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 folded around him.
Every noise choked to silence. Chairs stopped creaking. Forks stopped clinking. Even thoughts seemed to hold their breath. His presence rolled through the room 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 in precise formation behind him. 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?!"
At once, the masks of the diners began to fall. Eyes widened. Mouths hung slack. A merchant nearby subtly moved to conceal his family crest, and two minor nobles on the far end of the room stood as if to flee—only to freeze mid-step.
Victor Sorelle.
The name carried the weight of kingdoms. The Northern Merchant King. Founder and head of the Black Iron Guild. One of the richest men on the continent and the ruler of Davona's underworld by proxy. Not to mention a Unity Realm cultivator whose earth-attribute techniques had leveled war camps during the Northern Border Uprising.
People didn't talk about Victor Sorelle.
They negotiated with silence.
Malfor, who had only moments ago been wine-flushed and smug, now looked like a man who'd just soiled his embroidered silk trousers. The pink of his cheeks had drained into a sickly shade of chalk. His mouth opened. 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."
"I-I didn't know—" Malfor stammered, sweat forming like raindrops along his brow.
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 bolt, but the elite enforcers closed in. One spun his halberd and cracked the butt into a noble's stomach. Another jabbed the mana-weaved shaft into the knee of the second, dropping him in a heap of groans and velvet. Malfor, still paralyzed, didn't resist as a third guard shackled him with rune-locked manacles that glowed faintly with suppression glyphs.
Micah flinched only once, her breath catching as Malfor was dragged across the floor like so much garbage.
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 like that, the rot was removed.
The room didn't relax. It collapsed. Tension drained like blood from a wound. Chairs scraped softly. Someone 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's tone was smooth, almost amused. "Even fewer would watch and stay seated."
A beat passed. Then, Victor smiled.
It was not warm.
It was not cold.
It was approving.
"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 disturbed—on 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."
"That technique—wasn't that the Heaven-Crushing Fist?"
"No way. That's a lost style. Who has that kind of training?"
"Maybe he's from the northwestern monasteries?"
"Or the capital?"
"No. Too composed. Too… cold."
Speculation swirled like incense smoke, rising from every corner of Tre Sorelle. Waiters whispered behind polished wine carafes. Nobles leaned over veiled companions, trading rumors like currency. A mage with crystal spectacles tapped furiously into a glyph-notebook, eyes gleaming with gossip-fueled glee.
And yet Charles moved like a man untouched by it all.
He returned to his booth with the same calm grace he had worn all night—cool as midnight rain against obsidian glass. He raised the crystal goblet and drained the last sip of Eclipsethorn Reserve. The vintage still hummed with cosmic resonance against his qi, as if applauding the spectacle it had just witnessed.
Then Micah returned.
She walked more slowly now, deliberate but no longer strained. Her wrist was still gently wrapped in faintly glowing healing silk, threaded with mana-infused threads. She slid into the booth opposite him, her expression unreadable—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 tilted his head ever so slightly. "I've been worse."
Micah arched a brow. "That's not reassuring."
"It wasn't meant to be."
A silence fell between them, not awkward, but charged. Somewhere in the background, glass clinked nervously, and chairs creaked as patrons still debated whether it was safe to breathe too loudly in the wake of Victor Sorelle's fury.
Micah leaned closer, voice lowered to a whisper. "My father wishes to speak with you. Privately. Seven o'clock. The lounge upstairs. Don't be late."
Charles smiled faintly beneath the silver-gray mask. "I wouldn't dream of it."
There was a beat of stillness. Her fingers grazed the rim of her empty water goblet, a barely perceptible nervous motion.
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 on the table with reverence.
"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?
And what would he do next?
The Auction of Masks and Gold
Duranth's auction house loomed ahead like a cathedral sculpted from ambition and pure arrogance. Four towering stories of obsidian marble stretched upward, interlaced with veins of spell-etched crystal that pulsed like breathing arteries. As twilight settled over the city, the entire structure glowed with arcane reverence—half sanctum, half fortress.
Twin stone drakes guarded the massive front gates, their fanged jaws agape, eyes carved from moonlight-infused jade. Even their sculpted scales shimmered with defensive enchantments. An old merchant beside Charles whispered to his companion, "I heard the drakes come alive if someone tries to break in." The other simply nodded, gripping his coin pouch like a prayer.
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.
He was escorted through three enchanted archways—each warded with detection glyphs and scanning arrays—and entered the inner halls of the auction house.
The second floor reception chamber gleamed like a palace parlor. Polished mahogany floors reflected the warm glow of mana sconces. Walls of moon-pearl mosaic shimmered with shifting patterns—gilded beasts, mountain dragons, and silver warships frozen in perpetual motion. Floating serving trays drifted silently past, laden with fruit carved into roses and wine that shimmered with elemental swirls.