At last, the announcer’s voice shifted. “And now, distinguished guests, we arrive at our thirtieth and final offering for the evening.” His tone deepened, dragging curiosity out of the room like a stage magician revealing his final act.
Behind him, a velvet-curtained platform rolled forward, revealing a long, slender case of blackened glass. Within it lay a scroll, worn, cryptic, and untouched by time.
“A curious relic,” the announcer declared with theatrical flair. “Brought in by an adventurer from the Outer Ashlands. Its material is unlike anything our appraisers have seen, and the script appears to belong to no known language.”
“Its true function remains a mystery… but if nothing else, it is a hauntingly beautiful piece, perhaps a lost art of some ancient civilization.”
A murmur of interest swept through the hall.
Nobles leaned forward.
And collectors narrowed their eyes. But only one person in the room sat completely still. Ruvian’s gaze locked on the scroll with recognition.
‘There it is...’
[Editorial Pen Inspection]
Item Name: [The Omen Scroll]
Warning: [DO NOT allow this item to fall into unaligned hands.]
He had known from the moment the system assigned the quest that this wasn’t going to be easy. The question was never if he’d find the scroll. The question had always been what to do once he did.
And now that it had, the possible moves narrowed down. Three possibilities The Faceless Circle might take. He had been calculating each from the moment the auction began.
Option One: They could attempt to steal it before the auction concluded. Plausible in theory, but uncharacteristic in execution. The auction house had tightened security since Lot Fifteen. Guards lined the shadows now, alert.
There were also disciplined mercenaries bound by coin and by strict private contracts. Each item had its own assigned escort until transfer was completed. But this option would be noisy, and blood would spill.
Option Two: They would bid for it themselves. Risky, but doable if they wanted to stay clean. Yet no familiar masks had raised a paddle so far. If they were in the room, they were still waiting.
Which led to the third, and most likely the choice.
Option Three: Let someone else win the auction… then take the scroll from them afterwards.
A strategy well within the Faceless Circle’s style.
Ruvian’s jaw tightened slightly as he swept his gaze across the private tier once more.
‘If they were waiting for someone to make the first move. So be it.’
He turned to Silvena.
“Mrs Venomous,” he said, voice low but firm. “You’ll want to get ready, mentally and physically ,for a real clash.”
Her gaze slid lazily toward the display case. The scroll inside still sat unassumingly in its frame, thin and aged.
She squinted. “That thing? It looks like someone framed a burnt recipe.” A dry smile began forming on her lips. But the expression on Ruvian’s face froze it in place.
That cold, unreadable calm. The same look she’d seen in the dining hall, just before he walked into a confrontation with Julian Rozenberg.
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She exhaled softly and ran her fingers through a strand of her disguised silver hair. “…Alright,” she muttered, already reaching for the bidding sigil. “I’ll ready the coin.”
“No, not just coins. I meant it literally for a real fight as well. And… tell the security to tighten up around us.” (+50PP)
***
To be frank, engaging with the Faceless Circle at this stage of the story was borderline suicidal. Ruvian had intended to avoid them entirely, at least until he possessed the power to contend with them.
For hours now, he had weighed the safer path: abandon the quest, take only what he came for, and let the calamity advance just a little faster. It was the optimal decision, minimal risk, narratively speaking… no entanglements with the hidden predators of the underworld.
But then, the final lot was brought forth.
And something about it changed everything.
The way the Circle acted tonight was cautious, almost… reserved. It didn’t align with what Ruvian knew. If they truly wanted the Omen Scroll, they could’ve seized it effortlessly.
Their numbers and strength were enough to reduce this entire auction house to silence in under a minute. They’d done worse for less.
And yet…
‘They didn’t strike…’
‘They waited, played along and participated in the bidding like any other faction. How odd.’
‘Why would they do that when they can just steal it effortlessly with their brute power? That, more than anything, tells me they couldn’t afford to tip their hand...’
To confirm his theory, he had whispered an order to Silvena.
And now, it was her turn.
The announcer stepped forward, voice rising to match the tension that gripped the hall.
“The opening bid… begins at the 1,000 mark!”
Then…
“Oh, someone had just bid 10,000!”
Gasps broke the silence like cracking ice. Even the announcer faltered, blinking as if he’d misread. The number she sent off was almost the same amount they had paid for the enchanted sword earlier… an absurdly high sum for an opening bid.
The entire hall rippled with disbelief. Meanwhile, Ruvian’s gaze drifted downward, scanning the congregation of masked nobles, merchants, and mercenaries beneath the glittering chandeliers.
If his theory was right, then the Faceless Circle wasn’t seated in the upper tiers. Not in a private VIP lounge.
They were down there. Among the crowd.
And then the countdown reached its end.
The announcer’s voice rang out loud, ceremonial, as he declared the final bid. He announced the buyer’s codename, encrypted and anonymous… but still, Ruvian noticed it. A twitch. A shift in the crowd. Just a few heads, three at most, turned subtly toward his lounge.
‘Found you.’
Ruvian’s eyes narrowed.
His deduction had been correct.
The Faceless Circle hadn’t attacked tonight because they couldn’t. Because this operation wasn’t sanctioned by their higher command. Instead, it was a side action, carried out by low-ranking operatives acting without full authority or resources.
This explained a few things.
Why hadn’t they stormed the auction?
Why hadn’t they brought an overwhelming force?
And why their bidding power was pitiful compared to Silvena’s bold opening strike.
But even a half-formed cult cell knew how to plan for contingencies. If they couldn’t win the item, they’d at least try to track the winning party. The VIP lounges were anonymous to the public, yes, but the auction house’s structure wasn’t flawless.
And now, the three figures below knew exactly where the scroll had gone. Which gave them away that they were the person Ruvian was searching for. Now he understood why the System hadn’t bothered issuing any warning about the difficulty of the quest, only a stark reminder of the penalty for failure.
Because the threat here wasn’t that big.
The ones sent tonight were just fragments. Shadows of the real Faceless Circle were beyond here.
All the auctioned items had already been transferred to Silvena’s ring. Catalogued, sealed, and stored behind layers of spatial encryption.
The scroll included.
So, when the announcer finally declared the last bid accepted and the Omen Scroll sold, the room responded with a polite ripple of performative applause. But Ruvian didn’t clap as his eyes were elsewhere.
Down on the auction floor, near the fourth column, three figures moved.
One of them turned. Not toward the stage or toward the exits. But upward, at him, a casual glance, timed perfectly with the final announcement.
Just enough for him to catch the layout of the lounges. A beat later, the chandeliers above flickered with the briefest disruption in the light flow. The lights dimmed for a fraction of a second.
Then it came.
A whisper of steel, forged for silence, cut through the air, cloaked in a sheath of refracted light. It moved like a mirage, bending with the motion.
From the crowd below, it launched upward with pinpoint precision, angling through the layered mana barriers of the auction hall.
Even the ambient aether barely reacted. Whatever spell concealed it was tuned to the rhythm of the room itself. It was almost beautiful, in the way only something designed to kill without being seen could be.
And Ruvian didn’t hear it or wasn't able to see it.
It travelled too fast for him.
A single shot, aimed not at the scroll. But it was aimed precisely at him, who was in the third private lounge from the left.
…Directed at his heart.
PP= 3060
ME= 270