CHAPTER 70: AUCTION

Chapter 69 : Auction

The Academy was quiet at night. Too quiet.

Moonlight spilled across the cobblestone paths, silver shadows stretching long beneath the statues and trees. Patrol lights flickered in the distance—teachers in cloaks, their lanterns pulsing faintly with mana detection spells.

And in the middle of that silence, I slipped through.

Cloak drawn low, footsteps measured, heart steady. I moved with the calm rhythm of someone who had done this before, even though my body still ached faintly from the hospital. The faint aftertaste of blood lingered at the back of my throat. But my mind was sharp, clear.

I had a goal.

The System’s quests were finished, rewards claimed. My stats were climbing. My path was solidifying. And yet... it wasn’t enough.

The nobles were watching. The professors were whispering. Even Emily, Alice, and the rest of the Student Council had their eyes on me.

I needed an edge—something that let me move in shadows without being branded, something that let me slip between roles without leaving a trail.

That was why I was here.

The Loki Mask.

A trinket the world didn’t recognize, brushed aside as worthless. In the original timeline, Leon stumbled upon it by luck. But I wasn’t leaving this to chance. If I wanted to survive what was coming, if I wanted to be more than a pawn in other people’s games, then this mask was mine.

A flicker of lantern light grazed across the path ahead. I ducked behind a pillar, breath shallow. A teacher’s voice drifted, muffled by the wards.

"...nothing tonight. Patrol complete."

They moved on.

I let out a slow exhale, summoned Shadow Swap, and in an instant my body blinked across the path into the shade of an elm. My cloak settled silently around me, mana flow steady.

Good.

The gates of the Academy loomed not far off. Beyond them—the old quarter. And beneath the old quarter... the Black Market.

I smirked faintly. Let’s begin.

---

The old quarter smelled of dust and ale, its stone roads cracked and uneven compared to the polished marble of the Academy district. Here, lamplight flickered dimly, casting crooked shadows across worn taverns and boarded shops.

Normal citizens avoided this area after dark. Which meant it was perfect for what I sought.

My steps carried me to an unremarkable tavern—"The Broken Fang." A place so forgettable it was practically invisible.

Inside, the stench of beer and sweat hit me instantly. A handful of rough men hunched over cards, while a barmaid half-heartedly wiped the counter. No one paid me more than a glance. That was the point.

I crossed the room, ignoring the stale music playing from a cracked lute in the corner. At the far end, behind a row of barrels, a stairwell descended into darkness.

A large man stood at its mouth. Muscles like stone, tattoos crawling up his neck, eyes sharp with suspicion. His arms were crossed, and his gaze fixed on me the second I approached.

"Password."

His voice was like gravel dragged over steel.

I kept my hood low, lips curving faintly. This was the test. The Black Market changed its password daily, pulled from old proverbs twisted through history. I remembered it from the game. Tonight’s phrase...

"The crows fly," I said softly, "when the moon bleeds."

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then the man’s lips twitched, and he stepped aside. "Welcome to the Abyss."

The stairwell groaned underfoot as I descended. The air grew heavier, tinged with smoke, iron, and mana. At the bottom, a massive iron door waited, engraved with runes that pulsed faintly red. It hissed open as I approached, releasing a wave of heat and noise.

And then... the Black Market opened before me.

---

It was chaos. Beautiful, calculated chaos.

A vast underground hall stretched wide, ceilings high and jagged like a cavern. Torches burned with blue flame, casting eerie light across the stone. Merchants shouted from stalls packed with beast parts, glowing herbs, weapons humming with enchantments.

Cages rattled with creatures snarling—scaled wolves, half-blooded fiends, monsters I recognized from the Dungeon Index. Men in armor bartered, mercenaries drank, hunters sharpened their blades.

The stench of blood and coin filled the air.

I adjusted my hood, keeping to the crowd. The Loki Mask would be in the auction house deeper inside. But for now, I drank in the sight. So this is the underbelly of the world. A place where rules are written in blood and gold.

A stallkeeper shouted as I passed. "Dragonbone dagger! Rare stock! Cuts steel like butter!"

I ignored him. My steps carried me past slaves in chains—humans, demi-humans, even a captured elf. My stomach twisted, but I forced myself forward. Not now. Not yet.

The path curved, leading me toward a domed hall where velvet curtains hung heavy. Two guards flanked the entrance, checking tokens. I slipped my hand into my cloak and pulled out a bronze token—lifted from a drunk merchant earlier in the tavern.

The guard squinted, then grunted. "Inside."

I passed through.

The auction house was lit with crystal chandeliers, surprisingly elegant compared to the chaos outside. Nobles in masks sat at tables, glasses of wine in hand. Hunters leaned back in chairs, boots propped on tables. A stage stood at the center, curtains drawn.

I slipped into a seat at the back, folding my hands calmly.

Moments later, the auction began.

---

"First item!" the announcer boomed, voice dripping with charm. A woman in red unveiled a glowing crystal, pulsing with mana. "A C-rank beast core! Starting at five thousand Ren!"

Bids flew instantly.

"Seven!"

"Ten!"

"Fifteen!"

The item sold quickly. Another came, then another. Weapons, herbs, beast hides. I waited, silent, patient. My heart didn’t stir until I saw it.

"The next item!" The announcer grinned. A servant unveiled... a mask. Plain silver, unpolished, runes faintly etched across its surface. It looked... ordinary.

"This," the announcer laughed, "is a trickster’s relic. Said to confuse the eye, though its power is... questionable. A curiosity, if nothing else. Starting at three hundred Ren."

The crowd chuckled. A noble in the front waved lazily. "Four hundred. My daughter needs a toy."

"Five," someone else smirked.

I leaned forward, eyes sharp.

There you are.

"Five hundred."

The lazy voice of a noble echoed across the chamber. He was draped in velvet, mask shaped like a hawk, fingers tapping his glass of wine.

"Six hundred," another bidder smirked.

The auctioneer chuckled politely. "Six hundred! Do I hear seven?"

The room was half-bored, half-amused. The mask was being treated as a trinket. Nothing more.

I raised my hand. "Seven-fifty."

Heads turned slightly.

The hawk-masked noble leaned back in his chair, gaze sliding lazily toward me. "A child’s toy, my friend. Hardly worth anything." He lifted his hand again. "One thousand."

The auctioneer’s grin widened. "One thousand!"

The bids trickled higher. A few nobles joined, laughing, treating it as a game.

"Thirteen hundred!"

"Fourteen!"

"Fifteen!"

I raised my voice, steady. "Two thousand."

The room quieted a little. My bid had leapt too quickly. I could feel eyes on me, some curious, some irritated.

The hawk noble tilted his head. "Oh? Someone actually wants this?" His smirk deepened. "Three thousand."

My lips twitched faintly. Arrogant fool.

"Three thousand, going once!" the auctioneer sang.

I lifted my hand again. "Three thousand five hundred."

A murmur ran through the crowd.

The hawk noble’s smirk faltered. He leaned closer to the stage, studying the mask. "You’re paying this much for a piece of silver with scratches. Are you an idiot... or do you know something?"

Exactly the question I wanted him to ask.

I met his gaze calmly, hood shadowing my face. "You should ask yourself why I’d waste coin on it. Perhaps it’s cursed. Or perhaps it isn’t as useless as you think."

The noble’s face twitched. A curse? The last thing a pampered noble wanted was to bring a cursed relic into his home.

He clicked his tongue. "Tch. Not worth my time." He waved dismissively, leaning back into his chair.

Perfect.

The auctioneer scanned the room. "Three thousand five hundred, going once! ...Going twice! ...Sold!"

A gavel struck.

The mask was carried to me on a velvet tray. Plain silver, dull, almost unimpressive. Yet as I touched it, a faint hum brushed my fingertips. The runes flickered, subtle, as though breathing.

[Loot Acquired: Loki Mask (Epic)]

[Passive: Aura Concealment – Hides user’s mana signature and face recognition.]

[Passive: Trickster’s Veil – Lies cannot be detected by truth skills.]

A slow smile spread across my lips beneath the hood. Mine.

I slipped the mask into my cloak. Leon... in the original path, this edge was yours. Now, it belongs to me.

---

The auction dragged on, but I had what I came for. I stood, slipping toward the exit.

That was when I felt eyes on me.

Not the usual glances. Sharper. Calculating.

A man leaned against the wall near the corridor. Mid-twenties, maybe. Dark hair unkempt, coat frayed, shoes worn nearly to threads. Yet his eyes... sharp, hungry, desperate.

He stepped forward, blocking my path with a lopsided smile. "Interesting play, back there."

I stilled. "Move."

Instead of listening, he chuckled. "You bid like a man who knew something the others didn’t. Not many like that in this place."

I studied him carefully. His hands trembled slightly, but his gaze didn’t waver. Victor Arkwright.

The fallen genius. Once hailed as a financial prodigy, reduced to begging in the underworld after losing client fortunes. In the timeline, he’d rot here until he clawed his way back years later. But to me... he was an opportunity.

"What do you want?" I asked evenly.

He hesitated, then leaned closer, voice low. "I used to run investments. Stocks. Guild funding. I... lost it all. But I can see—" his eyes flickered, sharp despite the desperation, "—you’re not normal. You’ve got an eye for value. For potential."

He swallowed. "If you’ve got coin... I could help you turn it into more. A lot more."

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