The lights brighten again, signaling the second half of the auction. The amphitheater hums back to life as attendants move more crates onto the stage.

I sit forward slightly, waiting. More Skill Crystals, enchanted items and other things that I do not care about since King Baalrek revealed the magnitude of the item that had been hauled around.

The voice of the announcer blends in the background as I just keep staring at the metal case tha contains what I'm looking for.

For a while, I just listen. Watching the flow of numbers, the glow of greed and wonder on everyone's faces.

The lights shift again, and a new case is brought onto the stage—smaller than the ones before, but brighter. Even sealed in its enchanted glass, it gleams spectacularly.

The announcer raises his hands, voice ringing with excitement. "Our next lot, ladies and gentlemen, is not an artifact, nor a Skill Crystal—but something rarer still: refined Platinum, personally smelted in the forges of Master Rafnov himself!"

The room collectively inhales. The chatter dies instantly.

"Rafnov," the announcer continues, pacing with slow reverence, "the Great Miner. The Titan-born artisan, a master among masters of Primordial Magic. Many of you will recall his greatest creations—tools and weapons that still defy rank classification to this very day. Anything bearing his touch is a legend."

Every eye in the amphitheater is locked on the glowing mass of platinum.

From the VIP section, I can feel everyone's attention shift—to me.

Boomgar's chewing stops mid-bite. "Wait a minute," he says, looking from the stage to me. "Didn't you—"

"Yes," Zibrek interrupts, eyes narrowing as realization hits her. "That's your batch, isn't it?"

Asterion turns his head, calm but curious. "Jacob?"

I lift my hands in mock surrender. "Before anyone gets angry, that's just spare Platinum left over from the forging. Yours are still being finished. This is what didn't make it into the sets."

Nimirea eyes me like I've just confessed to stealing a god's crown. "You had leftover Rafnov Platinum?"

I shrug. "What was I supposed to do? Throw it away?"

"And when are the armors going to be ready?" Iskara asks, folding her arms.

Before I can answer, the announcer continues, clearly building suspense. "Now, this particular ingot of Rafnov Platinum has been tested and verified by the Market's arbiters. Its mana density is the highest ever recorded for its grade, bordering on early Diamond-class resonance. It is, without question, the pinnacle of refinement for any Platinum-ranked craftsman or Champion."

The hall goes completely silent again. Then the announcer drops the number.

"Starting bid: forty Diamond Coins!"

The words echo like thunder.

Lancelot actually chokes. "Forty?!"

Even the Champions stare.

I just lean back, watching the hall erupt into noise again as the first bids start flying. Forty Diamonds, fifty, fifty-five—each higher than the last, each met with rising astonishment.

It settle around sixty-three.

"Such a set would be able to change the course of a life of a merchant's son. They don't care much about the higher Ranks. But imagine you had a child with middling talent," Asterion explains, sighing. "If you could provide your child with something as powerful as a set forged with Rafnov's Platinum, how much would your son's fortunes change in the moment?"

"Not everyone is aiming for the Mythic Veins," Vyrrak nods. "I guess this obscene price makes sense."

I don't really have much to add ot such a conversation other than the fact that I'm extremely happy that the price reached such a number. I couldn't really be happier than this, honestly.

A few more items go by while I observe the Champions bid on this or that thing—nothing too impressive. A few more Draconic Skill Crystals come up and I snatch them all up for Lancelot.

My Squire will need them all if we're to tackle the Heartspire and, before that, the Dungeon that my mother gave me access to.

Then the announcer clears his throat. "And now," he says, his tone shifting to something quieter, almost reverent, "we come to one of our last pieces of the evening."

Something about his voice makes my shoulders tense. I sit up straight.

The attendants bring out a long, narrow case made of aged steel. It's heavy—so heavy that even with three men, they struggle to set it on the pedestal. The moment it hits the stage, I feel it. A pulse, faint but familiar.

The announcer continues. "This artifact was recovered from a collapsed ruin beneath the southern ranges. The runes date back to the pre-Ascension era, possibly before the Age of Kings. The item itself…" He gestures, and the lid opens. Inside lies the hilt of a sword—worn, cracked, but unmistakably crafted with purpose and power. "…is believed to have once belonged to an immensely powerful being. Unfortunately, the Mana signature has been degraded beyond recognition, and no reliable identification could be made."

My breath catches.

That's yours, right? That's what you said.

Yes. His tone deepens, the calm giving way to something fierce and possessive. Even broken, even defiled by time, that hilt was once part of my blade. My very sword, Jacob Cloud.

King Baalrek had mentioned that before—that this is the hilt, and a few shards of the blade, of what used to be his sword. I have no idea how this made all its way here, honestly, but I'm not going to let this go—no matter what.

The announcer goes on, unaware. "Usually, an artifact of this antiquity would be reserved for the higher-tier auction, but given its degraded state, it has been classified as a Diamond-tier collector's piece. A relic, rather than a functional weapon."

Fools, King Baalrek growls, the air around my mind darkening with his fury. Even ruined, my sword remains what it was. My legacy, my power, condensed into steel. They have no idea what they're holding.

Down below, the announcer gestures dramatically as the lights shift toward the hilt.

"Given the artifact's age, craftsmanship, and unknown potential, the bidding will begin at fifty Diamond coins!"

You must claim it, King Baalrek says. At all costs.

You're 100% sure that's yours? That's A LOT of money.

Utterly. A pause, deep and dangerous. They call it a relic, but that hilt once drew the breath from armies. To see it paraded as trinket…

And here I thought I would get out of the auction with some money in my pockets. It seems like I'm soon going into debt again.

A hand goes up in the first tier. "Fifty-five."

Another follows. "Sixty."

The bidding catches momentum, the numbers keep rising.

"Sixty-five."

"Seventy."

"Seventy-five."

My eyes almost pop.

"Eighty!" a noble shouts from the back.

"Eighty-five!"

"Why's this going so fast?" I swear under my breath.

"With an artifact like that, there's a big chance it's severely undervalued. To sell something mysterious like that, the owner must have incurred money problems, otherwise they'd never get rid of it until they could actually identify whom it belonged to. When it comes to such mysterious artifacts, they're bets. And some nobles love these bets. If you win one, you could change the fate and Karma of your entire bloodline."

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Vyrrak leans forward, his scales shimmering faintly. "It's calling to someone," he mutters. "There's something in its signature that's reaching out. My Draconic heritage is telling me there's a bond here."

Asterion arches an eyebrow.

"In a room full of, at best, Diamond Rankers? Are you sure?"

"I am," Vyrrak mutters.

"Eighty-nine!"

"Ninety!"

The announcer's voice rings with excitement. "Ninety Diamond coins!"

Asterion shakes his head. "That's enough to arm a small kingdom."

The crowd is still buzzing when the next call rises.

"Ninety-five!"

The announcer grins wide, eyes sparkling under the lanterns. "Ninety-five Diamond coins! Do I hear one hundred?"

I rub my face, feeling the money leaving my soul.

I'm going to be so broke…

Lancelot leans closer, his voice barely a whisper. "Boss. Tell me you're not—"

Now that the price almost reached one-hundred, the audience has calmed down. This is a monstrous price for this type of auction.

"One hundred," I say, trying to keep my composure.

"One hundred and three!" someone else shouts immediately.

But King Baalrek's voice fills my head before I can answer.

You will not let them take it, Jacob Cloud. That hilt is MINE. Reclaim it. You have no idea what kind of power it will allow you to wield once you get your hands on it! You think these Champions are strong?! HAH! With my sword you will cut them down like a dagger goes through wet paper!

I don't know how a dagger goes through wet paper, I say, puzzled.

It's an expression! You're about to witness the most destructive weapon that has ever existed and the power will be yours to wield! Soon, my disciple will terrorize the world!

You meant save the world, I tell King Baalrek.

Same thing, it doesn't matter. Terrorize monsters, Evil Gods… whatever. Just buy it!

"One hundred and ten," I say.

The Champions all look at me in amazement and, partially, disgust at the amount of money I'm throwing away.

"You Runic-Notation-making-son-of-a—" Boomgar is cut off when someone shouts.

"One hundred and thirteen!"

This better be as powerful as you claim it to be, King Baalrek.

Jacob Cloud, when have I ever given you the impression of being a liar?!

Didn't you literally try and trick me the first time we met and put me through dozens of puzzles thinking they would kill me? You had to swear that you wouldn't try and get me killed—and that's only because you needed my help to have Iskara fully integrate Lucifer's Veins.

I only hear meaningless chatter! Actions matter! My actions spoke loud and clear!

Arguably, I think to myself. But I don't feel like arguing with King Baalrek at the moment. If that's really the hilt of the sword he used to wield, I'd be more than inclined to buy even if he wasn't pestering me.

"One twenty," I say, closing my eyes.

"Do we have all that money?" Lancelot whispers to me.

"I asked Elder Karl for a line of credit in case I needed to buy something big. We're already in debt."

"One thirty!" Someone shouts and my eyes almost start watering.

Can't you have some pity on me?! Do you know how much my Squire eats?! What am I, a bank?!

"One fifty," I say and this time everyone goes silent, making me sigh in relief.

The silence stretches long enough that I almost forget to breathe. Every eye in the amphitheater is on me again — nobles, merchants, even the auction staff, all staring like they can't decide if I'm a lunatic or a legend.

The announcer finally finds his voice, clearing his throat with visible effort. "One hundred and fifty Diamond coins… from Jacob Cloud, the Fake Champion!"

The words roll through the hall like thunder. A few people actually stand up to look at me, whispering to one another in disbelief.

"Did he say one-fifty?"

"He's out of his mind!"

"That's enough to buy a fortress!"

Asterion lets out a low whistle. "You've made quite the purchase, Jacob. I didn't take you for such a big spender."

"Me neither," I reply, grimacing. "I… wish I didn't have to spend so much money. But…"

"Why did you buy that?" Vyrrak eyes me suspiciously. "I've got my own reasons," I say cryptically.

Lancelot groans beside me, slumping into his chair. "Boss, when Elder Karl ever sees the bill, he's going to chain you to the library."

"Yeah, he is," I sigh. "But… listen, I'll explain at some point. Just trust me on this. We needed that."

You did well, Jacob Cloud, King Baalrek's voice rumbles in my head, warm and proud. You've reclaimed what is rightfully mine. When the time comes, that hilt will answer only to you.

The announcer takes a steady breath before raising his voice once more. "And with that, honored guests, tonight's auction concludes. We thank you for your presence and your enthusiasm. For those seated in the upper halls, refreshments are being served while our staff deliver the purchased items to their rightful buyers. Those in the general galleries, please proceed to the counter to finalize your payments and claim your lots."

A polite wave of applause spreads through the amphitheater. The noise is thinner now—most people are still reeling from the numbers tossed around in the last few bids.

I stay seated, hands clasped, waiting. It doesn't take long before two guards step through the sapphire-tier doors, each carrying sealed cases layered in protective wards.

"Jacob Cloud, the Fake Champion?" one of them asks.

I nod. "That's me."

They bow slightly, setting the crates down on the low glass table. The runic seals flicker in recognition. "Verification confirmed. Payment required."

I pull a pouch from my belt and place it on the table. The heavy clink of Diamond Coins echoes through the quiet room. Then I slide over a folded paper slip marked with a crimson seal.

"The remainder is on Elder Karl's personal account," I say.

The guards exchange a look, nodding quickly once they check the seal. "Confirmed," one of them says, bowing again. "All items are now your property, Champion."

They leave without another word.

For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the cases. Several Skill Crystals including the Infernal Well, the other three Infernal Skills, and the Draconic Skills for Lancelot.

Then, the fragments of a sword older than time. All of it mine.

I reach for my Interspatial Ring—the same dark-silver band Master Rafnov gave me after the Platinum Golem trial. The grooves along it still pulse faintly with my mana as I run a thumb over the etched lines.

"Still serving me well, old man," I murmur, and begin storing everything. Each case disappears into light until only the largest one remains.

The giant metal casing hums faintly, as if aware of what's inside. I undo the locks, layer by layer, until the last latch clicks open. The lid hisses, releasing a breath of air that smells like iron and ash.

Inside lies the hilt.

It's black—darker than any metal I've ever seen—veined with faint traces of red and gold that pulse like molten threads beneath the surface. The grip fits perfectly into my palm, the weight solid but not heavy, as though it recognizes me.

I can feel the faint beat of mana still trapped inside it, like a sleeping heart trying to wake.

Welcome home, King Baalrek whispers, the words so deep they tremble through my bones. Now, we begin again! HAHAHA! Jacob Cloud, you have no idea how much power you're about to wield!

Ok, how do I activate the sword?

"Is that the thing you paid so much for?" Nimirea frowns. "It doesn't look like it works."

"Cloud," Vyrrak harrumphs, "you're connected to that. What else are you hiding from us?"

"I would like to know as well," Iskara says, making her claws click against each other.

Now, Jacob Cloud, King Baalrek says, his voice deep and reverent. Channel your mana into it. Let it remember what it was.

I grin. Been waiting for this. With how much I had to pay for it, it better be as good as you said it is.

Its power is beyond your wildest imagination!

I start channeling my Mana into it.

I take a breath, close my eyes, and push. Mana floods from my core, flowing into the hilt. The veins blaze, red and gold flashing like lightning.

The air shifts. The runes etched in the walls flare to life. The temperature drops sharply as the energy thickens, pressing against my lungs.

Around the room, the others stiffen.

"Uh… Boss," Lancelot says, standing halfway up. "Why does it feel like the air's trying to kill me?"

Vyrrak's scales shimmer uneasily.

"This pressure..."

Boomgar blinks. "You gonna blow us up, or is that normal?"

The mana pulse grows until the entire room hums like a living engine. I can barely hear over the roar of it, the crimson veins burning bright enough to cast shadows on the walls—

Then it just… stops.

The light flickers out. The pressure vanishes.

Silence.

I stare at the hilt in my hand. It looks perfectly normal again.

King Baalrek clears his throat softly in my head.

Ahem. Perhaps… it needs a moment to wake up.

I blink.

You mean it just—turned off?

Not off, he insists quickly. Merely… dormant. Try again.

I sigh and channel mana again. The light returns, brighter this time—roaring heat, thrumming power, the entire ring of runes in the walls igniting—

—and then nothing. The glow snuffs out like a candle in a storm.

Lancelot whistles. "Boss, is it broken?"

"Maybe it's just shy," I say through my teeth.

You said this was going to make me stronger than the other Champions!

Well, it would have…. Perhaps it needs just one more try to be jumpstarted.

I roll my shoulders, grit my teeth, and push my mana into it again. The veins flare once, sputter… and die.

King Baalrek goes quiet.

"…So?" I ask after a beat.

Turn it off and on again.

I stare. "You want me to what?"

Just… a gentle reset.

I flick the hilt like it's a broken lantern. Nothing.

More silence.

Finally, King Baalrek sighs, and I swear I can feel the millennia of royal disappointment behind it.

Well. A long pause. Maybe it's a bit broken.

Perfect. I just spent one hundred and fifty Diamond coins on a sword-shaped paperweight.

A very-much LEGENDARY paperweight, King Baalrek corrects, tone dry. The hilt is a piece of art anyway. Your dorm could use some art anyway.

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