Sir Greyson and Felisia watch Jacob take the letter. He reads the name on the front, and his face goes through a string of expressions. At first, he doesn't look surprised at all. One eyebrow goes up, and in a flash, his mood shifts from mild annoyance to anger, then his whole face goes cold, hard as ice.

Jacob tries to tear the letter in half, but it won't even crease. Clearly, it's enchanted. He summons Hell's Sword and starts hacking at it, burning the thing bit by bit under the stunned gaze of both Felisia and Sir Greyson.

"What are you doing?!" Felisia shouts. "Do you even know who that is?!"

But Jacob doesn't reply. He looks furious.

Even with a Gold-ranked Skill, it takes him almost five minutes to destroy it.

That's how strong the materials are.

Felisia watches, arms folded.

"What just happened?" she asks, almost annoyed that Jacob hasn't just opened the letter.

For the first time since he's come here, Sir Greyson sees Jacob actually get angry at Felisia. Jacob shoots her a glare and says, "It's none of your business."

Everything had gone smoothly up to this point, with both growing closer and closer. They have spent the last three days training together, every morning and every afternoon. Jacob has been instructing Felisia on her Class, pointing out weaknesses, and recommending two Skills she should pick up next. Sir Greyson doesn't understand how the kid knows so much. He still wonders if the story about Jacob's secret master is actually true.

Now, it's the morning of the auction. They leave Felisia's estate and head to the market. Jacob walks like nothing bothers him, but Sir Greyson can tell he's still tense after the letter. Felisia looks all business, hair tied back, chin high.

When they reach the auction house, they see a commotion outside. People crowd in a tight circle, all trying to catch a glimpse of someone at the center. As the crowd parts for Felisia and Sir Greyson, Jacob expects to see one of Felisia's older sisters or maybe Sir Renquell, but instead, there is someone new.

An Elf stands at the center. He looks even younger than Sir Renquell and wears plain green and brown Empire clothes. The only thing that stands out is a sword at his hip, a gold-decorated blade that glints silver in the morning light.

Felisia narrows her eyes. "Who's that supposed to be?" she mutters.

Jacob shakes his head. "No idea. But look at the way everyone's staring."

The Elf meets their eyes and grins, looking from Felisia to Sir Greyson. "You must be the youngest Clearwater lady," he says, loud enough for the crowd to hear, his tone just shy of mocking.

Felisia lifts her chin. "You speak to me far too freely. Name yourself."

He dips his head a finger's width.

"I am Veyl."

Felisia keeps her voice level.

"Welcome to Clearwater, Veyl. State your business."

"I serve your eldest sister. I will enter the Sky Hunt at her side." He lets the title "lady" roll out with open scorn.

Sir Greyson moves up.

"Show respect. You address Lady Felisia Clearwater."

Veyl's gaze sharpens. "Do not label me 'young man,' peasant descendant. I came for work, not manners. If this girl plans to take the duke's place, I shall enjoy proving which house holds real strength."

Felisia's temper flares. "You insol-"

He reaches as if to brush her cheek aside. His fingers hover an inch from her face.

Jacob steps between them before he finishes the swing. His chest meets his palm, and he stops short. A breath later everyone see shock flicker in the Elf's eyes.

The auction house square is packed, every eye on the standoff. Veyl stands there with his smug grin, arms crossed like he owns the place. Felisia's face is red, her fists clenched at her sides—she's never been talked down to like this, not in her own city. The crowd murmurs, sensing the tension, but nobody steps in. Elves are rare, and this one's got the air of someone who could back up his words.

Felisia already had a spat with Jacob this morning, which soured her mood.

But then, the same guy who completed the Crucible against all expectations, the same guy who screamed at her, steps between her and Veyl without thinking twice.

"Move aside, vermin. Your presence ranks far below mine."

"Hey kid," Jacob says, "about you move aside and put your filthy hands away from the lady I serve. You're participating in the Sky Hunt, right? Good for you, kid. We'll meet there."

The crowd goes dead silent. A few gasps ripple through—nobody talks to an Elf like that, especially not some no-name adventurer who's barely been in the spotlight for a week.

Veyl was not expecting someone to talk him like that.

"Excuse me? What did you just call me?" the Elf asks, putting a hand on his sword.

"You heard me, kid, move," Jacob smiles at the Elf. "Chop-chop. We've got shopping to do."

Veyl's grin fades. His eyes narrow, flicking over Jacob like he's sizing up a bug.

"And who are you supposed to be?" he asks, voice dripping with contempt. "Some servant? A hired blade? Step aside before you embarrass yourself."

"Young Jacob," Sir Greyson says from behind. "Elves are dangerous. Do not start anything."

* * *

I don't budge.

He's probably strong, isn't he?

But when I analyze him with the Grimoire, I can't see any Skill active.

Strong but nothinig incredible.

"The Sky Hunt is in a week," I say. "I will be with Felisia. You're with Adrienne, right?"

He almost recoils at the casual way I'm addressing him.

The crowd erupts in whispers.

"Wait, that's him—the kid who beat the Elite Dungeon!"

"Heard he killed a Shadow Mimic!'

"He's the miner kid with a secret identity that killed Julius Shellford!"

Veyl's expression shifts from annoyance to mild interest, but the arrogance doesn't leave. He laughs, short and sharp.

"A miner playing adventurer? How quaint. But luck runs out, boy. Back off, or I'll make an example of you right here. You're nothing. Not royalty, not a noble. You're just a fly in my eyes."

Before anything else can happen, someone comes from the auction hall, interrupting the spat between us and Veyl.

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He eyes us, then blocks the way with a raised hand.

"Lady Felisia, the VIP room is ready for you. You're cleared, as always, but... him?" The official glances at me, then at Felisia. "Rumors say his loot's suspect. Forged Dungeon items. He has no funds to back his bids. Can't let dead weight into the VIP room. House rules."

The words hang in the air, drawing stares from the merchant crowd nearby. Whispers ripple out.

Is this Guildmaster Dorn? I wonder.

Sir Greyson told me just how much money the man lost because of me. I wouldn't put it beside him to try and mess with me like this.

Felisia stiffens, her face flushing with anger.

"Dead weight? This is Jacob Cloud, the one who just cleared the Smoldering Glass Crucible. His loot is genuine, and I guarantee his funds."

The official smirks, unmoved.

"Guarantees don't pay for seats, milady. And with the rumors... best he stays in general seating. Or prove the loot's real."

The crowd watches, some snickering, others murmuring in agreement. I feel the heat of humiliation rise—not for me, but for Felisia. She's staked her reputation on me, and now they're dragging her down too.

Righteous anger boils in my chest.

She had sent my items to be appraised, but clearly someone is messing with us.

I step forward, keeping my voice calm.

"You know what? Just bring me to the appraisers. I'll help."

The official blinks, caught off guard. Felisia shoots me a look, but I nod reassuringly. The crowd's whispers grow louder as the official shrugs and waves us toward a side door leading to the appraisal hall.

* * *

The appraisal hall is a chaotic mix of tables laden with items, appraisers in spectacles hunched over glowing runes, and merchants haggling in low tones. The official leads us to a central platform where a group of senior appraisers—elderly men and women with sharp eyes—examine a pile of rune plates from my loot.

Guildmaster Dorn stands nearby, arms crossed, a smug grin on his face.

It was him, then. He's come to gloat. He lost a lot of money and doesn't want me to profit from the Dungeon.

Veyl lingers in the shadows, his gaze cold and calculating.

As we approach, Veyl steps forward, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Ah, the miner and his dead weight patron. Fitting you'd show up to peddle fakes." He gestures to the rune plates. "Look at these—telltale flaws in the etching. Uneven mana flow, mismatched symbols."

The appraisers nod uncertainly, murmuring agreement. The crowd around us—merchants, nobles, even some adventurers—watches with bated breath, the humiliation sinking deeper. Felisia's fists clench, her face a mask of controlled fury. I feel the sting for her; this isn't just about me anymore.

I stay silent, letting the sneers build.

Guildmaster Dorn chuckles, Veyl lists more "flaws"—overly symmetric runes, inconsistent glow, signs of artificial aging. The appraisers seem convinced, ready to declare the lot fake.

That doesn't look like what I gave them. Something is up.

I step forward and plant both hands on the table so every rune plate sits between me and the appraisers. I let the silence thicken, staring down at the old men and women until their confidence starts to fray. I raise my voice enough that it carries to every corner of the hall.

"Let's start over. These plates came from the Smoldering Glass Crucible. I cleared the whole Dungeon, and everything looked good before they got here."

Without a word, I let the others keep talking and tune them out. I open the Grimoire in the back of my mind, let its script flicker across my vision in a quiet pulse only I can see.

Each rune plate glows in layers—surface etchings, internal flow, mana memory. I scan the nearest one. There's something off. The Grimoire highlights a thin film clinging to the carved symbols, like grease over glass. It isn't natural aging or wear. It's a deliberate smudge, a shallow coating of interference mana designed to disrupt pattern recognition spells. Cheap, dirty work. Not enough to damage the rune's actual core, but just enough to make them read as fakes to a casual appraisal.

The others don't see it. They can't. The tampering is too subtle.

One by one, I scan the rest. Every single plate has the same trick—thin, sticky patches of mana with just the right frequency to mute the authentic Dungeon seal. Someone smeared it on the runes. Maybe during the transfer. Maybe right here in this very room.

[Analyzing Rune Plate #1, Silver Rank]

The Grimoire lists it out like a ledger.

[Foreign mana trace: Type – Obfuscation / Grade – Diamond]

[Origin Signature intact beneath interference layer]

The Appraisers can't see it because this is too high grade for them. It must have been Guildmaster Dorn himself. He thinks I can't restore them and that's why he's so smug.

"There's a bit of forgery at play."

My words can be heard through a stunned silence.

One of the younger appraisers fidgets, sweat gathering at his brow. Guildmaster Dorn just leans in, smirking, but I ignore him. Veyl keeps his arms folded, but his grin has faded—he's waiting to see if the crowd buys it.

"He's implying someone messed with the loot?"

"That's a serious accusation."

"Who's he blaming, the Guild? The auction hall?"

"He's calling the entire appraisal process rigged!"

"Unbelievable—this brat shows up from a hole in the ground and accuses seasoned appraisers?"

"Someone should remind him where he is."

The eldest appraiser clears his throat, his eyes sliding from me to the rune plates.

"Calm down everyone, forgery's not unheard of. Even Knights have tried to pass off fakes before. If you're so sure, demonstrate their authenticity. If you have the Skill to clear a Dungeon, then you should have the Skill to prove what you've brought."

I smile.

"You'll get your proof."

I don't wait for another word. I reach for the nearest rune plate and press my palm to it. Architect's Insight flares behind my eyes, threading through my arms, overlaying the grooves and channels with shimmering blue. I focus on the smudged film of mana—just thin enough to coat the surface, just thick enough to hide the truth.

I don't use brute force. I don't need to.

I guide a stream of Fire Mana into the plate—low intensity, tight focus. The Grimoire shows me the weak points of the obfuscation layer, where the mana web is thinnest. I apply pressure exactly there. One short pulse, like flicking a match inside the seam of a lock.

The foreign mana peels back like burnt skin. The Grimoire pulses green.

[Obfuscation Layer Neutralized]

The rune beneath flares to life.

The crowd gasps. The appraisers freeze. The seal shines brighter than anything they've seen today.

I don't say anything. I just hold it up and let the glow speak for itself.

"Next," I say, and reach for the second plate.

Same process. Fire Mana through the fracture points. The coating bubbles, then vanishes. Another seal appears—same signature, same mark. The crowd shifts. The appraisers lean closer. One of them stumbles forward and starts whispering to the others.

I keep going.

Third plate, fourth, fifth. Every one burns clean. Every one carries the same Elite Signature, marked with system authority. My stack wasn't just real. It was the best drop you could get from that Dungeon.

The last rune finishes clearing, and I step back.

"The Skill Crystals are good, right? It was just this."

"Y—yes," the eldest appraiser manages to say in babbles.

I cross my arms.

"Anything else you'd like to accuse me of?"

The eldest appraiser's mouth opens and closes. He clears his throat and glances at the others.

"We… uh… we confirm the authenticity. These are genuine Elite Dungeon plates. Obfuscated by foreign mana, but—yes. Genuine."

The crowd doesn't go quiet. It erupts.

"He really proved it—what the hell?"

"That was system script. You can't fake that."

"Did he just erase a high-grade interference spell with basic Fire Mana?"

"Who the hell is this guy?"

"Wait, did you hear what the appraiser said? They were really tampered with?"

Veyl's smugness cracks, his eyes narrowing.

Guildmaster Dorn's grin fades to a scowl.

Felisia straightens, a spark of triumph in her gaze.

"He's accusing the Guild of sabotage!"

"He tampered with it himself and made it look like someone else did!"

"This is dangerous. He's got no respect for the system."

"Just because he's strong doesn't mean he can make enemies like this."

"He should be thrown out of the city for talking like that in public."

I ignore every word. I look straight at Dorn.

He won't meet my eyes.

"Felisia," I say without turning. "Let's go, I really want to see this VIP room."

* * *

The VIP room sits above the auction floor. The seats are soft velvet, and tables hold wine glasses. The air smells like incense and rich perfume. Through the big windows, we see the stage below where auctioneers test their hammers. Attendants bring in covered items, and the crowd downstairs murmurs.

There's Adrienne and Calatha, Felisia's sisters here.

Felisia sits next to me, still excited from what happened.

"That was smart," she whispers. "You flipped their plan on them."

I nod and look around. Other VIPs—merchants in nice clothes, nobles with family badges—glance at us. They talk quietly about what just went down.

Veyl comes in last. His face is angry. He sits across from us and stares hard at me. Then he leans to an official and says something. His words are loud enough for us to hear.

"This won't stand. In the Sky Hunt's first hour, I call a life-and-death duel against Jacob Cloud. The gods can judge him."

The room gasps. Talks stop. Felisia grabs her chair arm tight. I look back at Veyl without blinking.

Down below, the auctioneer starts the first item.

But up here, everyone watches us.

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