Chapter 52

I spend the start of the auction doing exactly what everyone expects me to do: nothing. I sit back, arms folded, eyes half-lidded, and let the nobles and merchant brats throw money at garbage. A bronze-tipped spear, some half-shattered talismans, a bundle of rusty rings—none of it even gets a second glance from me. I wait. I keep my mouth shut and pretend I’m bored.

But when an item finally shows up that’s worth a look, I lean forward. Just a little. Not enough to seem desperate, just enough for the appraisers and the crowd to notice. It’s a ring—old, battered, and the mana lines flicker unevenly along the band. It’s flawed. I can see it at a glance. The Grimoire flickers in my mind, listing three major defects. The auctioneer doesn’t even know what he’s got. He reads the description and then shrugs, hoping for a bid.

I raise my marker, just to see who bites. I barely have to wait.

Veyl’s paddle slams down a second later. He doesn’t even look at the ring. He’s looking at me, lips curled, eyes bright with that Elven arrogance. He ups my bid by fifty gold, like he’s daring me to answer.

I don’t give him the satisfaction. I nod at the auctioneer to pass and settle back. Veyl raises his eyebrows, makes a show of sighing, and wins the item. The crowd mutters, not sure who came out ahead.

Next up, a Silver-rank brooch, covered in runes so sloppily inscribed I can see the failings from my seat. I don’t want it, but I act interested. I ask a question—how was it sourced? Any history of curse resistance? The auctioneer brightens, starts talking it up, and the whole room focuses on me. Veyl catches on immediately and bids before anyone else can.

I let the price climb. Every time he raises, I counter with just enough to make him sweat, but never enough to look committed. I keep the pressure on, make him chase me. By the time the hammer falls, he’s paid triple what the piece is worth, and I haven’t even lifted a finger.

The pattern repeats for the next hour. Every item I so much as glance at, Veyl outbids me. Sometimes I take it almost to the end—one time, I let the tension mount until the whole room is dead silent, watching us go back and forth. I scratch my chin, mutter about “potential for salvage,” and watch Veyl’s nostrils flare. He doubles the bid. The crowd gasps. I drop out. The merchant next to him nearly laughs out loud.

“Is he really trying to outbid an Elf? Does he think he can play this game?”

“He’s burning through Felisia’s gold just to lose. Idiot.”

“Watch him bankrupt himself before the Hunt even starts.”

I don’t care. Every time Veyl wins, his smile gets thinner. His pile of junk grows. I see sweat at his temples, his posture stiffening, jaw working harder every round. The only thing keeping him in it is pride—and the crowd, hungry for drama.

By the time the break is called, Veyl’s paid five times over for three broken weapons, two defective rings, and a staff with a cracked core. I haven’t spent a copper, but I’ve bled him of half his line of credit. He doesn’t know it yet, but every win here is a loss when the real test comes.

I feel like there’s going to be something good toward the end. I don’t know why, it’s just a feeling

.

* * *

When the break finally comes, Felisia corners me at the edge of the auction hall’s VIP room.

She waits until we’re away from the main crowd, her eyes fixed on me, arms crossed so hard her knuckles turn white. She doesn’t bother with small talk.

“Do you

actually

have a plan to defeat Veyl? And I mean a real plan. Because if you think just screwing with him during this auction is enough...”

I meet her stare, letting her see I’m not rattled, but I keep my voice even.

“Are you worried about the Sky Hunt?.”

She nods, sharp, impatient.

“Of course. We both know the Hunt isn’t about a duel, or about strength alone. It’s a treasure hunt. Mobility, logic, spotting the traps, knowing when to fight and when to run. We’re not the favorites here.”

“I would have expected more faith in me after completing the Crucible alone, you know? Just… everyone seems to be weirdly not amazed by that. Not even you.”

“I—” Felisia seems stumped. “It was amazing. I don’t doubt your talent. But Veyl

and

Adrienne, are very dangerous. Maybe we can Calantha, but Adrienne’s been preparing for years to take over. She’d rather die than give away the Dukedom.”

“I get it,” I nod seriously at Felisia. “I really do. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be worried. It’s just… I will make sure we’re ready. I already have one ace in my sleeve.”

Felisia nods.

I’ve shown her the wings already.

I shrug, telling her it’s all under control. Felisia looks unconvinced, but she lets it drop for now. We split off; Felisia disappears to check on her sisters, while I wander the auction floor, moving past bored staff and the dregs of what’s left during the break.

A junior auctioneer steps up and tries to peddle the leftovers—a rack of third-rate weapons, useless trinkets, Skill Shards nobody wants, all at rock-bottom prices.

That’s when I spot it. A Skill Crystal in a battered glass case, half-covered in dust. It doesn’t look special—if anything, it looks cursed.

But the instant I get close, the bracelet on my wrist burns cold. It’s just a flicker, but unmistakable.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The auctioneer catches me looking and launches into the usual pitch.

“This is a Gold Rank Skill Crystal, if you can believe it. Shadow Lattice. Whole stack of Knights tried to train it. All failed. Locked up their mana, made them dizzy for days. Nobody knows what it’s supposed to do. They say it was common among Infernals in the old wars, but that’s probably just a sales story.” He snorts, leaning in. “Truth is, everyone who’s tried to use it got stuck. Couldn’t move, couldn’t uncast it for the longest time, almost fainted. Even the scholars and artificers gave up. Broke a few, tested the shards—nothing. Just a pretty-looking deathtrap. Guild files marked it unsaleable.”

He leans back.

“You want it? Five gold. Hell, make it three. We’re clearing junk before the main event.”

Nobody else even glances at the thing.

I stare at the crystal. The bracelet buzzes harder, like a warning and a dare rolled into one. I ask the Grimoire. It gives back only one line—

[Partial synergy detected. Further analysis requires absorption.]

No details, no warnings, just that hint.

My gut tells me it’s not a coincidence. Infernals, Shadow Lattice, the weird timing—there’s more going on here. If I walk away now, I’ll regret it.

I nod to the auctioneer.

“I’ll take it.”

He shrugs and slides the box over.

“Three gold. No refunds if it turns you into a statue.”

I pay and slip the crystal into my pouch.

That’s when the laughter starts. One of the appraisers behind the tables leans over, barely hiding a sneer.

“Did you see that? The rat bought the Shadow Lattice. He’s braver than he looks. Or just dumber.” A group of adventurers and hangers-on catch wind and start joining in.

“He’s buying that old thing? Everyone in Clearwater knows it’s cursed!”

“I heard it locks your mana for an entire day when you use it! Only the Infernals could use it. Or maybe they just made up that story—who knows?”

“You can always count on the new money to buy trash,” a noble’s son says, flicking a coin in his hand. “At least he’ll have a souvenir when he fails the Sky Hunt.”

“Maybe he thinks it’s an artifact. What’s next, buying fake elixirs from street peddlers?”

I keep my face blank, tucking the Skill Crystal away, letting their words bounce off me.

Veyl walks by with a pack of nobility bootlickers who can’t wait to ingratiate the Elf, then stops, and sniffs in my direction.

“Fitting, really. He cleared an easy Dungeon, and now he’s buying skills only a fool would touch.” He makes sure his words carry, so every merchant and noble around can hear. “Careful you don’t lock yourself up before the Sky Hunt even begins, vermin.”

Felisia finds me as the auction resumes.

“What did you get?”

I tell her.

“Shadow Lattice? That’s the most useless Skill in the Hall,” she’s stunned. “Why did you buy it?”

“I don’t know yet,” I say.

Felisia narrows her eyes.

“You don’t know? You just bought a cursed Skill Crystal on a hunch?”

I shrug and look away.

“It felt right.”

That’s all I give her.

She waits for more, arms crossed, waiting for an explanation like she deserves one. I don’t offer it.

Because I do know.

The second I saw the Shadow Lattice, the bracelet gave me a signal. Same as with the Shadow Mimic’s reward.

The Grimoire didn’t give me details, but it whispered one thing loud enough to make my pulse spike.

Partial synergy detected.

That means it’s part of something bigger. King Baalrek didn’t just throw me a Skill and call it a day. He left behind fragments. A path. I don’t know how many pieces there are or what they form—but I know I’m collecting them.

And this one? Shadow Lattice? The cursed Skill nobody else could use?

It’s mine now.

I tuck it away and say nothing more.

Felisia huffs and turns toward the auction stage.

“Fine. Just don’t injure yourself before the Sky Hunt.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, winking at her.

She sighs.

“If you end up paralyzed, don’t blame me. And if you get the urge to try ittry it out, do it somewhere safe, maybe with Sir Greyson around.”

She doesn’t press beyond that. Maybe she knows me well enough by now. Maybe she’s just saving her breath.

* * *

The rest of the auction flies by. Veyl keeps bidding on anything I even glance at.

These Elves are sure full of money

.

I play him the same way as before, drawing him up to stupid prices before stepping aside, making sure he’s bleeding coin every round.

Toward the end, the announcer’s words make my heart stop.

The auction-hall bell rings three times, cutting the chatter. Servants wheel a velvet-draped stand to center of the floor while the crier booms.

“Lot 37: A Manual of True Infernals, Fifth Age of Smoke. Scholars agree that the runes are unreadable—purely decorative. Opening bid: one hundred platinum.”

The book is gorgeous—jet-black plates bound by scorched-gold rings, its cover etched with coils of ash-silver script that catch every lantern flame.

A rustle of ledgers, murmurs about vanity purchases. Most nobles glance, shrug, turn pages of their catalogues.

Too obscure, too pricey.

WHAT?!

I try to stay calm because I don’t want to cause a scene.

At Felisia’s side I feel the Grimoire thrum, faint as a plucked string. My pulse answers. Readable or not, the book is humming with flaws—doorways—just waiting to be pried open.

I move my hand on Felisia’s thigh, which makes her seize.

Barely opening my mouth I say.

“Get it. I’ll pay you back.”

She seems disappointed for a moment for some reason, but she raises her bidding paddle.

Felisia raises her paddle, voice steady. “One hundred ten.”

A silver-haired noble counters at one fifteen.

Felisia leans on the rail.

“One twenty.”

“One twenty-five!”

Felisia glances at Jacob, searching for a cue. He keeps his face blank, yet he taps two fingers on the bench, then closes them. She nods and speaks.

“One fifty.”

Everyone murmurs at how Felisia is spending her money.

“Lady Felisia’s winnings must have burned a hole in Guildmaster Dorn’s coffers.”

“I heard she tripled her purse on that rat kid’s run.”

“And that’s how she’s spending her money?!”

“What’s that thing good for anyway?”

“Who knows, nobles are weird.”

The murmurs die down soon enough.

* * *

I turn a few pages of the

Behind me, Felisia whispers, “Worth the price?”

I close the Manual carefully. “More than you can imagine.”