulence. Enchanted walls. Privacy seals. Instant access to priority bids. Reserved only for those whose gold could bend kingdoms.
The room shifted in that instant.
The hierarchy had been made clear.
The lions had arrived.