A tall man in a deep blue doublet entered soon after, carrying the weight of management like a well-fitted sword belt. His silver-streaked hair and hawk-sharp eyes gave him the look of a general masquerading as a merchant.
"Good evening," the man said. "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 gave a practiced nod. "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.
"Then I see." Gideon bowed slightly. "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 sealed in a reinforced wrapping of null-ink thread. Gideon hesitated for 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 sheathed in blood-ink lacquer and wrapped in elemental thread.
Gideon's brows lifted. "Another?"
Charles nodded. "An original killing array—epic-tier. Designed and drawn by me."
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. 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 in circulation. 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 gestured, and a pair of attendants escorted Charles to the third level—reserved only for the elite.
The suite he entered was nothing short of imperial. Ward-etched glass walls shimmered with anti-eavesdropping glyphs. Tapestries woven with moonlight thread whispered tales of forgotten empires. A fireplace of phoenix coal burned silently in one corner, casting flickering shadows across polished bonewood floors. A velvet chaise and a mirrored bar offered every possible vintage and delicacy. It was the kind of room where fortunes changed hands—and histories were rewritten.
Charles took a seat. A golden scroll listing the night's auction items was already laid out beside a goblet of glacial wine.
He scanned the list, eyes sharp.
Enchanted spellbooks. Weapon fragments. Rune script jewelry. Spirit beast eggs.
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 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 glow of enchanted chandeliers above. The Duranth Auction House unfurled below him like a stage—ornate, excessive, and absurdly alive.
Beneath domed crystal ceilings, a grand amphitheater glittered with nobility, guild masters, veiled merchants, rogue cultivators, and masked heirs all gathered in one sacred ritual: spending gold like gods.
Even the air was expensive.
It smelled of moon lotus petals, burnt cinnawood, 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 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 kingdom's most exclusive event this side of the royal gala, and Charles—masked, anonymous, and freshly disruptive—was right in the middle of it.
Then he saw it.
His item.
Lot 11 – Heaven-Crushing Fist Technique, Mastery Scroll
Heaven-Tier | Forbidden Techniques Section
Starting Bid: 10,000 gold coins
There it was—immortalized in shimmering violet ink, nestled between century-old sword manuals and stolen divine arts. He'd handed the scroll to Gideon barely an hour ago. And now? Here it sat, polished, appraised, auction-stamped, and terrifying in how legitimate it looked.
He grinned behind the mask. "Not bad for a former CEO with a fist technique named after atmospheric violence."
He skimmed further—and paused.
Two entries, inked in crimson, pulsed with temptation.
Lot 16 – Soulroot Vein-Awakening Pill
Grade-3 Alchemical Masterpiece
Starting Bid: 3,000 gold coins
"Awakens dormant magical veins. Triggers secondary affinity awakenings. Estimated success rate: 80%. Side effects may include: essence tremors, elemental fever, soul convulsions, and vivid hallucinations of ancestral disappointment. Use with supervision—or a will."
Charles barked a laugh. Even SIGMA made a soft blip of warning.
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, fateful accidents—that sparked secondary awakenings. Most were snake oil. This? This was alchemical gold.
Crafted only by late-stage Gold-ranked master alchemists. Ingredients that sounded like a death wish:
Four elemental cores,
Dreamshadow mushrooms (grown in soul beast nests),
And a drop of evolved beast blood attuned to the soul element.
Charles exhaled slowly. "That pill could rewrite a life. Or erase it entirely."
And then came the showstopper.
Lot 20 – Infernal Thorn Crucible Killing Array
Epic-Grade Combat Array (Scroll Blueprint)
Starting Bid: 15,000 gold coins
"A battlefield array born from the forbidden trinity: dark fire, abyssal shadow, and thorned qi. Summons blackened thorns wreathed in hellfire. Drains enemies of life, qi, and joy. Victims may experience sudden mortality, followed by being very, very dead."
The description read like a horror poem.
Each thorn burned. Each flame screamed. The more enemies struggled, the faster they perished.
"Now that's a corporate restructure," Charles whispered, eyes gleaming.
If the Soulroot Pill was rebirth, 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 – Windblade Daggers of the Silent Tempest
Legendary Twin Blades (Evolving)
Affinity: Wind Magic
Starting Bid: 3,000 gold coins
Forged from celestial jade. Sleek. Deadly. Ethereal. These were weapons of whispers and lightning-fast retribution.
Their skills?
Tempest Dance – A whirling death ballet.
Cyclone Throw – Goodbye, spine.
Abyssal Eclipse – Just...don't be the target.
Charles tapped the page.
"These are perfect for Wendy," he muttered. 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
Affinities: Fire & Lightning
Starting Bid: 5,000 gold coins
"A blade forged in celestial storms. Passive speed boost. Adaptive tier scaling. Ultimate skill: Emberstorm Wrath. Use it to become the apocalypse. Side effects may include too much swagger and enemies combusting just by looking at you."
Charles stared.
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 become his sword of conquest until the Infernal Eclipse Blade awakened.
And if fate—or clever budgeting—favored him…
He'd claim all three.
Charles leaned back, sipping wine that tasted faintly of stardust and rebellion.
Around him, nobles gossiped. Bidders prepared. The auctioneer's voice echoed as the first lots began.
But Charles?
He simply smiled beneath the mask.
The world of Davona was ruthless.
But so was he.
And tonight? He wasn't just here to buy 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 wing of the third-floor gallery, a pair of mahogany double doors—each etched with silver filigree and radiant arcane glyphs—parted with solemn grace, as if the air itself bowed in anticipation.
All eyes turned.
Victor Sorelle stepped through with the presence of a man who didn't walk but arrived. Behind him, four bodyguards marched in perfect lockstep, clad in armor forged of midnight steel and laced with shimmering golden runes. Each step they took struck the marble like a war drum, not loud, but purposeful—an announcement of inevitability.
At Victor's right walked Marquis Lucien Damaris, Chairman of the Duranth Merchant Guild—a man whispered to have more influence than half the court ministers combined. His robes whispered of silk spun from phoenix threads. His family tree? Oh, just a casual blood tie to King Darius III.
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.