The Starmap Scepter shone with a luminous, almost eerie glaze: a 2.5-foot rod of gray metal, etched with lines that writhed and curved around each other like constellations on some star chart. Its 5.6-inch grip seemed to reach for the hand of its wielder, promising power yet untold.
The intricate design shimmered weakly as Lily raised it high, the room's glow catching its curves and contours, and murmurs rose higher from the crowd, like the hum of an oncoming storm.
This moderate resonance-grade weapon once belonged to the late Mercenary King Kal," Lily announced, her voice slicing through the room as clear as the ring of a bell. "He died defending students during the darkest days of the academy." Her words stitched a thread of reverence and curiosity, sparking waves of excitement within the crowd like wildfire.
"The bidding price starts at 400 gold coins. Let the bidding begin!" She had just spoken when Drake's voice rang out, steady and in command. "400 gold coins."
The silence that filled the room after that was oppressive, thick with unvoiced understandings. No one dared to raise a counterbid; the weight of Drake's badge-a symbol of dominance-loomed over their ambitions. The auction concluded in an anticlimactic hush, yet the charged atmosphere lingered, electrifying every corner of the room.
Later, when the academy was bathed in twilight shades of amber and gold, the winning items were delivered to their rightful owners. In the private bidding chamber of Drake, three attendants entered; their every step careful, as if they truly bore treasures plundered from myth.
At the head of these, a seasoned figure with formality about him, named Lamid, gestured to the trays they carried. "Sir, here are the items you bid on," he announced with practiced deference.
Drake stepped forward, commanding in presence yet casual in tone. "Thank you." His gaze fell on the first tray, to where the Elixir of Aether Surge gleamed like bottled starlight. He flicked his wrist and sent the thing tumbling toward Freya, who caught it instinctively.
"That's for you," said Drake with a firm but soft voice. Freya blinked, clutching the elixir as though it might disappear. "This is too much. I haven't done anything to deserve this," she whispered, her voice tinged with guilt.
Drake's smile softened, his words wrapping around her like a comforting embrace. "Which is exactly why you should accept it. As our only healer, we'll rely on your abilities more than ever.
Freya's gaze dropped, her fingers tightening around the elixir. Mark stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Just accept it," he urged, his voice a balm to her insecurities. Tears welled in her eyes, shimmering like dew kissed by dawn's light. "Thank you," she whispered, the words heavy with gratitude. "I'm truly grateful."
Drake, meanwhile, turned his attention to his next treasure, the Starmap Scepter. He lifted it reverently, his eyes tracing the star-like patterns etched along its gleaming surface. "Wow, it's beautiful," he said in hushed tones, full of awed reverence, as if he were clutching a part of the cosmos itself. Curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to see how far it could go. "Mana release," he whispered, his voice low and soft, like a lover's promise, as he channeled mana into the Scepter.
In the same instant, his raised hand was jerked down with such force that the Scepter slammed vertically into the floor. The shock sent waves in all directions out of the point of impact, like waves against a rocky shoreline, shaking the very bones of the auction building.
The reverberations surged through the structure, shaking walls and furniture alike. Fortunately, when he released it, the mana flow stopped abruptly, saving the building from taking catastrophic damage that could have destroyed at least 30 to 40% of its structural integrity.
He felt a deep respect, in that moment, for the weapon's remarkable, almost sentient quality that was unique in a way both surprising and intriguing. The scepter's effect of siphoning mana to convert into weight was unlike anything he had ever heard of.
Drake attempted to pull out the embedded weapon, pulling hard against the obstinate force anchoring it to the floor. His muscles strained, and small beads of sweat formed on his brow as he pulled. Still, the Scepter refused to budge, a monolithic stump opposed to giving in. Mark joined him, and they both struggled with it but could only budge it just a little bit.
As they wrestled with the Scepter, the door creaked open. Malachai came in, his presence commanding, yet unassuming-like a storm contained within the calm. His sharp eyes scanned the scene before he offered a slight bow. "Hah, I'm Malachai-the one you promised the Storm Flesh Infusion Elixir," he introduced himself steadily but with subtle authority in his voice.
"Oh, you were the senior from the second floor," Mark exclaimed, moving forward to clasp Malachai's hands in a gesture of respect. "It's an honor to meet one of the seniors. Please, come and take your elixir." Mark guided him towards the auction attendants, but Malachai's gaze remained on the embedded Scepter.
Is that what caused the whole building to shake?" he asked; his tone was curious and slightly amused.
Drake scratched the back of his head sheepishly, a faint blush tingeing his cheeks. "Ah, yes. It's a bit embarrassing for the senior to see our… destructive side right when we meet," he admitted.
Mark hastened to fetch the elixir and handed it to Malachai, who nodded his head in thanks. "Many thanks," he said, diving into his pouch to pay, but Mark and Drake were already waving his offer away.
"All right, since you both refused my payment, let me help share some of your burden," he said with a smile, as warm as it was appealing. Walking over to the Scepter, his movements were like flowing water-as smooth and as deadly as a blade. Gripping the Scepter firmly, he pulled it from the ground with ease, no harder than pulling up a twig. Silence filled the room-the effortlessness of his action leaving everyone dumbstruck.
"Wow!" they exclaimed in unison, their voices filled with awe and disbelief.
Malachai handed the Scepter back to Drake, his expression calm but with a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.
Mark rushed over, his curiosity piqued. He examined Malachai's hands, marveling at their power. "Are you a fist combatant?" he asked, still astonished by the senior's effortless display of strength.
Yes, hence this elixir is of essence to me," Malachai replied with a composed nod.
Mark's mind swam in ideas, his excitement somewhat overflowing. "Can I come to you for sparring sessions from time to time?" he asked, rubbing his nose with his index finger in a gesture of nervous anticipation.
"Of course, no problem," Malachai said with a gentle, yet firm tone. He turned to all of them again, his face relaxing. "Well, thank you very much," he added, nodding to bid farewell. "For this, I won't bother you any longer." Then he was out of the room, his presence lingering like a faint echo of thunder.
As they stepped out of the auction building, a buzz lingered in the air outside. People were still milling around, their conversation a cacophonous melody stirred by the end of the auction and the scene Drake had caused. The air was thick with curiosity, tension still crackling like static.
Drake's keen eyes scoured the crowd until they finally found a familiar figure. Ronan and his team were making their way through the throng, their movements furtive and desperate-like shadows trying to escape the light.
"Ronan, now you are hiding from the crowd? Where is your mightiness now?" Drake sneered, his voice slicing through the noise like a knife. The words turned the surrounding people's attention towards them, as their curious eyes rested on the unfolding drama.
Drake took a step closer, his friends closing in, the confidence oozing from them like the first rays of dawn tearing through the dark. "Have you forgotten your promise to make sure that I left the auction empty-handed? And look at you now; you not only left empty-handed, but you lost some money too," Drake jeered at him, his voice smooth with the venomous honey of playfulness.
Their voices hummed in murmurs, each word interlacing into a tapestry of judgment and ridicule. Fingers pointed, their gestures heavy with condemnation, toward Ronan.
"What do you mean? Without your thievery skills to steal the golden badge, how would you be qualified to bid against him?" Griffin shot back furiously, trying to regain his pride.
Mark stepped forward, his tone sharp and cutting. "It seems you have eyes but can't see, or maybe accepting the truth is just too hard for you," he snapped, his words landing like a slap.
Griffin's mouth opened to argue, but his teammates, sensing the futility of the situation, pulled him away. Defeated and humiliated, they slinked off, leaving the scene like storm clouds dissipating after a tempest.