Blackhold Border City (The Blackmarket City). "The Gilded Toad" Auction House – Midnight.
The city of Blackhold never slept. Unlike the desolate and frigid Northreach, this city reeked of exotic spices, cheap alcohol, and the perfume of women of the night. It was a neutral zone where the Kingdom's laws held no sway, and money was the only god.
In front of a magnificent stone building adorned with a statue of a golden toad, the old Sudrath carriage came to a halt.
Sir Roland stepped down. He had changed his attire. Gone were the dirty travel clothes. He now wore a black silk robe with a high collar masking half his face—the style of a mysterious noble wishing to conceal his identity.
Flanking him were Riven and Rhea, guarding him closely. Their armor still bore patches of dried blood they deliberately hadn't cleaned off—a visual message: "We just killed to get here. Do not try us."
"Remember," Roland whispered while adjusting his leather gloves. "I am not Roland the Student Council President. I am Lord Valerian from the Far East. You are my mute bodyguards. Do not speak a single word unless I order you to kill someone."
Riven simply nodded stiffly. His hand never strayed from the hilt of the greatsword on his back.
They entered.
The interior of The Gilded Toad contrasted sharply with its exterior. Luxurious, carpeted in thick crimson velvet, and illuminated by thousands of aromatherapy candles. In the main hall, shaped like an opera theater, hundreds of people sat in plush velvet seats.
There were slave traders with rings on every finger.
Corrupt nobles hiding their faces.
Pirates who had just fenced their loot.
"Next item!" shouted the Auctioneer, a hunched old man with a magnifying monocle over one eye. "A young Elf slave from the western forest! Starting bid 500 gold coins!"
Roland didn't care. He walked straight toward the auction manager backstage.
"I have an item for the final slot," Roland said, pitching his voice deeper and raspier.
The manager, a cunning man named Vargo, scoffed. "The final slot is already full, Sir. And unless you brought a Dragon's Head, don't waste my ti—"
Roland placed the wooden box on the table. He opened it slightly. Candlelight spilled into the box.
Vargo fell silent. His eyes widened. His jaw dropped.
He saw the glass. Clear. Perfect. Invisible.
"By the God of Greed..." Vargo whispered, his trembling hand reaching out to touch it, only to be slapped away by Rhea with her scabbard. Smack.
"Do not touch it with your filthy hands," Rhea hissed coldly (forgetting she was supposed to be mute, but her sadistic tone fit perfectly).
Roland smiled thinly behind his high collar. "Empty the final slot. Or I take this to the auction house next door."
Vargo swallowed hard. "Y-yes, Sir! Immediately!"
One Hour Later – The Auction's Climax.
The atmosphere in the hall was growing bored. Common items had been sold. People were preparing to leave.
Suddenly, all the candles on stage were extinguished.
Only a single spotlight from above illuminated a small podium covered in black cloth.
Sir Roland walked onto the stage. He stood beside the podium. He didn't use the usual auction mascot. He would sell it himself.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Roland's voice echoed, clear and brimming with confidence. Modern Public Speaking techniques: Intonation, pauses, and eye contact.
"Tonight, forget gold. Forget gems. Forget slaves."
Roland pulled off the cloth cover.
There stood the glass, "The Goddess's Tears."
The sole light source on stage pierced through the glass, making it glow like a phantom. It didn't look like a solid object. It looked like water frozen by time magic.
Gasp...
A collective sigh of admiration erupted from hundreds of mouths.
"What is that?"
"Glass? Impossible, no glass is that clear!"
"Pure magic crystal?"
"This," Roland continued, lifting the glass high. "Is 'The Void Chalice.' Discovered in a temple ruin buried long before the Kingdom of Aethelgard was founded."
Roland began to bluff. High-level marketing bullshit.
"Crafted by the extinct Ancient Alchemists. Legend says if you drink wine from this chalice, any poison will be neutralized (Lie). And its clarity symbolizes the purity of its owner's soul (Big fat lie)."
Roland placed the glass back down. Ting. The sound was crisp and clean.
"There is only one in this world. One of a kind."
Roland looked at the crowd, who were beginning to look "hungry." Their gazes were greedy.
"Starting bid... 5,000 Gold Coins."
The silence shattered.
"6,000!" shouted a fat merchant in the front row.
"7,000!" countered a noblewoman covering her face with a fan.
"10,000!" a deep voice boomed from the VIP balcony. It was the representative of the Silver Merchant Syndicate.
Roland's heart pounded. 10,000... that's a third of our debt.
But his face remained impassive. He shook his head slowly, as if 10,000 were pocket change.
"10,000 from the Gentleman on the balcony? Cheap for a piece of eternity," Roland provoked.
"15,000!" shouted another noble.
"20,000!"
A price war erupted. Egos were in play. In this world, possessing a unique item was a symbol of absolute power.
The price stalled at 38,000. The tension was palpable.
"38,000... going once?" Roland asked, his hand ready to strike the gavel.
Suddenly, the main doors opened.
A man in white robes bearing the symbol of a Golden Sun entered. An envoy from the local Church of Light.
"45,000 Gold Coins," the man said calmly. "The Church will secure this holy artifact."
Silence. No one dared to oppose the Church.
Roland held his breath. 45,000. That clears the debt, plus 10,000 surplus for war funds.
"45,000 going once... twice..."
"50,000!"
A sharp female voice cut through from a dark corner.
Everyone turned.
An old woman with many jeweled rings sat there. Madam Vernazza, head of the local Silver Merchant Syndicate branch. Sudrath's future economic enemy.
"That pretty thing is mine," Vernazza said, puffing on a long smoking pipe. "50,000. And I pay cash with a Trade Guild Draft that can be cashed anywhere."
The Church envoy fell silent, then shook his head and retreated. The local church treasury didn't have enough liquid funds.
Roland looked at Madam Vernazza. Ironic. The enemy's money would be used to build our kingdom.
"50,000 to Madam Vernazza," Roland struck the gavel. BANG! "Sold!"
The hall erupted in chatter.
Roland stepped down from the stage, his legs trembling, but he held it together with sheer will.
Backstage, the transaction was swift.
Madam Vernazza handed over a thick sheet of paper with a golden magic seal—a Draft worth 50,000 Gold Coins.
"Tell me, young man," Vernazza said as she accepted the glass, staring at it obsessively. "Where did you get this?"
Roland smiled mysteriously as he tucked the draft into his robe.
"Trade secret, Madam. Pleasure doing business with you."
Roland turned, signaling Riven and Rhea.
Run. Now.
They walked quickly out the back door.
However, just as they reached the narrow alley where their carriage was parked...
Five shadows dropped from the rooftops.
Not forest bandits. These were Assassins. They wore tight black outfits and wielded poisoned daggers.
"Hand over the draft," one of the assassins said. "And your lives."
Riven let out a long sigh. He cracked his neck. Crack.
"I just took a break," Riven muttered.
Rhea drew her rapier. "Lan, you step back. Guard the money. This is our portion."
"Don't take too long," Roland said, retreating near the carriage. "I have a feeling Madam Vernazza won't let us take the money out of the city alive."
The night in Blackhold had just begun.
And the Sudrath Family now held a ticket to freedom worth 50,000 gold... if they could survive long enough to bring it home.