The auctioneer, pale but polished, raised his silver gavel and rapped it once—a crisp clang like fate striking the bell of inevitability.
"Esteemed guests of the Twelfth Arcana Fest Auction: we begin our procession. Each item offered tonight carries exceptional rarity, mystical potency, or political significance."
The lower floor murmured in response—bidders adjusting gloves, raising paddles, sipping tonics. The hunt had begun.
Lot 1, a gleaming Illustrium Cloak of Lunar Veil, sold quickly for 2,300 gold—a trinket for this crowd.
Jewels passed hands. Mana-forged relics danced under enchanted lights. Revived beasts howled in cages of stasis-glass. Portals to secret realms flickered to life and vanished just as fast.
Charles watched without blinking, his focus razor-sharp, tethered to three names:
The Scroll. The Pill. The Blade.
Lot 10 closed with a dragonbone helm crowned in phoenix feather filigree.
Then, the spotlight shifted.
Lot 11.
The auctioneer lifted a silken-wrapped tome from 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. Designed for advanced cultivators through the peak of the Golden Realm. Submitted by a masked representative of House Sorelle."
Heads snapped toward Charles's suite.
He sat back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, swirling wine in his glass.
"Starting bid: 10,000 gold coins."
Suite Six raised their paddle—calm, deliberate. A noble with a jade-ringed hand.
"Twelve thousand."
Suite Eight countered.
"Fourteen."
"Sixteen!"
The room buzzed as tension gathered like a pressure dome. This wasn't just a fight over a scroll.
This was prestige.
Proof.
Power wrapped in parchment and sealed in violence.
Suite Seven raised the bar—sixteen-five. A Vellmire aristocrat known for purchasing techniques and assassins in equal measure.
A pause. A hush.
Then—
Another paddle rose. Graceful. Deliberate. Final.
"Eighteen thousand."
No overbids followed.
A silence fell, full of held breath and collapsing expectations.
The gavel struck.
"Sold to Suite Seven—eighteen thousand gold coins!"
Applause. Whispers. Flashes of envy and admiration.
Victor Sorelle gave a single approving nod. It was subtle, but in this world, it might as well have been a trophy.
Charles exhaled slowly behind the mask, a ghost of a grin teasing his lips.
One down.
The hush that fell over the auction hall didn't just silence—it sharpened. Like the moment before a lightning strike, when even the air dares not breathe. The Heaven-Crushing Fist scroll had just sold for a staggering 18,000 gold coins. After commission, Charles now held more than most small merchants would see in a decade.
But it wasn't just gold he held.
It was power. Potential. Choice.
He traced a finger across the thick, gilded pages of the catalog resting in his lap. The parchment was heavy, scented faintly of myrrh and mana oil. The words were inked in starlight silver and deep rune-black. His pulse quickened as he landed on the page he had marked hours ago, like a hunter eyeing the true prize after a warm-up kill.
Lot 16: Soulroot Vein-Awakening Pill.
Encased in emperor jade, this single, shimmering pill was a miracle of alchemy. A Grade-3 treasure sought after by nobles, sect prodigies, and cultivators hoping to awaken a second—or even third—elemental affinity. The entry glowed crimson, denoting a high-priority relic.
From Suite Four, Charles leaned forward, elbows resting against the velvet armrest. This was it.
"Starting bid: 3,000 gold coins," the auctioneer announced, his voice now coated in reverence.
Instantly, paddles shot into the air like spring thorns.
"3,200."
"3,500!"
"3,800!"
The bidding rhythm quickened.
Charles didn't move. Not yet. His eyes glinted behind the mask.
Let them feel bold. Let them spend their breath first.
Then—
He raised his paddle with calm certainty.
"4,200 gold coins," the auctioneer called, his tone rippling through the chamber.
A pregnant pause stretched the room.
One noble half-raised his paddle, then froze. Another leaned toward his advisor, lips tight. No more bids came.
Thump!
The gavel dropped like a divine decree.
"Sold—to the bidder in Suite Four!"
Applause flickered. Not wild. Respectful. Somewhat cautious.
Charles exhaled through his nose. That pill wasn't just a rare elixir. It was the future—the difference between a noble punching with raw strength and a cultivator wielding elemental supremacy.
He could almost feel it already: fire, lightning… something else awakening.
The auction rolled on. He observed.
Lot 18: Phoenix-Feathered Battle Robes. Sold to a marquess with a red sleeve crest 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. A few nobles crossed themselves. One muttered a prayer.
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!" answered a young lady draped in veils from the center balcony.
"7,000!" barked a man in a teal robe, his gold mask etched with merchant runes.
"7,500!" Charles called calmly.
The room stilled. He was back.
"8,000!"
"8,500!"
Charles narrowed his eyes. Someone really wanted these.
"9,000," he said.
The last bidder hesitated, then shot back, "9,200!"
Charles smirked behind the mask.
"9,500 gold coins."
Silence.
The paddle in Suite Nine lowered slowly… defeated.
Clack.
"Sold to Suite Four!"
Charles chuckled softly. Wendy would kill him for buying something so extravagant for her… and love him for it.
Still, he wasn't done. Not yet.
He turned the page—and his eyes locked on the final prize.
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 complement to the Heaven-Crushing Fist—if he dared to claim it.
"Starting bid: 5,000 gold coins."
The bidding began with a snap.
"5,500."
"6,000!"
"6,800."
"7,200!"
"7,500."
Charles's hand hovered over his paddle.
This was more than a relic. This was a symbol. A weapon that could carry him through fire, war, betrayal—everything this world dared throw.
He lifted his hand.
"8,000 gold coins."
The room quieted. The air watched.
No more bids.
Not even a whisper.
BOOM.
The gavel struck.
"Sold!"
Charles leaned back, wine untouched, heart drumming a silent beat of victory.
Three legendary artifacts. One masked bidder.
And the ledger of Duranth would not soon forget his name.
He didn't just win.
He invested—in power, in destiny, in tomorrow.
And the world?
It was only just beginning to watch.
The hush that fell over the auction hall carried a keen edge, like the poised moment before a blade's strike. The lingering afterglow of his earlier victory—the sale of the Heaven-Crushing Fist Technique tome—still hummed in Charles's bones. It had fetched a staggering 18,000 gold coins. After the standard 10% commission, his balance now stood at 16,200. The weight of opportunity sat in his palm like warm steel.
In the dimmed grandeur of Suite #4, Charles leaned forward, the velvet-bound auction catalog laid open on his lap. Gilded parchment glimmered under the ambient spell-lamps, each lot's description smelling faintly of spice and sage oil.
Below him, the crowd buzzed—nobles, guild lords, beast tamers, and rogue cultivators—all with eyes glinting with ambition. The bidding gallery was filled to capacity, balconies lined with masked elites sipping spiced wine and murmuring like a den of perfumed dragons.
Then came Lot 13.
Lot 13: The Cursed Grimoire of Vizraeth
Type: Forbidden Tome
Warning: High-Risk Artifact
Description: A blackened grimoire pulsating with dread. Sealed in six layers of stasis runes. Origin unknown. Suspected to contain remnants of the Arch-Sorcerer Vizraeth's shattered soul.
Note: Potential risk of madness, possession, or soul 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 onto the central plinth.
Gasps echoed across the floor. A noblewoman in red turned away sharply. Someone in Suite #3 whispered a warding charm.
The auctioneer, clearly uneasy, cleared his throat.
"Starting bid… at the House's discretion."
Silence.
No paddle lifted.
Even the most arrogant bidders remained still.
Finally, the auctioneer bowed his head slightly.
"Withdrawn. For safety reasons."
The tome was quickly whisked away by attendants wearing dragon-scale gloves, their faces pale, movements brisk. A few nobles crossed themselves. One muttered a prayer.
Lot 16: Soulroot Vein-Awakening Pill
Type: Grade-3 Alchemical Pill
Starting Bid: 3,000 gold coins
Sealed in emperor jade. Designed to awaken latent elemental affinities and unlock dormant veins. 80% success rate, with mild to moderate risks.
The golden-red pill shimmered on its bed of lotus silk as the gavel struck.
"Starting bid: 3,000 gold coins."
Paddles rose like flowers in a storm.
"3,200!"
"3,500!"
"3,800!"
Charles waited with the patience of a panther, letting them scramble and salivate. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he raised his paddle.
"4,200 gold!"
A pause. Whispered voices. Hesitation.
No one countered.
The gavel came down.
"Sold to Suite #4!"
A low hum of intrigue swirled. Charles exhaled softly. The Soulroot Pill wasn't just a pill—it was a door. A key. The thing that Charlemagne Ziglar had never dared to hope for in his original life.
Lot 20: Infernal Thorn Crucible Killing Array Scroll Blueprint
Type: Epic-Grade Battlefield Array
Elemental Affinities: Shadow, Fire
Description: A killing field designed with abyssal fire, venomous shadow thorns, and despair-infused runes. Activates an expanding crucible that consumes all vitality within its reach. Ideal for dark mages, fire-based assassins, or battlefield domination.
The moment the auctioneer announced it, the hall tensed.
"Starting 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 held his breath. Though tempting, it wasn't his style—not yet. The array was too brutal, too unrefined for his long-term plan. But he watched closely.
A final paddle rose from Suite #8.
"31,000 gold coins."
The gavel cracked down like thunder.
"Sold to Suite #8!"
Whispers followed.
"Was that Lord Sylar of Blackheath?"
"No, someone else. Did you see the sigil?"
"Whoever it was, that array will wipe out entire battalions…"
Lot 21: Windblade Daggers of the Silent Tempest
Type: Legendary Twin Daggers, Evolving
Elemental Affinity: Wind
Description: Forged from celestial jade. Silver-blue glow. Possess abilities like Tempest Dance, Cyclone Throw, Abyssal Eclipse. Deadly to 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 stilled. No counter came.
"Sold to Suite #4!"
As the final item—a minor spirit binding contract—was whisked away, servants swept into the gallery, restoring order. Carriages lined the outer court, nobles and merchants chattering about which treasure had been real, which bidder had overpaid, and who, behind the mask in Suite #4, had spent like a warlord and vanished like a ghost.
But Charles remained seated, his new arsenal secure, his path realigned.
And tonight, Davona had whispered a new name into its golden ledger. One it would not forget.
The Masked Bidder of Suite #4.