The night is calm, the sea flat enough that the oars barely make a sound. Our small boat drifts toward a jagged silhouette on the horizon — an island that looks more like a shard of stone than a place anyone should live on.

I sit opposite Lancelot, arms crossed, watching him fidget with his coat collar. "You're lucky I paid those debts," I say. "If the collectors had reached you first, you'd be rowing this boat without hands."

He laughs nervously.

"Come on, Boss. It was an investment! The food was—"

"I've heard you already. Just… can you please notify me when the expenses balloon so much? I don't want another situation like this, Lancelot. First, we make the money, after you can spend it. Next time, I'm not letting you put it on my account and I'll tell the collectors to roast you alive."

He winces, then grins. "Fair. Fair. I'll write it down in my ledger of eternal gratitude."

The shoreline grows nearer. A single, narrow dock cuts into the rock. Small, hooded figures line the docking spot for us.

I've asked Elder Karl how to get access to the Hidden Market and he said that there's apparently an auction I can go to.

I thought he said before that this kind of auctions are usually for people with big Hidden Market privileges. Weird.

I flash a coin toward a the hooded figure and a second hooded guard steps forward seemingly from nowhere, inspects the coin, then peers at me as if he recognizes me from somewhere. He lets us pass without a word. I tuck the token back into my pocket and keep my face neutral.

A narrow stairway carved into the rock leads down. The air grows cooler, and the sound of waves fades until all I hear is our boots on stone. At the bottom, a heavy door waits, flanked by iron-eyed gargoyles and a slit where a barred window shows a pair of watchful, bored faces. The guard raps a pattern on the wood. A small grate slides open.

"Don't cause problems or you will be killed," the man simply says.

The grate snaps shut. The door swings open an inch and then yawns wide.

We step inside. The smell of the sea is replaced with spices, smoke, and the sharp tang of coin. Lanterns reveal booths packed close, sellers bent low over strange wares.

We slip deeper into the tunnels, where the air grows warm and the echo of trade fades into a steady hum. Every corner is another deal being whispered, another pouch of coins changing hands. Lancelot gawks like he's never seen money before—which is ironic, considering how fast he usually loses it.

I check my ledger as we walk, flipping open the small runic tablet Elder Karl gave me. The numbers make me stop for a moment.

"Something wrong?" Lancelot asks, craning his neck.

I shake my head slowly. "No. Just… I didn't realize how much we've actually made."

The partnership with Elder Karl has exploded faster than expected. Every week, the orders triple. Apparently, now more people trust our stuff.

Then there's the Platinum. I've been keeping what's left from the forging under lock and key—a pure, untainted mass, refined by Garin himself. Enough for one complete set of plate armor and a matching weapon. I had Elder Karl mention it to those who prepared the auction and I have to drop it off before the auction itself start since it's going to be part of the wares offered.

Lancelot whistles when he catches a glimpse of the total on the ledger.

"We're rich, Boss."

"For now," I mutter, tucking it away. "We've got big purchases to make. Let's go. The auction should be this way."

"So this is where the Hidden Market is. It's not that hidden."

"This is not it, apparently. Elder Karl said that the location is a tear into space. They just placed it here for the auction. The entrances change routinely. Tomorrow, this entrance will be gone."

"The entrance disappears?" Lancelot seems impressed. "Never heard of something like that."

"It's what Elder Karl said—I had never heard of something like that myself."

This whole sketchy tunnel system is apparently one of the ways the Hidden Market appears. There's, of course, more than one. The one we're currently browsing is for the so-called Noble Veins, Gold, Platinum, and Diamond. If you want to find Skills, artefacts, or general items meant for Ranks over Diamond, you'd have to browse other markets, not this one.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

We finally reach what looks like an amphitheatre from the outside and we see that there's quite the crowd in front of it. Before this, the crowds had been quite sparse.

There are at least a hundred people gathered outside—hooded traders, noble representatives, adventurers. All kinds of people, really.

As Lancelot and I step farther toward the amphitheater, starting to queue up in order to enter, I hear that unmistakable voice—loud, theatrical, and far too pleased with itself.

"Oh, no," I mutter under my breath. "Not here."

Lancelot glances at me. "What?"

Before I can answer, Marcel Valemont rounds the corner, draped in a luxurious purple cloak.

His usual smug grin widens when he spots me.

"Well, well, well," he says, spreading his arms as if we're old friends meeting by chance. "If it isn't cousin Jacob! I was wondering what kind of broke bastards the Hidden Market let in this season. A familiar one, it seems, this time."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Of all people."

Lancelot leans toward me, whispering, "That's the bald one, right?"

"Yes—well, there are two bald ones one. This is bald #1," I say.

Marcel's smile tightens. "I heard that. And for the record, it's growing back beautifully." He flicks his hair—or what little of it there is—and immediately looks irritated when his fingers meet scalp.

"What are you doing here?" I ask flatly.

He straightens, hands clasped behind his back like a noble making a proclamation. "Unlike some of us, I'm here as a buyer. I have accrued significant wealth lately and I plan on spending it. Of course, as a scion of Royalty, I have formed contacts that have given me access to the Hidden Market. And you, cousin? Have you stumbled your way here?"

"Business," I say.

"Of course. Buying scraps, I assume. Can't imagine you've got anything to sell that anyone here would want."

Marcel smirks wider, his voice dripping with mock pity. "Though I suppose it's sweet you're trying to keep up appearances. Tell me, cousin, did you pay your way in, or did someone mistake you for hired help?"

I stare at him. "You done?"

"Oh, not nearly," he says, laughing softly. "Honestly, Jacob, it's almost impressive—I can practically smell the poverty clinging to you."

Lancelot shifts, bristling.

"Careful, baldy."

Marcel rounds on him.

"You dare—"

We reach the entrance where a pair of guards stand under an arch of black stone, checking the silver tokens one by one. The crowd moves slow, orderly—until Marcel shoulders past me.

"Excuse you," I mutter.

He flashes his token with an exaggerated flourish. "Priority guest, cousin," he says loud enough for the nearby nobles to hear.

The guard inspects the emblem on his coin, nods once, and says, "Valemont, Marcel. Elevated seats, main floor. Straight down and to your right."

Marcel's grin spreads like oil. "Did you hear that? Elevated seats." He turns just enough to smirk at me. "Main area downstairs. Reserved for serious buyers, not—" his eyes travel over me and Lancelot "—tourists."

Lancelot opens his mouth, but I stop him with a small gesture.

A few passerby nobles pause at the words.

"Elevated seats?" one whispers. "That's impressive."

"Only the high bidders get those," another says. "He must have paid a fortune."

Marcel soaks it in, standing taller, enjoying the attention. He gives a shallow bow to the murmuring nobles before brushing an invisible speck of dust from his shoulder.

"Did we pay for tickets?" Lancelot asks.

I shrug, "not that I know?"

"How did we get access to this again?" Lancelot asks under his breath.

"Elder Karl?" I frown. "I don't know, actually. I know we get access to the Hidden Market, but… well."

"Try not to get lost in the gallery, cousin," he says as he strolls past the guards, the picture of smug nobility. "Let me hear where you got your seats, the gutter?"

As we wait in line behind Marcel, his three underlings huddle close and start whispering loud enough for everyone nearby to hear.

"Look at him," one says, his tone dripping with mock pity. "Still pretending to belong here after what he did to Valen."

Another laughs quietly. "Please, that wasn't a duel. Everyone knows he cheated—used some dirty Skill to drain Mana. Typical commoner trick."

"Yeah," the third adds. "His mother's probably paying the Market to let him in. House Valemont doesn't take kindly to family embarrassments."

Marcel smiles at their words, clearly pleased with the performance. "You see? Even the rabble remembers. A Valemont never forgets when someone soils the family name."

Lancelot mutters beside me, "I'm still wondering how that family name fits on his inflated head."

Marcel's grin freezes, but he smooths it back into place. "Careful, boy. It's bad manners to speak above your station."

I don't bother answering. I've heard worse. Instead, I take a small step forward as the guards begin checking tokens.

Marcel chuckles under his breath. "Don't worry, cousin. I'll wave to you from the good seats."

The guard turns the tokens over in his gloved hand, eyes widening slightly as he spots the insignia etched along the rim. His posture changes instantly—rigid, formal.

"Ah. My apologies, sir," he says, voice lowering a notch. "You and your guest are cleared for the Sapphire Tier seats—VIP access."

He straightens and bows deeply. "Please, follow the silver corridor to the left. The attendants will escort you to your section."

The nobles nearby freeze. Even Marcel stops mid-stride, his smirk faltering as the words sink in.

"VIP seats?" someone whispers behind me.

"That's the highest clearance—those are reserved for sponsors and foreign envoys."

"I didn't even know those existed at this auction."

Lancelot raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the shift in atmosphere. "Sapphire Tier, huh? Sounds fancy."

I tuck the tokens back into my pocket. "Apparently."

The guards step aside and bow again as we pass. Marcel just stands there, mouth half-open, color draining from his face.

I glance at him once, smile faintly, and say, "Guess we won't be sitting in the gutter after all. Do you want me to wave at you from the good seats?"

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