Before the auctioneer can finish announcing the first item, a ripple goes through the VIP lounge. A presence sharp enough to cut the silk-draped room in half enters through the northern balcony.

Sir Renquell steps through without hurry. His boots make no sound on the polished stone. His braid sways behind him, silver and steady, and his expression is carved from glass.

Every noble present stiffens. The auctioneer falters mid-sentence. A few in the room instinctively lower their heads.

The Elf doesn't sit.

He walks to the center of the VIP tier and looks straight at Veyl.

"You've disgraced your kin."

Veyl's eyes flash. He turns slowly, face twisting with restrained fury.

"You have no authority over me, Renquell."

"You represent the High Court, whether you like it or not," Sir Renquell says. "You disgrace our people by picking fights in a trade city over ego."

"I represent myself," Veyl snaps. "Not traitors. Not exiles."

The room goes silent.

Felisia's jaw tenses.

Adrienne, seated not far behind Veyl, says nothing—but her eyes flick toward Veyl with warning.

I glance between the two Elves, expecting Sir Renquell to unsheathe whatever divine thing he uses as a blade and reduce the brat to a smear across the marble.

But he doesn't.

Sir Renquell's lips thin. That's all.

He turns—not away from Veyl, but toward me.

"Do not accept his duel, Jacob Cloud," he says, voice as flat as a blade's edge. "He trained in our Capital. He's far from our best, but only the worthy are allowed to leave and roam the world. You're not ready yet."

I frown.

"He'll never be," Veyl snickers. "Are you so far gone you're tutoring miners now? You've fallen low, Renquell. Lower than I imagined."

Renquell doesn't react. His gaze is already moving, distant again, back to the window. "Let him bark."

Veyl smiles, not at him, but at me.

I tilt my head and I smile at him as I instinctively touch the dark bracelet at my wrist.

"I don't need to duel you now or at the start of the test, Veyl," I say. "I'll wait until after the Sky Hunt. I want an audience. I want to humiliate you first. Then, once everyone sees what you are—small, lucky, and unworthy—I'll offer you a clean fight. One duel. Life and death. And when I kill you, nobody will question it."

"How dare you?" Veyl says, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

"How I dare do what?" I say with a frown, getting up from my seat. "You say you'll gladly kill me, and after I offer the same you act like I'm the one crossing the line? Are you stupid?"

The tension coils through the auction house like a drawn bowstring.

Now, here's the thing: you might not know it, but the mines were full of shit talk. Every day was a powder keg. Guys got stabbed over drinking too much water or looking at the wrong pickaxe. So, yeah—I picked up a habit or two. Maybe I mouth off. Maybe I don't know when to stop.

But I usually try not to pick fights with people who could crush my spine with a single flick of the wrist. Usually.

This guy thinks he's hot shit? Fine. Let him come.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He's an Elf, sure.

Probably could kill me right now if he wanted.

But if he knew I was walking around with a Rainbow Skill in my head, he'd probably think twice. Or maybe not. Maybe he'd just skin me alive and auction off the shard. Depends on the type of creep.

Oops.

"You little—!" Veyl starts, stepping forward with murder in his eyes.

But this time, Sir Renquell actually moves. He catches Veyl by the collar, one hand, clean grip, and slams him into the ground hard enough to knock the breath from half the room.

The impact cracks through the auction tier like a dropped slab of marble. Even the floor groans.

Every head turns. Nobody expected that. Not from him.

Sir Renquell doesn't look angry. He doesn't even raise his voice. He just plants one boot beside the Elf's head and says, low and sharp, "I am forbidden from harming another Elf, or Human. But I am permitted to protect, enforce, and restrain. Those are the restrictions."

He's not talking to Veyl. He's talking to me.

But the entire room hears it.

Murmurs explode around us. Gasps. A few nobles choke on their wine.

"He just floored another Elf!"

"That's Sir Renquell? Isn't he supposed to be restrained by an oath?"

"What does this mean?"

More whispers crawl over the auction VIP room like snakes.

"He's going to die. Jacob Cloud is going to get himself killed."

"Veyl's an Elf. He's much stronger. He most likely has mastered a Platinum Skill already!"

"That rat just got lucky with that Dungeon. Maybe the Dungeon wasn't at full-power or something."

"Honestly, if the Crucible hadn't been dormant for so long, he wouldn't have cleared it. He just slipped through the cracks."

"Think he bribed the appraisers? There's no way that rat cleared a Shadow Mimic."

It takes another full minute for the noise to die down. But eventually, it does. The officials finally call for quiet. An attendant enters the VIP tier with a sealed note and passes it to Felisia.

She reads it, then hands it to me.

"This is the preliminary valuation," she says. "The appraisers tallied a conservative estimate—what the items would sell for at minimum. You've been granted a line of credit matching that number, so you can bid freely."

The number on the page makes my eyebrows go up.

Twenty platinum coins.

And some spare change.

Not bad.

Felisia leans closer. "And if you need more, I'll cover it. Guildmaster Dorn had to pay out most of his holdings. I made more gold off those bets than some nobles do in a year. I owe you."

The lights dim. A small magical spotlight casts down from the ceiling.

The first item is wheeled out on a black velvet cart: a longsword, ornate and clearly enchanted, shaped like a fang of lightning caught in a forge.

I blink once.

The Grimoire opens.

[Analyzing Item: Thunderbrand Longsword – Silver Rank – Offensive]

Base Damage Output: 73-98 HP

Mana Conductivity: 36%

Shock Trigger Delay: 0.9s

Flaw Detected: Inconsistent rune binding on outer sheath.

Flaw Detected: Internal core instability – potential for overload.

Flaw Detected: Residual charge misfire when Mana levels exceed 60%.

Verdict: Dangerous to low-skill users. Not suitable for duels or prolonged combat.

Recommended for salvage or refinement only.

I squint at it, confused. The blade's channels are beautiful. Almost too beautiful. The finish is clean, but the inner circuit is flickering with unstable current. The Grimoire says if you pump mana through it too fast, it'll arc in the wrong direction and blow your damn fingers off.

"What kind of idiot buys this?" I murmur under my breath.

I feel a movement. Then—

Clack.

The sound of a bidding paddle being raised.

Veyl.

The Elf raises his marker like he's claiming something that's already his.

I blink.

Oh.

He thinks I want the sword.

Because I was staring at it.

Idiot.

I glance at Felisia. She's biting back a laugh.

I don't miss a beat. I raise my hand.

"Fifty more," I call, voice calm.

Veyl glances at me. Narrows his eyes.

He lifts the paddle again.

I smile and raise mine again. Another twenty.

He hesitates this time, but lifts it once more, probably out of spite. I can't help myself. I toss in another ten—just enough to make it sting.

The gavel slams down.

"SOLD—to the honored guest from the Elven Capital. For one thousand, two hundred and forty-five gold."

Veyl looks like he swallowed a wasp.

I lean back in my seat, fold my arms, and grin.

He thinks I lost the bidding war.

He just bought a thunderbomb on a stick.

And the best part?

He can't pawn it off now. Everyone saw him bid.

Felisia nudges me.

"You're evil."

I nod.

"Only to idiots."

And the auction continues.

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