The Auction of Shadows opened before him like a theater carved underground.
Balconies lined the massive hall, each curtained with enchanted silk to obscure the nobles within. Below, the central floor spread wide with rows of seats, all angled toward a crystalline stage. The air smelled faintly of incense and wealth.
Dozens of masked figures already filled the chamber. Some wore gilded robes, others bore heavy armor inscribed with mana seals. Their voices mixed in a low hum, conversations dripping with greed and anticipation.
Michael clenched his jaw under the Loki Mask.
This wasn’t his world. He didn’t belong here. But tonight, he had no choice.
An attendant in black approached, faceless under a smooth white mask. "This way, honored guest."
Michael nodded once and followed.
His booth was modest off to the side, upper balcony, far from the center stage where the most powerful families clustered. A small table, a padded chair, a crystal console for bids. Enough.
The attendant bowed. "May the Auction bring you what you seek."
The curtain swished closed behind him, and Michael finally let out a breath.
From here, he could see the entire stage clearly.
He rested the pouch of chips on the table, his hand curling over it.
"Regeneration potions... buff potions... anything useful. That’s the goal."
His gaze flicked to Darken, leaning quietly against the wall of the booth.
And maybe, if luck was on his side was something that could finally unseal it.
The Auctioneer appeared then, stepping onto the crystalline stage in a flowing crimson dress. Her voice, amplified by runes, carried effortlessly across the hall.
"Honored guests," she began, her tone silken and dangerous. "Welcome to tonight’s Auction of Shadows. As always, your identities remain secure, and discretion is guaranteed. You are free to bid as you desire, and tonight’s lots will not disappoint."
The hum of greed grew louder.
Michael tightened his grip on the pouch of Ren.
Here we go.
The moment the Auctioneer’s words faded, the underground hall stirred with a different kind of energy.
Whispers spilled across the balconies, overlapping like a river of silk, carrying names and rumors, speculation and intent. Michael leaned slightly forward in his booth, his gaze sweeping over the crowd below.
Even cloaked in enchanted curtains and masks, the atmosphere betrayed them.
Nobles.
The way some leaned back in their padded seats with arrogance thicker than their perfume. Their gestures precise, movements restrained, as though even a bid was beneath them. Rings glimmered on their fingers, enchanted crests stitched into their robes.
Mercenaries.
Clustered in small groups, some still in armor scarred from battle. Their masks didn’t hide the restless tapping of fingers against hilts or the scarred knuckles of their hands. These were the kinds who killed without hesitation, then drank the night away.
Scholars and merchants.
Recognizable by their silence. They spoke less, observed more. Their masks gleamed with alchemical lenses, runes etched faintly across their robes. They were here not for show, but for acquisition knowledge, rare materials, secrets that could be turned into profit.
And then there were the unknowns.
A few solitary figures stood out. One in particular, cloaked in violet, gave off no mana presence at all—completely muted, as if the person didn’t exist. Another had a beastskin draped across their shoulders, sharp claws peeking out from beneath their sleeve. The kind of individuals that even nobles gave space to.
Michael’s hand curled over the pouch of Ren at his side.
This isn’t a marketplace. It’s a battlefield. And everyone here is armed.
The curtain shifted slightly behind him, as though brushing against unseen eyes. The Loki Mask’s runes hummed, ensuring his illusion held firm. But Michael knew better than to feel comfortable. This was a hall of predators. One slip, one wrong move, and someone would tear his mask—and his life—away.
"Remember why you’re here," he muttered quietly to himself, grounding his focus. "Potions. Tools for survival. Don’t get greedy."
Darken hummed faintly where it leaned against the booth wall, its sealed presence brushing his senses.
And yet... a part of him couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight, something important waited for him.
The crystalline stage pulsed with light as the Auctioneer raised her hand.
"Our first lot of the evening—an adventurer’s essential. A Regeneration Elixir, brewed from Moonpetal extracts and refined under continuous mana compression." ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ novel✦fire.net
She gestured, and two attendants carried forward a crystal case. Inside shimmered a vial of liquid silver-blue, faintly glowing, almost alive.
"This elixir accelerates healing beyond the natural limit. Flesh, tendon, bone—regrown in minutes instead of weeks. It even restores stamina lost in prolonged combat."
The audience rippled. Michael felt the weight of a dozen gazes sharpen at once.
"Opening bid: 200,000 Ren."
Without hesitation, numbers lit up on the crystalline consoles of nobles across the chamber.
"Two hundred fifty."
"Three hundred."
"Three eighty."
The numbers climbed so fast it made Michael’s stomach tighten. The potion was invaluable, yes but already the bids soared into the millions.
"Two point three million!" shouted a voice from below, masked but booming.
The Auctioneer’s lips curled into a knowing smile. "Do I hear two point four?"
Michael leaned back, exhaling.
So that’s the scale here. These people are bleeding money like water.
He didn’t bid. Not yet. He needed the Regeneration Potion, but he wasn’t about to reveal his hand on the first lot.
The potion sold at 3.1 million Ren.
Michael’s fingers twitched. That was nearly a tenth of his funds gone for a single vial. And yet, the mercenary who claimed it laughed loudly, as if he’d stolen it for free.
The second lot appeared.
"Titan’s Blood Potion," the Auctioneer purred. "A battle buff of the highest order. For three minutes, your strength surges by thirty percent. Muscles harden, bones fortify, strikes become overwhelming. Side effects include minor exhaustion but in the heat of combat, would that matter?"
The case shimmered open, revealing a vial of crimson liquid that pulsed like a living heart.
"Opening bid: 150,000 Ren."
This time, Michael’s eyes sharpened.
A buff potion like that wasn’t just useful—it was life-saving. Perfect for someone still fighting above his rank.
Bids rose.
"Two hundred."
"Three hundred."
"Four hundred."
Michael slid a chip into the console. The crystal glowed faintly.
"Five hundred."
The Auctioneer’s voice rang, clear: "Five hundred thousand from the gentleman in Booth Twelve."
Michael’s heartbeat quickened. Heads turned, voices whispered.
"Who’s Twelve?"
"Not one of the central families..."
"Mask looks cheap. Maybe a mercenary?"
Michael’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t afford to stand out—but he also couldn’t afford to let this potion slip.
"Six hundred," a noblewoman countered smoothly, her voice dripping disdain.
Michael’s pulse hammered. He added another chip.
"Seven hundred."
The woman laughed softly, waving her hand. "Eight hundred."
Michael hesitated. The Loki Mask kept his expression hidden, but his fingers trembled. Was this worth it? Eight hundred thousand for three minutes of borrowed power?
Yes. For me, it is.
He pushed again.
"Nine hundred."
The Auctioneer’s eyes gleamed, clearly enjoying the duel.
The woman tilted her head, then reclined with a shrug. "Fine. It’s yours."
Michael let out a silent breath as the gavel rune struck.
"Sold! To Booth Twelve, for nine hundred thousand Ren."
The case was sealed and marked with his booth’s crest. It would be delivered after the Auction.
Michael leaned back, forcing calm into his lungs. Almost a million gone already.
But the potion was his. A weapon for survival.
He whispered under his breath, "Worth it."
The Auction continued. Rare alchemical reagents, enchanted trinkets, even monster cores. Each sold for sums that made Michael’s head spin. He chose carefully—passing on luxuries, focusing on essentials. Another buff potion. A lesser regeneration salve. A stock of antidotes.
All while keeping his balance discreet, never pushing too hard.
And then—
The Auctioneer’s tone shifted, just slightly.
"Our next lot is... unusual."
A case was brought forward. Inside rested what appeared to be a dull, grey stone, roughly the size of a fist. Its surface was jagged, unimpressive, faintly glimmering with mana but otherwise inert.
Murmurs spread. Confused, dismissive.
"An uncut Mana Stone?"
"Looks defective."
"Who would waste a slot on that?"
The Auctioneer smiled knowingly. "This artifact was recovered from a collapsed ruin in the Southern Wastes. Initial inspection deemed it unstable and unfit for enchantment. Yet some scholars insist it carries... peculiar properties. Its resonance does not match that of normal stones."
"Opening bid: 50,000 Ren."
The hall chuckled. Few paid it mind. For nobles dripping with wealth, it was a curiosity, not treasure.
But Michael froze.
His eyes widened behind the Loki Mask.
That stone...
Not a mana stone. Not defective.
He’d seen it before.
A Sealing Gem.
In the game, it was an obscure material, overlooked by nearly every player. Its description was vague, its uses hidden. But Michael remembered the forums, the min-maxers who tested everything, the buried guides that only hardcore grinders dug up.
Sealing Gems. Used to unlock weapons bound by ancient contracts. One of the few keys to breaking Darken’s chain.
His gaze flicked to the sword leaning against the wall. The sealed blade almost seemed to pulse in recognition, its presence faintly stirring.
Michael swallowed hard.
The crowd ignored the stone. One mercenary scoffed, "Useless junk." A noblewoman fanned herself. "Let the alchemists squabble."
No one bid.
The Auctioneer’s smile faltered. "No interest? Very well, the lot will be"
Michael’s hand shot to the console.
"Fifty thousand."
The crystal lit.
Voices murmured. Not with greed this time, but amusement.
"Booth Twelve again?"
"He buys everything."
"What’s he going to do, throw the rock at someone?"
Michael ignored them. His pulse thundered in his ears.
The Auctioneer raised a brow. "Fifty thousand. Any higher?"
Silence.
"Going once... going twice..."
Michael’s grip tightened, sweat dampening his palm.
"Sold. To Booth Twelve."
The gavel rune struck.
And Michael knew his night had just changed.
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