Chapter 157

Lancelot and I follow the guard through a corridor, I briefly take out the Platinum out of my Interspatial ring and give it to a servant when the guard tell me to.

Then, we proceed toward the VIP room.

The sapphire… whatever it’s called.

The walls are too smooth to be carved by hand—like the rock itself was reshaped by magic. At the end, the door to the VIP salon slides open with a faint hiss of runic air.

The moment I step inside, my eyes widen.

Nimirea and Iskara are sitting opposite each other at a small circular table. Both look stunning and furious in equal measure. Iskara’s tail flicks once, the only outward sign of her restraint, while Nimirea’s silvery eyes are cold enough to freeze lava.

“Ah,” I say quietly. “Fantastic.”

They both turn toward me at the same time. The room feels ten degrees colder.

Lancelot mutters under his breath, “If you die to one of them—or both—I’m looting your new armor and selling it for meat pies.”

Before either of them can speak, Asterion’s deep voice cuts through the tension. “Jacob.” He stands from his seat by the window, massive even in stillness, and offers a nod. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” I say, glad for the distraction. “Back from your pilgrimage?”

He nods. “Visited my family in the northern ranges. The hunt for the cult has been quiet lately, thank the gods. For now.”

Nearby, Vyrrak folds his arms, the subtle glow of his scales catching the lantern light.

“Until it isn’t,” he says. His tone is pragmatic, calm. “You know how quiet never lasts with those bastards.”

Zibrek looks up from a notebook, her eyes flickering with recognition. “Ah. Jacob returns among us. You look… refined. I assume you’ve been experimenting with new Skill pathways.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“You doing well, Zibrek?”

“Always,” she says without hesitation.

Boomgar waves from the food table, mouth already full.

“Jacob! Come sit! They’ve got roasted wyvern tail—don’t ask how they got it, just eat.”

And then there’s Sabrina Margrave, sitting near the edge of the group like she’s judging the room by existing in it. She eyes my armor, then gives a small, skeptical hum. “You actually look… competent in this new armor. Miracles do happen.”

“Nice to see you too, Sabrina,” I say dryly.

She smirks. “You’ll get used to me one day.”

Lancelot leans toward me. “Boss, are we sure this is a

VIP

section? Feels like an arena.”

He’s not wrong. Iskara’s golden eyes are still locked on Nimirea’s, and Nimirea’s faint smile hasn’t moved an inch. If someone doesn’t intervene soon, the VIP seats might need a healer on standby.

I take a deep breath and clap my hands together. “Alright, good to see everyone alive. Let’s not make the Hidden Market regret letting us in, yeah?” I say, sitting as far as possible from the two.

“Why so far, Jacob?” Iskara asks. “I don’t bite.”

“You look like you do,” Nimirea smirks.

“Excuse you?” Iskara hisses.

Thankfully, we hear the announcer from the main stage start talking.

A sudden flare of light ripples through the stage below, and the hum of conversation dies down. The announcer’s voice booms across the amphitheater, amplified by enchantment.

“Honored guests,” he says, his tone smooth and practiced. “Welcome once again to the Hidden Market—an institution older than most kingdoms.”

The crowd applauds, the sound echoing through the marble and steel hall. The announcer waits until it fades before continuing.

“Tonight marks the four hundred and ten-thousand-hundred-seventh consecutive Grand Auction for Noble Veins, a tradition carried on without interruption since the first of our traders learned the value of secrecy. You will not find another event like this in the known world. Not in the enclaves of the Highbloods, not in the Guild halls, and certainly not under the light of any sun.”

A murmur of appreciation sweeps through the audience. A few guests raise their glasses in silent salute.

From the VIP balcony, I can see the scale of it—rows of merchants, nobles, and adventurers, each more anxious than the next, eyes fixed on the shimmering runic floor below.

“Every item presented here tonight,” the announcer continues, “comes from the deepest corners of the world, each verified by the Market’s own arbiters. Once sold, these treasures vanish forever into the hands of those who can afford them—or dare to claim them. No copies. No substitutes. No second chances.”

The crowd cheers again, louder this time. The runes beneath the auction stage ignite, forming a massive sigil that shifts from gold to blue to white.

Lancelot whistles under his breath. “They really know how to hype up rich people.”

“Don’t underestimate it,” Vyrrak says quietly. “Some of the things auctioned here don’t appear in records. Not even the Academy’s archives.”

“Or shouldn’t,” Zibrek adds, her tone thoughtful. “There’s a reason it’s forbidden to say where these items come from or investigate them.”

Boomgar grins. “Who cares where they come from, as long as they’re strong!”

Nimirea and Iskara both roll their eyes at that—at least it stops them from glaring at each other.

The announcer gestures grandly as a series of floating crates appear around him, sealed by light. “Now,” he says, his smile audible even through the echo, “let the Hidden Market reveal its secrets once more.”

The amphitheater erupts in applause as the first item rises into view.

The announcer gestures, and one of the sealed crates descends to the center of the stage. The runic sigils around it glow red for an instant—protective wards flaring before releasing. The lid slides open with a hiss, and a faint pulse of energy washes through the amphitheater.

Even from the balcony, I can feel it. Heavy, deep, alive.

“Item One,” the announcer declares, his voice carrying easily over the crowd. “A Draconic Stamina Well Skill Crystal.”

The crowd goes dead quiet for a heartbeat—then erupts in murmurs.

“That’s—” Vyrrak stops mid-sentence, eyes narrowing. “Impossible. Those are restricted. Only Dragonkin clans are permitted to handle them.”

“That’s—” Vyrrak stops mid-sentence, his pupils narrowing into slits. “Impossible. Those are restricted. Only Dragonkin clans are permitted to handle them.”

The announcer smiles like a man who enjoys tempting fate. “Indeed, guests. What you see before you is a

Draconic Skill Crystal.

Containing the latent remains of a True Dragon’s regenerative essence, this Skill has been sealed for centuries—classified, forbidden, and thought lost after the Draconic Concord collapsed.”

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

A collective murmur ripples through the hall. Even the air feels heavier.

Vyrrak exhales slowly, his scales dimming. “Only a fool would start bidding on that in front of me,” he says, voice low, calm—but unmistakably dangerous.

Lancelot leans closer to me. “Boss,” he whispers, “I think he just called dibs. Maybe let the dragon have this one.”

I tilt my head toward him. “You think?”

Then I raise my hand. “Ten Platinums.”

The sound echoes like a spark in dry grass. Conversations halt. Heads turn.

Even the announcer hesitates for a second before repeating, “Ten Platinums, first bid.”

From the floor below, Vyrrak’s gaze snaps to me, his expression unreadable. Iskara blinks in disbelief. Nimirea actually laughs, sharp and melodic.

Lancelot buries his face in his hands. “Oh, gods, we’re going to die.”

The murmurs grow louder now.

“Did he just—?”

“Isn’t that the Fake Champion?”

“He bids on a Draconic Skill?”

“Sorry, Vyrrak, I got plans for this and no one else is going to bid anyway,” I wink at the Dragonkin.

The bid soon goes to me.

“Sold to Jacob Cloud, the Fake Champion!” the announcer says.

Many gasp and the other Champions look at me, puzzled.

“I gave instructions to use that title. They asked which title I’d prefer—that’s mine. It’s starting to sound pretty good, no?”

The air shifts again, softer now, though the tension lingers. Everyone breathes, laughs, and drinks as if pretending they hadn’t just witnessed something illegal.

The next few lots come and go. None as controversial, but still rare enough to make the room buzz. The kind of artifacts, scrolls, and enchantments that can rewrite a life if used well. Even the Champions lean forward when the bids start—Vyrrak’s eyes sharpen, Iskara’s tail curls tighter, Asterion drums a finger against his knee.

I don’t bid again. Not yet. I just sit back and watch.

The room feels heavy in a different way now. It’s not just about greed—it’s the realization of where we are. The Hidden Market.

And somehow, I’m sitting in the best seats in the house.

I glance at the silver token still resting in my pocket, the one Elder Karl gave me.

VIP access to the Hidden Market. Something doesn’t add up. Elder Karl might be wealthy, sure—but

this

level of clearance?

I think of the ledger again, of those absurd numbers that keep multiplying every week. I still don’t know how to wrap my head around it. The scale of it almost feels wrong.

My thoughts drift as the next lot comes up—something bright, something powerful—and my gaze finds Zibrek. She’s not watching the auction. She’s watching me.

A few more lots pass.

Then the announcer’s voice rings again.

“Our next item is a rare find indeed—an artifact that amplifies both Mana flow and elemental resonance. A natural evolution of the common Mana Well, refined through Infernal craft and centuries of compression. Ladies and gentlemen, I present: the

Infernal Well,

Platinum Rank!”

My chest tightens.

That’s it.

Exactly what I’ve been looking for—something that could push my internal circuits and regeneration to match my current Skills.

This is the reason I’ve waited to evolve Mana Well

, I smirk.

The announcer continues, his voice cutting clean through the crowd.

“Starting bid: thirty Platinums.”

A collective murmur rises from the audience. Even in this room, that’s a heavy sum.

Then, from the lower stands, someone laughs—loud, smug, and unmistakable.

“Fifty Platinums!”

My hands clench before I even turn. I know that voice. Marcel.

Lancelot exhales through his teeth.

“He’s doing that on purpose.”

“Of course he is,” I smile.

Down below, Marcel raises his hand again, basking in the attention, laughing as the auctioneer acknowledges the bid.

“Fifty Platinums? Already?”

“At this stage of the auction?”

“He’s showing off—no one will dare top that kind of bid.”

Even some of the Champions shift in their seats. Boomgar lets out a low whistle. “That’s not bad.”

“One hundred Platinums,” I say.

Now, the place goes quieter.

The announcer blinks, caught off guard. Then his voice booms across the hall, echoing through every balcony.

“One hundred Platinums, from Jacob Cloud, the Fake Champion!”

The words hang in the air.

The crowd goes dead silent. Then, suddenly, the entire amphitheater erupts—shocked laughter, gasps, frantic whispers.

“Did he just double it?”

“Who

is

this guy?”

“That’s impossible money!”

“The Fake Champion bids a hundred?! Is he out of his mind?”

Down below, Marcel’s grin dies on his face. His laughter stops halfway through, twisting into a tight scowl. The nobles near him edge back a little, as if afraid to be too close to whatever’s about to happen.

He jerks his hand up. “One fifty!” he shouts, voice sharp and trembling with anger.

Lancelot buries his face in his hands.

“So much money we could have spent on food.”

I lean forward, calm, steady. “Three hundred.”

The auctioneer freezes. His mouth opens, then shuts again, before he forces a professional smile. “Three hundred Platinums… for Jacob Cloud, the Fake Champion!”

This time, the hall doesn’t even react right away. It’s too much. Too absurd. The number is so high it doesn’t sound real for a Platinum Skill. When the noise finally starts, it’s scattered—disbelieving murmurs, incredulous laughter, one or two curses whispered in the crowd.

“Three hundred going once!” the announcer says, voice shaking slightly now. “Going twice!”

He lifts the gavel.

“Sold!”

The hammer cracks against the podium and the other Champions look at me with raised eyebrows.

“Where are you getting all this money? And didn’t you say you had debts?”

“I have my ways,” I say.

The echo of the gavel fades, and the announcer takes a long breath before continuing. The crowd is still buzzing—half shocked, half exhilarated—but he waits until the noise dies down completely.

“Now,” he says, voice regaining its practiced rhythm, “for our next presentation. A rare opportunity indeed, following such an intense bid.”

Three attendants step onto the stage, each carrying a sealed crystal container. The lights dim, and inside each vessel, something shimmers—Skill sigils, alive and rotating in slow, deliberate patterns.

The announcer spreads his hands. “What we have here are

three Royal-grade internal Skills.

Collected from separate sources, verified by our arbiters, and sealed for stability. Skills of this type are almost never seen outside royal archives or the vaults of ancient families.”

The audience leans forward as one. Even the Champions grow quiet.

“Of course,” he continues, “such power does not come without limits. The seller has asked that we disclose the requirements openly, in keeping with the Market’s integrity.” He pauses, letting the words settle. “The Hidden Market does not conceal the flaws of its wares. We pride ourselves on transparency—and survival. Buyers deserve to know the truth of what they risk.”

A ripple of polite laughter moves through the upper tiers.

“Each of these Skills,” the announcer says, gesturing to the crystals, “requires impossible thresholds to use effectively. Specific lineage, unique energy cores, or affinities few beings in existence possess. They are not for the faint of heart—or the underqualified. However…” He smiles faintly, the salesman’s tone sliding back in. “The rarity alone makes them a once-in-a-lifetime find. Even if you cannot wield them, the

resale value

will be enormous.”

He raises one crystal high, its sigil burning gold for an instant before dimming again. “Opportunities like this vanish as quickly as they appear. And not everyone with the wealth—or the need—could attend tonight’s event.”

Whispers fill the chamber immediately, the audience breaking into a flurry of speculation.

“Royal Skills?”

“Even unusable, they’d fetch a fortune later.”

“Merchants would kill for those.”

“Imagine trading one to Infernal Royalty for a favor.”

Lancelot leans closer to me. “Boss, you hearing this?” he murmurs, eyes wide.

Before I can answer, Baalrek’s voice rumbles through my mind, steady and absolute.

Buy them, Jacob Cloud.

What?

I can feel them from here. Those are exactly the Skills you need.

“I got this,” I say, looking at the token Elder Karl gave me.

My pulse spikes. I glance at the stage as the announcer moves to the next display. The first crystal glows red.

“First,” the announcer says, “a Royal-grade Infernal combat Skill:

Diavolo Hypercut.

A fusion technique designed to merge two compatible cutting forms. It’s said to synchronize with existing offensive Skills, multiplying power and precision beyond physical limits.

But

, the two Skills that need to be merged into it must both be of Infernal Inheritance

and

compatible between them.”

Jacob Cloud, do NOT let that Skill go.