VengefulBirch

Chapters 49-52

Added 2025-07-14 22:17:26 +0000 UTC

PSA (I'm just keeping this on every chapter from now on to avoid confusion):

The release rate is the same I follow on RoyalRoad, one chapter a day for now. I just release them in batches as I write. My writing schedule is not one chapter a day. I might spend two days plotting three chapters and then writing them out in one go.

Chapter 49

Everyone is stunned into silence before they erupt in a wild cacophony of shouts and disbelief. The Guild explodes.

People yell over each other, some throwing their hands in the air, others swearing at the map or pounding the tables.

Guildmaster Dorn finally loses it.

He smashed the table in front of him and everyone starts backing out as he starts taking out his fury for the loss of face and money upon the furniture.

“HOW IN THE HELL DID HE DO IT?!” the man howls like a wolf.

I push open the double doors while heat slams into my face and forces me to squint. The Boss stands at the center of the chamber. It is a giant golem built from thick slabs of red and white glass, and its eyes burn with blue fire as a ring of crystal hovers above its head. The monster is taller than any I have faced before, so I know I have no margin for error.\

Colossal Glass Golem [Empowered, Boss] – Level 75

When I step forward, the Boss raises one massive arm. Light gathers in its chest before it fires from its mouth. A bright, white-hot laser carves straight across the room, and the beam scorches a deep groove through solid glass.

I do not hesitate because I know I will die if I stand still. I summon Infernal Wings of Ash, and when they burst out from my back with embers and smoke, I feel lighter than I ever have before. Veins of Fire surges through every limb and every muscle, giving me more power than any normal Skill could ever provide.

As I move, I open the Grimoire Extraordinaire, knowing that only it can show me what I need. Architect’s Insight slides into place and overlays the Boss’s body with blue lines. Every flaw and every weak spot is clear. I see a thin weakness right at the neck, where two glass plates do not fit together perfectly.

The Boss fires again, but I have already started to move. I dodge left and then kick off the ground, flying up with my wings.

Without the wings it would have been much harder to approach the Boss, I realize. Using Fire Walk would have gotten me killed.

Without the three-dimensional nature of flight, dodging the laser would have been extremely difficult. Alas, I now feel supremely confident I can deal with this monster despite its strength.

As the Boss tries to track me, I climb higher, and when it charges another laser, I drop straight down so I can slip under the beam. My wings snap closed because I want to go faster, and the heat barely grazes me.

I tighten my grip on Hell’s Sword and race for the weak spot. I swing as hard as I can when I reach the neck. The sword cracks through the glass, and blue fire erupts from the wound. The Boss staggers because its core is exposed.

Its arms try to rise, but the body won’t respond. It kneels.

Then the whole frame sags to the floor.

The head droops forward, and the light in its eyes fades out for good.

I stand over what’s left of the Boss, and my chest rises and falls as I catch my breath. Ash wings fade behind me while, as Hell’s Sword fades away, a strange breeze cools in my hand.

“Fuck, that was fast,” I sigh, feeling my heart hammering my chest.

Dropping from all above the ceiling against the golem almost had me shit my pants if I have to be completely honest.

I didn’t expect the Boss to track me so fast, and for a second I thought the laser would catch me midair. If my wings had faltered or if I had hesitated when I tucked them, I would have been dead right there, burned to ash before I even reached the ground.

I know I make it look easy when I fight, but that was luck as much as it was skill. The Grimoire’s overlay helped me see the weak spot, but if I had messed up the timing, or if the Boss had moved half a step quicker, I would have been just another dead idiot here.

Landing behind its shoulder, feeling the heat rolling off its body while every rune on its glass frame burned, I almost slipped. My heart hammered so hard I felt dizzy for a second. I only got my footing back because Veins of Fire pushed more power through my legs than I thought possible.

That’s the thing about wings—everyone thinks they make you unstoppable. The truth is, they’re hard to use, and I have to watch my mana every second, or else I’d just crash straight into the floor. Only after I fixed every flaw could I trust them not to get me killed.

If I had missed with that swing, I wouldn’t have gotten a second chance. The Boss would have crushed me. But I didn’t miss. I got it right, and the bastard went down.

The Boss’s body is already cooling, its glass plates cracked and scattered in the shadows. There’s no more movement, no hidden trap, nothing left to fight.

I let out a long breath, finally steady.

The last battle is over.

Then, something begins to emerge from the floor.

“Oh shit, is that a Skill Crystal?” I mutter and then my eyes go wide when I read the description.

I step through the gate, dragging my loot behind me.

The portal spits me out in a flash of cold air and a slap of sunlight.

I blink, half-dazed, as a crowd erupts in a wave of noise.

The same massive metal bars rise all around, warped from age, with warning runes and burnt signs still clinging to the posts. Adventurers crowd outside the fence, jostling for a look as they wait for someone—for me.

They stare at me like I’m some kind of legend, but all I can think about is how much I want a real bed and a nice, warm meal.

The Guild’s officials stand at attention, looking like they expect a corpse, not a winner. Felisia pushes through the crowd, her face drawn tight, but when she sees me, her eyes go wide and she almost smiles.

Sir Greyson stands at the edge of the crowd. He doesn’t say anything, but he gives me a small nod.

Guildmaster Dorn just stares, pale and speechless. He looks at me, looks at the pile of loot on my back, and shakes his head like he’s seen a ghost.

I walk out of the cage, carrying every bit of loot I could haul, and the first thing I feel is the wind. It isn’t hot or stifling. It just feels clean, like I’ve come up for air after hours spent drowning. The sunlight is blinding. For a second, I can’t even hear the crowd, but then it hits me all at once—a hundred voices shouting, people pressing close to the bars, a good deal of Clearwater here to see if I’d really come out, I suppose.

Wait, how do they even know when I was supposed to get out?

Felisia finally finds her voice. She steps up, stops just short of grabbing my arm, and says, “You’re insane. You know that, right?” She sounds like she might actually be proud.

Sir Greyson just shakes his head. “Well done, Jacob. That’s all I’ll say. Well done.”

Felisia had servants carry the loot for me to a carriage that will be brought straight to the auction house. She said she’ll be handling that matter personally and even bring me there in three days since there’s a big auction going on.

I lay down in the bed in her estate.

I didn’t have the willpower to say no.

It’s much softer than the ones I was sleeping on at the inn.

I let myself sink into the mattress, muscles aching, mind still buzzing from the fight. For the first time in a few days, I’m not thinking about traps, monsters, or how much mana I have left and when next to meditate.

I’m not even worried about what comes next, not with a bed this soft and a room this quiet. Felisia’s house is bigger than any place I’ve stayed before. The walls are painted with scenes of knights and ships. Heavy curtains block out the sun. The only sound is my own breathing.

I stretch my legs, and every joint in my body pops. It feels good, but I know I’m going to need a healer for some of these bruises. That, or a lot more sleep. I stare at the ceiling and let my mind drift.

A servant knocks on the door, then leaves a tray of food and walks away. I don’t bother asking what it is. I just eat until I’m full, not even tasting half of it. Hot bread, thick slices of meat, some kind of soup. I barely look up from the plate until it’s empty.

Sleep creeps up on me. I don’t fight it. I let go, finally safe, finally out of the Dungeon. I feel the ache in my arms and the weight of every fight and every step I took to get here.

Just a little bit of rest…

Felisia’s hands tremble as she handles the letter that just arrived to the Clearwater Duke’s estate.

“Queen Anthea Valemont, High Lady of Aurion, First of Her Name, Keeper of the Astral Throne.”

Felisia swallows.

In the human Empire, there’s one Emperor and many Kings and Queens. One could even say that the Kings and Queens are so numerous that being what many call them minor Royals, is not that uncommon. However, for someone from a small city like Clearwater, a tiny dukedom that doesn’t have much influence in the empire, dealing with even a minor Royal is not a light matter.

“Sir Greyson,” Felisia clears her throat. “Isn’t the Astral Throne…”

Sir Greyson, who had been watching over Felisia with the same perplexed gaze, nodded.

“It is a large kingdom. One of the more powerful ones. I wouldn’t put them at the very top, but…”

Felisia’s education was spotty. She was a noble, but she hadn’t exactly studied every single noble family—that was because she had not taken well to history lessons.

“Why does the Queen have a letter addressed to Jacob?” Felisia asks, looking at the letter like it could eat her alive.

“We’ll just have to ask him,” Sir Greyson replied.

Chapter 50

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.

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.

Chapter 51

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.

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.

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 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.