The auctioneer, wan yet immaculate, lifted his silver gavel and struck it once—a sharp clang like fate tolling the bell of destiny.
"Esteemed guests of the Twelfth Arcana Fest Auction: we begin our procession. Each item offered tonight carries exceptional rarity, mystical potency, or political significance."
On the lower floor, bidders murmured in anticipation—adjusting gloves, raising paddles, sipping tonics. From Charles's vantage, he sensed the hunt had begun, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.
Lot 1, a gleaming Illustrium Cloak of Lunar Veil, sold quickly for 2,300 gold—a trinket for this crowd.
Jewels changed hands. Under magical lights, relics made of mana danced. Beasts came back to life and howled in cages of stasis-glass. Portals to hidden worlds blinked into existence—gone just as quickly.
Charles didn't blink as he watched, his focus sharp and tied to three names:
The Scroll. The Pill. The Blade.
Charles watched as Lot 10 ended with a dragonbone helm adorned with phoenix feather filigree.
Charles felt the focus in the room shift. Tension thickened. Anticipation was a living force.
Lot 11.
The auctioneer took a book wrapped in silk out of its velvet-lined chest and turned to face the highest-level suites.
"Now presenting Lot Eleven: a first-edition mastery scroll of the Heaven-Crushing Fist Technique—Heaven-Tier. Made for advanced cultivators all the way up to the top of the Golden Realm. A masked person from House Sorelle sent this in.
Heads turned quickly toward Charles's room.
He sat back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, swirling the wine in his glass as all eyes swung toward him.
"Starting bid: 10,000 gold coins."
Suite Six raised its paddle in a calm, steady way. A nobleman with a hand with jade rings on it.
"12,000."
Suite Eight answered back.
"Fourteen."
"Sixteen!"
The room was buzzing as tension built—a pressure dome. This wasn't just a fight over a scroll.
This was a sign of status.
Proof.
Power wrapped in parchment and sealed in violence.
Suite Seven raised the bar—sixteen-five. Charles recognized a Vellmire aristocrat, notorious for purchasing techniques and assassins alike.
A pause. A hush.
Then—
Another paddle rose. Graceful. Deliberate. Final.
"Eighteen thousand."
No overbids followed.
A hush settled, laden with held breath and dashed expectations.
The gavel struck.
"Sold to Suite Seven—eighteen thousand gold coins!"
Applause. Whispers. There were flashes of envy and admiration.
Charles noted Victor Sorelle's approving nod.
Charles exhaled slowly behind the mask, a ghost of a grin teasing his lips.
One down.
Silence didn't just fall over the auction hall. It sharpened to a blade. The air tensed, electrified, as before lightning strikes.
It was power. Potential. Choice.
He traced a finger across the thick, gilded catalog resting in his lap. The parchment was heavy. It was faintly scented with myrrh and mana oil. The words shone in starlight silver and rune-black. His pulse quickened as he landed on the page he'd marked hours ago, like a hunter eyeing the true prize after a warm-up kill.
Lot 16: Soulroot Vein-Awakening Pill.
This luminous pill, set in emperor jade, was an alchemical wonder. A Grade-3 treasure desired for awakening secondary or tertiary affinities. The glowing red seal marked it as high priority.
Charles leaned forward in Suite Four, resting his elbows on the velvet armrest. This, he knew, was his moment.
"Starting bid: 3,000 gold coins," the auctioneer intoned, his voice edged with respect.
Paddles shot skyward like thorny spring shoots.
"Three thousand two hundred."
"3,500!"
"3,800!"
The bidding pace sped up.
Charles stayed motionless. He waited, eyes shining behind his mask, holding back until the time was right.
Make them feel brave. Let them use up their breath first.
Then—
He raised his paddle with calm confidence.
"4,200 gold coins," the auctioneer said, as his voice echoed through the room.
A pregnant pause stretched the room.
One noble half-raised his paddle and then stopped. Another person leaned toward his advisor, lips tight. There were no more bids.
Thump!
The gavel fell like a command from God.
"Sold—to the person who bid in Suite Four!"
There was a brief burst of applause. Respectful. Be careful.
Charles let out a breath through his nose. That pill wasn't just a hard-to-find medicine. It was the future: the difference between a noble using brute force to punch and a cultivator using elemental power.
He could almost sense it: fire, lightning—and something deeper—stirring awake.
The auction went on as Charles kept a close eye on everything that happened from his suite. He measured every move and sound, never missing a detail.
Lot 18: Battle robes with phoenix feathers. A marquess with a red sleeve crest bought it for 6,000 gold.
Lot 19: Glacial Core Crystal. A beauty, but ice was not in Charles's path—for now.
Lot 20: The Cursed Grimoire of Vizraeth. Wrapped in six layers of stasis runes, glowing ominously even under sealing. No one dared bid. The grimoire was quietly whisked away by men in dragon-scale gloves.
And then it came.
Lot 21: Windblade Daggers of the Silent Tempest.
The velvet curtains parted to reveal twin daggers hovering mid-air, encased in a spiraling stasis ward. The blades shimmered with silver-blue light, as if forged from moonlight and storm winds.
The auctioneer adjusted his collar. Even he looked thrilled.
"Forged from celestial jade and woven with the essence of the northern gales," he said. "A perfect relic for those who dwell in the shadows, but strike like thunder."
Charles's breath caught.
Perfect for Wendy.
Micah had mentioned these blades days ago. Now they shimmered in full view.
"Starting bid: 6,000 gold coins."
"6,200!" called a voice from Suite Nine.
"6,500!" said a young woman in veils from the middle balcony.
A man in a teal robe with a gold mask covered in merchant runes yelled, "7,000!"
"7,500!" Charles called in a calm voice.
The room got quiet. He was back.
"Eight thousand!"
"8,500!"
Charles squinted. Someone else desired the daggers as much as he did.
"9,000," he said.
The last bidder thought for a while, then shot back, "9,200!"
Charles smiled beneath the mask.
"9,500 gold coins."
Silence.
The paddle in Suite Nine lowered slowly—defeated.
Clack.
"Sold to Suite Four!"
Charles chuckled beneath the mask. Wendy would scold him for the extravagance—and cherish him for it.
Still, he wasn't done. Not yet.
He turned the catalog page—eyes locking on the prize he was truly after.
Lot 23: Raijin's Emberfang.
A sword.
No, a storm wearing the skin of a blade.
Forged from celestial jade. Infused with dual elemental affinities—fire and lightning. The katana seemed to glow through the catalog illustration, as though it knew he was looking.
Storm Fusion. Thunderstrike Cleaver. Gale Slash. Passive agility boosts. And the ultimate: Emberstorm Wrath.
The perfect match for the Heaven-Crushing Fist, if he had the guts to say so.
"Starting bid: 5,000 gold coins."
The bidding started with a snap.
"5,500."
"Six thousand!"
"6,800."
"7,200!"
"7,500."
Charles's hand was close to his paddle.
He put his hand up.
"8,000 gold coins."
The room was quiet. The air watched over everything. There were no further offers.
BANG.
The gavel hit.
"Sold!"
Charles leaned back, his drink untouched. His heart thudded with silent victory.
Three well-known works of art. A bidder with a mask.
And the Duranth ledger would always remember his name.
He didn't just win. This was about investment. Power, fate, the future.
The auction hall was quiet—like the moment before a knife strikes. Charles was still excited about selling the Heaven-Crushing Fist Technique book. It went for an incredible 18,000 gold coins. He had $16,200 left after the 10% fee. The weight of that chance felt like warm steel in his hand.
In the dimly lit beauty of Suite #4, Charles leaned forward with the auction catalog open on his lap. The gilded parchment glimmered in the spell-lamp light. The smell of spice and sage oil came from each lot's description.
Below, noblemen, guild lords, beast tamers, and rogue farmers stared with ambition. They sipped wine and murmured like dragons.
After that, Lot 13 appeared.
Lot 13: The Cursed Grimoire of Vizraeth
Type: Not Allowed Tome
Warning: High Risk Artifact. A blackened grimoire filled with dread, sealed in six stasis rune layers. Unknown origin. Rumored to contain pieces of the Arch-Sorcerer Vizraeth's broken soul.
Warning: Risks of insanity, possession, or corruption. Handle with extreme caution.
The handlers brought forth the tome—locked in a floating coffin of runed crystal. The lights dimmed unnaturally as it hovered over the central plinth.
People gasped. A woman in red turned away. Someone in Suite #3 whispered a banishing spell.
The auctioneer, who seemed nervous, cleared his throat.
"Starting bid... at the House's discretion."
Be quiet.
No paddles rose.
Even the most arrogant bids didn't move.
Finally, the auctioneer bent his head down a little.
"Withdrawn." For safety's sake.
Attendants in dragon-scale gloves whisked the book away. Faces pallid, movements quick. Nobility made the sign of the cross. One murmured a prayer.
Lot 16: Pill to Wake Up Your Soulroot Vein
Grade: 3 The Alchemical Pill
The first bid is 3,000 gold coins.
Sealed in jade by the emperor. Made to bring forth hidden elemental affinities and open up dormant veins. There is an 80% chance of success, but there are some hazards.
The golden-red pill sparkled on the bed of lotus silk when the gavel hit it.
"3,000 gold coins to start the bidding."
Paddles rose like flowers in a storm.
"Three thousand two hundred!"
"3,500!"
"3,800!"
Charles waited like a predator. He let them run around and drool. Then he quickly raised his paddle.
"4,200 gold!"
There was no one to argue.
The gavel hit the table. "Sold to Suite #4!"
There was a soft buzz of interest. Charles breathed out slowly. The Soulroot Pill was more than just a pill; it was a door. A key.
The hall got tense right away when the auctioneer said it.
"Minimum bid: 15,000 gold coins."
"16,000!" came the first shout from Suite #7.
"17,000!" answered another.
"18,500!"
"20,000!"
The numbers climbed like flames licking dry parchment.
"22,000!"
"25,000!"
Charles took a deep breath. It was appealing, but it wasn't his style yet. The array was too rough and harsh for his long-term plan. But he watched it closely.
A last paddle came up from Suite #8.
"31,000 coins of gold."
The gavel hit the table with a loud bang.
"Sold to Suite #8!"
After that, people started to talk.
"Was that Lord Sylar from Blackheath?"
"Not me, someone else." Did you see the sigil? "Whoever it was, that array will kill whole battalions..."
Lot 21: The Silent Tempest's Windblade Daggers Type: Legendary Twin Daggers, Evolving Elemental Affinity: Air
Made from heavenly jade. A glow that is silver-blue. Have skills like Tempest Dance, Cyclone Throw, and Abyssal Eclipse. Dangerous for cultivators below Gold rank.
Charles narrowed his eyes. He thought of Wendy.
These were hers—he would make sure of it.
"Starting bid: 3,000 gold coins."
"3,500!"
"4,000!"
"4,200!"
"4,800!"
"5,400!" shouted someone from Suite #2.
Charles waited. Let them bleed. Then…
"5,400 gold coins," he said softly, lifting his paddle.
A breathless hush.
No one raised again.
"Sold to Suite #4!"
Lot 23: Raijin's Emberfang
Type: Legendary-Class Katana
Elemental Affinity: Fire, Lightning
Abilities: Gale Slash, Thunderstrike Cleaver, Storm Fusion, Emberstorm Wrath (Ultimate).
Charles didn't hesitate.
"5,500!"
"6,500!"
"7,200!"
"7,800!"
He let the bidding spike and then slammed the room into silence.
"8,000 gold coins!"
The crowd quieted down. There was no counter.
"Sold to Suite #4!"
As the last thing —a small spirit-binding contract —was taken away, servants rushed into the gallery to put things back in order. Nobles and merchants talked about which treasure was real, which bidder had overpaid, and who had spent like a warlord and disappeared like a ghost in Suite #4.
But Charles stayed seated, his new weapons safe and his path straightened out.
And tonight, Davona whispered a new name into its golden ledger. One it would not forget.
The Masked Bidder of Suite #4.